Patis Tesoro talks about her enduring passion for local textiles and her evolving fashions.
Words by Anna Gamboa
After travelling out of the city and into the village that straddles San Pablo (Laguna) and Tiaong (Quezon), there is a sense of relief when one stops to admire the Patis Tito Garden Café, the creative sanctuary of Patis Tesoro, considered by many as the grande dame of Philippine fashion. It’s an out-of-town destination for city folk seeking a place to recharge and renew themselves in the middle of Tesoro’s well-kept gardens, as they enjoy well-prepared meals using local organic ingredients. “Simple food, but with good taste,” is how the lady of this domain describes it.
“I love upcycling,” she declares, smiling, as a guest admires a house being built out of elements saved from older homes—“It’s all from different houses,” Tesoro points out—a banister here, a set of windows there, and the callados or cut-out vents set above them to ensure that warmer air escapes easily in hotter months. The structure will partly house Patis’ studio, as well as her workshop, where she will train more people interested in preserving artisanal crafts, such as Lumban’s intricate embroidery on piña — a delicate fabric made of pineapple fiber often associated with the wealthy upper class in 19th century Philippine fashion.
Maker’s manifesto
Indeed, even her current collection of little blouses displays a playful and masterful combination of colors, patterns, embellishments and fabric—cotton here, piña there—beautiful to look at, comfortable to wear. The old and new elements result in something that’s fresh to behold while retaining familiar lines that please the eye. While these garments don’t command the astronomical sums Patis’ wedding gowns would fetch, they’re still very much out of reach for anyone earning a fresh grad’s paycheck. “Piña is a cloth of stature, it cannot be otherwise,” Tesoro states firmly, but gently. “It is iconic to the Philippines.”
“If you think the world is changing fast, try fashion,” she says wryly, her humor expressed in the twinkling of her eyes. Having gotten her start in fashion through the DIY route when she made her own keyhole peasant blouse (and was unable to find one in local shops), after admiring one in a Marlboro ad, she always believes that “if you can’t find it, make it.” A graduate of Assumption Iloilo, Patis is the product of an age when hand-embroidery and sewing were required courses taught in school.
“Yes, you’re wearing a story,” she agrees, after a guest comments on how the provenance of the materials reflects their rich heritage or history. It is with some pride that artisans tapped by Tesoro boast of not needing to work abroad because of the steady stream of work sent their way. With centuries of local traditions—hand embroidery, embellishment, textile processing, and weaving—Patis adeptly employs the fine work of artisans in her own creations. “I had an ASEAN show recently, and [all the other countries] were always looking at our stuff, saying ‘we wish we had embroiderers just like yours, and we wish we could do piña (this way).’”
With her only retail outlet now based in Laguna, only Rustan’s carries her designs in Manila. “At first they wouldn’t believe me. ‘How can you sell dusters (housedresses)’ they asked me. Because the richer the woman, the more she wants to wear jewelry, but she can’t wear under the bridge Thailand dusters. Fifty-eight thousand, one hundred thousand, they buy it. And I [design] for the big woman, my focus is for the big woman.” And she further explains about the practicality of design for women of a certain age and shape, creating beautiful things that they can still wear.
The tablecloths and coasters for drinking glasses exhibit the same playful aesthetic mix of color, line, and materials. In fact, the tablecloths can even double as traveling blankets.
Champion for local textiles
Piña is by its very nature a fabric that can last centuries if well cared for. But its making entails blood and sweat on the part of the artisans who painstakingly process the plants into fiber, separate the rough from the fine fibers, weave them into cloth, and sew it and/or embroider it with intricate patterns. “If we lose it, we lose our identity,” she emphasizes. Filipinos have to grow more piña to prevent traditions from going extinct, says Patis, who has helped document the exact step-by-step process with the help of photographers and writers—and will be talking in Madrid, Milan, and Washington about preserving this fragile part of Filipino heritage.
While there are foreign buyers for piña, it’s often the cheaper or blended variety that sells quickly. Tesoro understands that people have to make a living, especially when Filipinos rarely invest in finely made local clothing, thinking it too expensive for their tastes, preferring Western garb instead. With a dearth of customers, even Lumban’s embroiderers are beginning to encourage the next generation to turn to call centers. “That’s why I want to open a school,” she states, determined to not let traditions die while she can do something to keep it going.
Tesoro is also part of a movement to revive the production of organic Philippine cotton—and having harvested a two-kilo yield of raw cotton is a beginner’s triumph, after an initial planting to test the various conditions which would be ideal for organic farming in Quezon Province. There is no distance too far or mountain too high for her to explore, all for the sake of preserving the country’s textile-based traditions.
The secret garden
In the midst of the soothing birdcalls, slow songs, inspiring beauty found in the artworks on the walls and Nature’s own artistry, is a sign declaring the entrance to “Ang nakatagong hardin ni Patis” (The hidden garden of Patis). Motioning at all the landscaped beauty, she says simply “a garden is a constant thing,” appreciative of the fact that a team of gardeners is on hand to keep everything growing, including a crop of organic cotton, sourced from seedlings in Abra and Iloilo, and a thicket of indigenous black bamboo she intends to propagate (and prevent its extinction).
It takes a lot of hard work to get to where she is now, “but it comes true,” she affirms, quickly creating a verbal sketch of her career—from that peasant blouse selling like hotcakes, to designing for a local brand, then striking out on her own doing wedding fashions—and now this, the next step in her passion-filled life.
She may have transplanted herself from San Juan City to San Pablo, but Patis Tesoro is still very much a creative force to reckon with. “My eyes are always inquisitive,” she says, smiling behind her black round-rimmed glasses. Her life’s work for the next couple of years will certainly see her busily keeping piña and other textiles relevant in local fashion. It’s her way of paying things back, and forward too, as befits someone with a rich intellectual and artistic legacy to share.
