On Shedding: Assorted Musings on Space, Education, AgencyOn Shedding: Assorted Musings on Space, Education, Agency

Text Alfred Marasigan

I wanted to counter my own thinking with what tool sheds I am familiar with or associate with the Global South. Perhaps it is simply the compartmentalized nature of the “western” tool shed that alienates me from the concept, whereas “our” tool sheds aren’t named as such, they feel more modular and temporary, and have objects of varying sophistication. The emphasis is probably less on the “static” space itself but on the dynamic person who uses it. While laboratories, art studios, and home offices are rarely static, they do aim to center the labor, study, and opus, at least etymologically. This way, the actions in such tool sheds, though passing, rely on the agility of their corresponding community and its needs.

While I have my own apprehensions in referring to the bahay kubo of the Philippines – a compact but complex architectural unit – it does bring me to two propositions on approaching the Tool Shed from my own standpoint: one is the dirty kitchen and the other is modularity.

I am not exactly sure of the links between the dirty kitchen and the so-called “scullery,” but it does feel like a relevant (if not gendered and class-based) version of the toolshed. The dirty kitchen feels like a space more in tune with the outdoors compared to “the” kitchen, which is where food preparation and service are performed (perhaps for visitors) instead of simply done. I have a feeling that it is linked to the bahay kubo’s banggerahan (apparently with other names such as bangahan, batalan, or banggéra where newly washed plates are dried (1). The structure juts out of the entire bamboo structure with pointed sticks and a sort of rack so that the water falls to the ground below.

In our own house in Batangas, though not a bahay kubo, the same principle was followed by the dirty kitchen when I was young(er?). It held basins for laundry, wood scraps, old tires, bolos, and other bric-a-brac that didn’t always belong to the house’s interior. It was where grime was washed off, stray kittens were fed, and scant passion fruit harvests were stored. Only when I finished college around 2013 was it (tan, in the roughly illustrated house layout and pictured above, far left) absorbed by the rest of the then newly expanded house, only to have another small sink (green and pictured above, left) constructed outside of its new borders.

In such example, and although I did not necessarily have a hand in the placement of the new features, I would hazard a guess that it was important for my family to have a kitchen that guests are allowed to see and another as a sort of “backstage” kitchen. Note also in the illustrated layout that the inside/outside partition remains tenuous.

In older houses called the bahay-na-bato (a standard Filipino domestic structure) such as the one above from 1914 called the Bahay Nakpil-Bautista, now a museum managed by the family’s descendants, the banggerahan (pictured above, left) was still visible and used regularly before. In the image (pictured, left), a small hole below the window (or manual exhaust?) where the broomsticks are now used to be a small space where the food is taken from the kitchen to be served to guests, as if in a restaurant. Note also the cooking tools (and even an old recipe for morcon, a meat dish) displayed in the image (pictured, far left), that were handmade by national revolutionary and house matriarch Gregoria de Jesus. Although in this structure, the kitchen is technically on the second floor, the same ambiguous relationship between the inside/outside and public/private prevails.

One of my entry points into combining my work with the CO Working Group and my own teaching is the need to strengthen the conceptual associations I had between the Netherlands and the Philippines. Despite working with CO and the Nieuwe Instituut since 2021 (and both as part of our TBD-Trojan Horse Cell and as an individual member), I have always felt like I kept skirting around actually looking into Dutch culture. I do engage with the case studies, topics, and concerns, but I would not say I went deep in decontextualized ways, like when one goes in blind watching a film or roaming around a white-cube exhibition; there was always a cocoon of local knowledge I dragged with me onto any instance with CO.

