Willy Layug’s artistic journey to a higher calling
She looks down on her children with sadness, with compassion. She holds the Baby Jesus with one arm and clasps his hand in hers on the other as He reaches down to a child who is clinging to her skirt. Our Lady of Hope of Palo, a symbol of hope for and empathy with people who have lost so much, stood under whipping wind and rain with Pope Francis as he delivered his homily in Tacloban on January 17, 2015.
The Pope was said to have abandoned his prepared homily and instead spoke spontaneously from his heart.
“So many of you have lost everything. I don’t know what to say to you. But the Lord does know what to say to you. Some of you have lost part of your families. All I can do is keep silence and walk with you all. Christ understands us because he underwent all the trials that we, that you, have experienced. And beside the cross was his Mother. We are like a little child in the moments when we have so much pain and no longer understand anything. All we can do is grab hold of her hand firmly and say ‘Mommy’—like a child does when it is afraid. It is perhaps the only word we can say in difficult times: ‘Mommy…’ We are not alone.”
Among those who were moved to tears was ecclesiastical artist Willy Layug, founder of Betis Galeria and renowned sculptor across the Catholic Church and the nation. He was the artist that sculpted the wooden image that stood silent and resolute beside Pope Francis.
“When the Pope said that we must cling to our Mother just like the Filipino child at her feet, holding on to her skirt, I almost fell to my knees because I was very emotional,” Willy says.
It was a homily that moved Filipinos to tears, those who were there at the Mass and those at home watching and witnessing the people of Tacloban who had miraculously survived both Typhoon Yolanda and the untold losses they had suffered.
Our Lady of Hope in the Cathedral of Our Lord’s Transfiguration in Palo, Leyte.
PORTRAYING HOPE
For Willy, the Pope’s visit brought a different kind of a test. Even though he had been an ecclesiastical artist whose works are venerated by churchgoers across the country through decades, this was something else. Because how does one portray sympathy and hope?
Almost 7,000 people had lost their lives and tens of thousands more were injured when Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan) hit the coastal towns of Leyte and Cebu. The massive devastation it left in its wake was witnessed by the world, including by the Pope. “When I saw from Rome that catastrophe… On those very days I decided to come here. I am here to be with you—a little bit late, but I’m here. I have come to tell you that Jesus is Lord. And He never lets us down,” Pope Francis said.
As religious iconography goes, statues are made to inspire devotion and to reflect the saints’ spiritual roles. St. Francis of Asisi, for example, is often portrayed accompanied by animals such as birds, wolves or deer to highlight his role as patron saint of animals.
Willy had spent hundreds of hours with this piece of wood he was going to turn into Our Lady of Hope, carving every contour of her face and every fold of her dress. He knew the Virgin Mary had to look local and he depicted her wearing a terno, the sleeves painted to look like they were embroidered with gold thread. Around her dress is a violet tapis with flowers. Standing at five feet tall, she is perched on a two-foot globe, but instead of the usual clouds at her feet, there are waves. The Child Jesus in her arms is giving a rosary to the Filipino child in tattered clothes at His Mother’s feet.
The child looks like the thousands of children surrounded by the wreckage of the typhoon: lost, downcast, alone.
"If the work was a flop, I was a flop too. In a way its success was a validation of what I had been doing for so long. "
Willy was commissioned to do the piece by the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines (CBCP) about six months before the Pope’s visit in January 2015. The direction they gave him consisted of one word: Hope.
“It was both an emotional and spiritual experience making it,” he says. “People were suffering—not just in Palo. Nakikiramay ka (We share in their pain and grief). I felt so blessed when I was making it. I mean, there are so many artists in the country, why did they choose me?”
Willy had made for Pope Francis a small statue of Our Lady of Immaculate Conception to bring back to the Vatican. It was, fittingly, made from the felled trusses of Palo Cathedral.