If I were to form an explanation for myself regarding this, I might have had a deep-seated fear of further entrenching myself into colonial culture than I already am. It sounds like a contradiction while trying to learn and be open-minded, but I believe it is also a self-preserving tactic in keeping one’s own earned selfhood. Perhaps it is yet another tool in my shedding, but I feel hesitant labeling a personal (if not cultural) response as a common, rational, or replicable mechanism. I toy with associations of refusal, and it brings to mind the “laziness” and “indolence” that the subaltern is accused of when dealing with semi- to fully-imposed systems that they do not feel an ownership towards (6). I was lucky enough to encounter this text by my dear friend and colleague Dr. Hidde van der Wall especially when I was feeling such refusal when I lived in Europe myself around 2017 to 2019.

Nevertheless, one of my attempts to try a different approach is to see what about Dutch culture and history interest me first before weaving my own understanding into it. I began researching about existing publications, audiovisual materials, and other resources that already established links between the Netherlands and the Philippines, and eventually I zeroed into Otto van den Muijzenberg’s_ Colonial Manila, 1909-1912: Three Dutch Travel Accounts_ (7) published by the press of Ateneo de Manila University (where I work) and whose cover was designed by another one of my friends and colleague Karl Castro.

I latched onto the account that describes historical figure, humanitarian, and doctor Aletta Jacobs’ (1854-1929) visit to the Philippines in July of 1912. Outside of design, architecture, and media, Jacobs is an intriguing figure for me because she was a well-recognized professional in both her field and country, but she is not necessarily someone I know from my studies, the creative field, or even the Internet. Reading a translation of her 1912 account reminded me a lot of To Be Determined- Trojan Horse Cell (TBD-THC)’s (consisting of Clara Balaguer, Isola Tong, and Czar Kristoff, including me) visit to Rotterdam for our recollection project (8), and I found poignance in our mutual mobilities. Although we visited each other’s countries more than a century apart, I understood many similarities in our ways of encountering new environments and navigating social situations. For instance, her account “In The Philippines” details her main objective with fellow suffrage advocate Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt (an American) but also includes a lot of semi-ethnographic information from local markets, hotels, schools, hospitals, penal colonies, and transportation systems among others for her audiences and stakeholders in the Netherlands. I have to laugh at one point how Muijzenberg phrased Dr. Jacobs and Mrs. Catt’s initial woes in their visit:

It was comforting to know that while hospitality all over the world has not changed, it can also be overwhelming at times, even for Dr. Jacobs, and it reminded me of the whirlwind of activities that the TBD-THC and I participated in when we visited Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and The Hague, albeit of course with different objectives and contexts.

One of the events she went to was a sort of local elite social organization and a young lady named Paz Marquez (later Marquez-Benitez) (1894-1983) was briefly mentioned or noted by either her and van den Muijzenberg. Marquez-Benitez resonated with me not only as a critically acclaimed author of a classic and staple short story called Dead Stars (1925) in college literature classes, but also as an accomplished organizer, editor, and teacher in helping co-establish the Philippine Womens’ University in 1919, seven years after Dr. Jacobs’ visit. Reading the scene from Muijzenberg’s translation of Dr. Jacob’s account so vividly compelled me to imagine what it might have been like to be in that room, and how either women thought of each other, even just in passing. Dr. Jacobs writes:

What might that moment have been like, with both women having distinctly trailblazing careers beyond that encounter? Both Dr. Jacobs and Marquez-Benitez established their own legacies in medicine and literature respectively, and I kept wondering how a different time might have facilitated their parallel paths of gender advocacy.

Later, Muijzenberg notes how much Marquez-Benitez accomplished in the years that followed, even as a (trilingual) product of newly introduced American education system, notably wielded the English language especially in her writings and pedagogy for years to come (11). Her daughter Virginia Benitez Licuanan, a distinguished writer herself, muses:

It was particularly fascinating for me to read about a moment in time where Filipinos like Marquez-Benitez had to learn English in the hopes of assimilating in their own country. Knowing that today, the Philippines' proficiency in English is still touted as a benefit to international labor, it was eye-opening to understand how Marquez-Benitez used it to find her own voice by navigating geopolitics via language. With the crisis of reading intertwined with nationhood among students is painfully palpable today in the Information age for me as a teacher myself, shedding feels like picking apart burnt skin while keeping it intact and calling it "healing." How do we reckon with tools that help and hurt us, simultaneously?

Especially placed at the crossroads of her own country’s emancipation, Marquez-Benitez, too depicts a form of shedding in her time-tested short story Dead Stars about a man torn between two women who represent almost opposing sensibilities to him reminiscent of the country’s transitional American period:

In all of this, van den Muijzenberg’s book and Ateneo Library of Womens’ Writing (ALIWW)’s archives (which contained Marquez-Benitez’s archives), helped me establish an idea to forge connections between CO’s trajectories and my own. There was a lot of intimacy in reading these women’s documents – there is value in being understood in one’s own terms (although of course, highly affected by time, language, and print), and even as a small grace, I find it empowering myself as a queer brown person today. While I see affect as an integral component of research, I again feel hesitant in identifying it as a tool. Although a tool is subject to use and degradation, we rely on it for its inertness and materiality; when we need to cook or fix something, we expect our kitchens and tool sheds to be where we left them.

I do feel a twinge of guilt in not being able to fully flesh out my own perception of and/or homage to either women perhaps in an artwork, but I also wanted to be transparent anyway about such shortcoming, especially in a project and class initially inspired by Dr. Jacobs and Marquez-Benitez. I even seem to gravitate towards tangential aspects of their legacy like Marquez-Benitez being a pageant queen and Jacobs being archived in the Nieuwe Instituut as an inert object i.e. a building and even a bust (while male architects enjoy the complexity of being seen as fuller individuals in their personal and professional papers). Both hark back to one of the core materials of Nieuwe Instituut which found a photograph of a woman and a spinning wheel/loom indexed as “furniture,” and there is danger in replicating such reduction. In a way it was also interesting to read van den Muijzenberg’s text as he navigates his Dutch interests and those of his Filipino viewers via translations, disclaimers, and postscripts, and I worry that my own mediation of these women’s accounts can fall for my own blind spots.

Given such, I wanted to impart the same (if not better or equally complex) experience to my students. As a parameter, I allowed them to go through CO’s case studies and ALIWW’s collection in the ARTS181 class I designed for one semester, eventually leading to an exhibition.

There was a lot of enlightening activities that yielded surprising results throughout the class’ ideation phase and engagement with ALIWW’s and CO’s materials: from encouraging unfinishedness via submitting notes, sketches, and drafts to finding out my students’ thoughts on archiving and the post/de/colonial, the semester’s first half felt open and promising. I myself was and am in awe at the range of materials kept in ALIWW; we were generously given access to the humidity-controlled collection to see fragile clothes, organic materials such as bamboo (which is apparently tough to conserve but is so prevalent in Southeast Asia), and many other personal and especially domestic objects, many of which such as furniture had their own connections with the celebrated women in the archives and contributed as well to the distinct lived-in energy of the ALIWW space.

It was empowering to find that although in CO gatherings I have always pushed for a sense of ephemerality in local ways of archiving (or lack thereof), collections like ALIWW also aspire and work towards a sense of order that is not exclusive to Global Northern sensibilities; apart from such, though, everything plays out differently from infrastructure, resources, and public use. To enact a binary between ALIWW and Nieuwe Instituut is to miss out on the various other initiatives like Gantala Press (16) and the Alfredo F. Tadiar Library (17) / PUÓN Books, Arts and Design Shop that play around with the institutional frameworks that both ALIWW and Nieuwe Instituut adhere to. In my ARTS181 class, some of these strategies emerged as well.

In a creative exercise that asked students to reflect on what it means to collect or archive, three responses stood out. Margaux Ayroso brought several samples of their perfume collection and let the class guess what each was before revealing their names and ingredients. Such activity helped reinforce the idea that memory is highly subjective and leads us to associating different meanings to different materials; it was also in the hands-on aspect of Margaux’s presentation that people engaged better and spoke more about how they felt or thought about the scents, whether or not they matched the actual components of the perfume. Precious Nicolas’s and Charlize Recto’s collections also emphasized this intimacy with objects, even sometimes contradicting the materials’ preservation.