BETIS WOOD CARVING
Betis is famous for wood carving and furniture. From the most expensive mansions in Europe to ancestral homes around the Philippines, you’d find these artists’ works stamped on wood.
“Maybe it’s in our DNA,” Willy says when asked where he got the skill and predilection for wood carving.
His grandfather was a wood carver and his father built fishing boats. Among Willy’s own seven children, only one has followed in his footsteps and pursued a career in the arts: the youngest child Joseph. But he has many more “children” from Pampanga—the artist members of his guild MASU or Mandukit Artesano Santa Ursula.
“Santa Ursula is our barangay, it’s a village. I was born there and Juan Flores, the father of Betis wood carving, was also born there. All of my guild members say that since they were children, they knew how to carve. Maybe it’s because our barangay is just one kilometer from the district of Betis. We don’t know where it came from or why Betis became home to so many talented wood carvers.”
He adds that when locals like him were young, they were forced “to learn wood carving because it’s the most viable industry for us—for Betis, for Santa Ursula.”
Willy was not your typical wood carver when he was growing up. “At the time, our place was not that successful, but I’m lucky and I’m blessed to finish high school and college. All my contemporaries in elementary did not go to high school because they started right away working as wood carvers.”
His classmates’ parents would ask him, “Why are you still studying? You can earn five pesos a day!” Willy’s answer was simple: his mom had higher dreams for him when she saw that he was very good at drawing. They wanted him to be an architect but he admits that he wasn’t so fond of the mathematics that came along with design.
“I had a dilemma when I was about to finish. Was I a painter or a sculptor? I didn’t finish my thesis because my wife and I eloped and we had started our own family then.”
In 2016, UST would let him finish his thesis and he graduated with his youngest son Josef. Father and son walked in their togas; his wife Baby beside them. Many in the audience thought that he was just walking his son during the ceremony at the UST Gymnasium.
“People said, ‘Ay, pasang-awa,’” Willy laughs.
Then, of course, whispers went around the gymnasium that he was actually the artist who had made Our Lady of Hope for Tacloban and the Crucified Christ that was onstage at the Pope’s last Mass in UST during his visit the year before.
The first time Willy left UST in 1983, he found himself at a fork in the road: Would he become a sculptor, something he had been doing since he was a child growing up at Santa Ursula, or would he become a painter? “If I chose painting, I would have to make a name for myself from scratch and compete with thousands of visual artists in Manila.”
So he chose the road less traveled in the art world, but in Pampanga, he would have to prove himself against the best of them.
ALWAYS LEARNING
Willy Layug would revisit that choice more than 20 years after he first asked himself whether he wanted to be a sculptor or a painter.
By then, he was already a very successful ecclesiastical artist—and he could actually afford to be both a painter and a sculptor. He was no longer the 19-year-old art student who had won a contest to do a bas relief for the Fort Santiago Gate and had to fake his age by two years to enter the tilt.
“The boldest and game-changing decisions for me: First, when I started as an ecclesiastical artist for Sto. Domingo Church in the 1990s. The EDSA revolution was in 1986 and artists like me didn’t have work; my wife and I already had three kids. To make matters worse, my wife Baby got sick.”
Willy was working on a project at La Naval, his first commissioned job post-EDSA. A priest, knowing what his family was going through, invited him to the procession so he could pray for his wife. “Hindi lang ginamot ang misis ko, binigyan pa ako ng profession. From one altar table, may parokya na nagpakopya, tapos, dalawa, tatlong pari.”
That’s how his ecclesiastical work started, and he established Betis Galeria in 1991. In 1999, he went to Europe for research, an annual trip he would take until 2003. “In 2007, I apprenticed in Sevilla. That was the gamechanger. My company by then had the budget for upgrading and research.”