“If I were to create a collection, it would be a collection of toys people could borrow. […] I do not want to treat this collection as something that is extremely precious as toys are meant to be used […]. It is only when a toy is battered that I will display it as a piece […].” In Precious’ submission, the toy or artifact’s degradation becomes valuable instead of threatening, perhaps acknowledging their ephemeral quality in the long run.

Finally in Charlize’s work, they presented a collection of mended hand-me-down clothes that also highlighted the garments’ imperfections. While not necessarily noticeable without context, the collection demonstrated not only intergenerational resource distribution and the reclamation of sewing as an imposed and gendered skill in adolescence here, but also the ever-changing body and needs of its primary and prospective wearer/s.

As the exhibition drew closer, the students’ academic performance waned owing in part to fulfilling other requirements (creative and otherwise) simultaneously, and also due to the pressure of showing one’s work in a public setting. While I would like to think I guided them to the best of my abilities, I admit that at times I also had lapses of communication and bouts of frustration regarding the way I handled it not only as their instructor, but especially as their curator. I also felt the weight of assembling a show that would do justice not only to their months of hard work but also CO’s and ALIWW’s values. While I improvised a lot to put the exhibition together, I found that I can still improve on my logistic coordination and interpersonal skills even after seven years of teaching.

I was glad to have ventured into managing such a class nonetheless. I felt that after a while, it was humbling to be taught once again as an educator that students can still be surprising and that one’s role in an institution is simply a part of a larger whole. In the anonymous faculty feedback form gathered every after semester, one student wrote that what they liked best about the course was “its open to approach to collaboration; leaving failure as a possibility but not as a consequence that'll affect one's grades.” In my exhibition text, I felt it was fitting to name the show Am I Audible? not only for the several audiovisual works in it, but also for our collective desire to be heard in one way or another. While being an instructor in an institution sometimes shapes people into enforcers of rule, we forget that these moments of refusal and affect are what spaces like archives and tool sheds need to foster, even when they feel contradictory at times.

Perhaps it is in such spirit that shedding feels not only named but also played out. One of the exhibition’s works called Projected Memories: In Dialogue with the Past and Present by Ani Andal, Charlize Recto, Kia Cortez, and Ian Reganion featured portions of an old video recording of renowned Filipina artist Pacita Abad’s interview. One of the struggles that the group encountered was trying to convert this .DAT recording from an unknown file type to one that can be read by our current device formats such as .MOV or .MP4. While this was resolved eventually, for a time I considered such inaccessibility to be a key experience in the work and even advised the group to work with or around it.

Another group’s presentation entitled Rabia Feminina by Migo Favila, Margaux Ayroso, Kieran Leung, Jas Samonte, and Michael Hidalgo explored the ALIWW’s space and structure itself – the rooms, the collection racks, the library, and the reading area – as a character in a horror graphic novel. Although the group was not able to finish their planned publication’s number of illustrated pages, their highly collaborative and at times healing process in conceptualizing more than made up for their planned comic.

As the only group who adopted video and performance as their main creative output, Chiara Ramento, Leanne Sy, Enzo Dumlao, Divs Tolentino, and Paul Atienza’s A Tribute to Filipino Women (stills below) organized, wrote, shot, acted, and improvised a short piece that put themselves in the shoes of the women that came before them and currently inspire them in their lives, based on their research about visual artist Anita Magsaysay-Ho’s paintings of ordinary working women.