At the back of his mind, he wanted to go back to the kind of art he studied, art for himself, “because we were considered commercial artists, puro retablo ang ginagawa namin (We focused solely on making retablos). I really wanted to study in Spain. Lumawak nang lumawak ang community ko, ang trabaho ko (My community and work continued to grow and expand). My mind and art expanded. Last March, I went back to Jose Antonio Artiaga, the artist I apprenticed with. I recently wrote him a letter saying my success in life and everything I learned started with him.”
Willy also studied marble sculpting in Carara, Italy. While his son Josef was studying in Barcelona after his UST graduation, Willy was learning about another material—one that Italy’s best artists had dedicated themselves to create church art with: Bernini, Michelangelo, and all those sculptors that worked on pieces for St. Peter’s Basilica, one of the most visited churches in the world.
Willy says, “My teacher in Italy said that Michelangelo used to say, ‘I’m seeing a soul that wants to escape from this stone.’ As sculptors, we see stone and visualize what forms it can take. Michelangelo sculpted David for 10 years; now a machine can do it in three months.”
But would it be the same? Perhaps not.
LEGACY AND MOMENTS OF GRACE
Moments of grace come unbidden, unexpected. They might come when one feels uncertain, in doubt or lost and without hope. These moments bring about a deep clarity to the mind and a profound peace to the soul.
Willy Layug has felt such moments in the gazebo outside his house, where he sometimes carves or sketches or naps. Surrounded by nature in his property in Santa Ursula, the chisel in his hand confidently coaxes life out of a piece of wood. Then the forms begin to emerge—the agony of a Crucified Christ, the compassion of a Blessed Mother that feels your pain, and in one work, Willy’s own face holding as a Chamorro about to launch a spear into San Pedro Calungsod on the retablo, a retablo of two Filipino saints that was in Colegio Filipino in Rome.
The last is a wink to himself in a moment of mischief.
Willy has created a massive body of work that is seen only by churchgoers. But that is about to change—not just for him, but for the many artists in a province that has been mysteriously blessed with talented wood carvers, defying any clear origin or explanation except “it’s in our DNA.”
Willy is building the Willy Layug Museum in his two hectare-property surrounded by trees and with a view of his neighbor’s fishery. He is funding it himself even though he’s had many offers by patrons who want to contribute to its construction. He politely said no because he wants the project to be “all in the family.”
The Willy Layug Museum in Guagua, Pampanga.
A quick tour of the artist's studio, chapel, and sculpture workshop.
When we tell him that the mark of true success is when you can say “no,” he smiles and adds that it will also be a teaching museum. “We will have an atelier to teach young artists. I will have two kinds of students: the very poor and the very rich.” The very poor will be taught for free and the very rich, well, you can say that Willy likens himself as the Robin Hood of Santa Ursula.
There is no grand masterplan in the design, though he did collaborate with his son, architect Nikko, to give a brief. He is pleased with how every element has fallen to fit like in a jigsaw puzzle. There will also be the two-story main museum—with traditional Filipino capiz windows framed by dark wood—an artist’s studio, a café and, coming late into his plans, villas where people can stay. There will be a chapel, of course, which Willy and his fellow artists have painted with frescoes—and which will house their sculptures.
Opening next year, this museum complex will be a tourist destination for people seeking new experiences—or even people whose faith has perhaps lapsed and want to experience that soothing familiarity from their childhood. And for artists who are following in the footsteps of the great ones that lead all the way to Rome.
Willy says, “We didn’t have any other intention before but to showcase our art. Now, we have a business plan to make it self-sustaining. I believe this museum was meant to be.”
The museum will be Willy Layug’s legacy—but only a part of what he will eventually leave behind. Because his real legacy is intangible. Just as he is blessed with moments of grace when he carves, his finished works inside so many churches across the country inspire the same in people as they pray in front of it.
Maybe a desperate mother who has lost a child seeking solace, someone ill who suddenly finds hope, someone lost who finally sees a way, or someone who at last lets go of things that are out of his hands.
They are all enveloped in grace that cannot be explained except by faith.
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