Finally, Atasha Carpio, Riel Duque, Precious Nicolas, Tris Policarpio, and Cassandra Valencia’s _Dear, Miss You _ (pictured below) came together at the end despite our logistic difficulties, especially in securing permission for the different spaces in our University. ALIWW’s director Dr. Kristine Santos particularly remarked that the group’s choice of archival materials is not necessarily as well-utilized, and she was glad to see prolific writer Rosario de Guzman-Lingat’s personal correspondences be reimagined by the group as a participatory work.

While at times the spirit of the CO Working Group was challenging to transmit in our local context with college level participants, it was my mistake in thinking that replication will occur when modularity becomes insightful. It does comfort me that in initially encountering some of the 2023 case studies, my students and I shared the common confusion, apathy, or refusal of navigating often foreign contexts of such images and documents, especially when I was just beginning to work with Collecting Otherwise in a remote setting. There were also times where I felt like we needed to be vulnerable to proceed, as in one session where I had groups ask each member about their role models and what they would say to them and about them (18). This allowed the students to not only imagine the people they look up to with them in the room, but to also speak as them when resolving conflict or difficulties in a collaborative project.

In many ways, the detours of such pedagogical journey for me and my class taught me to shed a cloying and almost utopian sense of order into inherently unstable memories, identities, and objects of value. Many of the stories that unfolded in my class, although textualized here, flourished a lot not because solely of the physical spaces they were held in but because of the experimental and ultimately emotional spaces that its agents formed – something that may or may not always be explicitly or institutionally desired, articulated, or fostered in Eurocentric public initiatives. To take a page from my TBD-THC cell mate Czar Kristoff’s project (19), this must be what “un/re/learning” feels like: to understand something while deprogramming oneself from and reworking that same thing, simultaneously. Seeing the bigger picture, our tools may not always be sufficient, but we – a gathering of people, anywhere in the world – are.

Only lend what you do not mind getting back. I have always found this common saying regarding money in the Philippines because there are multiple surprising implications to it. Why frame it as lending instead of giving? What roles does shame or embarrassment play in such a transaction? What does it say regarding power (re)distribution? When you borrow a hammer or a bowl from your neighbor, there is an implication of returning it as common decency. What makes money different as a tool, like modularity, refusal, affect, and/or surrender?

I always found “The Tool Shed” as a malleable framework, and turning “shed” into “shedding” playful because the intended space becomes less inert as a gerund. Of course, such modification also subjects the root word into question, but also allows it to take paths not available before. I am reminded of this Alimango Restaurant in Dagupan City, north of Manila that I encountered online. Its quirky architecture featured a colossal concrete crab whose claws and body constituted the restaurants’ various dining and multipurpose areas. At its peak in the early 1980s, the restaurant eventually closed due to debt, land problems, and largely unpaid labor (20). More recently, when talking to my TBD-THC cell mate Isola Tong, I found a YouTube video (21) exploring it around 2022 and the place looks like a surreal ruin with its empty halls and faded carapace.

While shedding always means change, in nature it occurs in cycles, implying regrowth or even revival. One of the recent ways I cope with the difficulties of life, work, and art is having my nails done. When I reflect on shedding, it reminds me of a fresh set of nail art on one’s hands lovingly and professionally done, only to be cut and discarded once my fingers cannot type anymore, or anytime I have to hide it from my relatives. While these fall away, I do keep images of them to at least commemorate the beauty I wore but do not anymore. This does not exclude from the need to archive, but I do not have a 10-year plan on who sees these either, especially as a mere individual.

When we shed leftover food, historical trauma, glittery nail extensions, personal control, crab shells, gender roles, unfair business practices, or colonial thinking, we surrender to the changing needs of our bodies, institutions, and artifacts. Perhaps the best thing we can lend as a tool is power, and sometimes, we cannot expect it back.

Use is central to the concept of any tool shed, and it is my hope that highlighting what is useful and useless in various knowledge economies may be helpful and even optimistic in otherwise trying times. To scavenge is to acknowledge a world in ruins and to live in and with an ongoing wreckage. In contrast with “to salvage” (which, locally, implies specific “a style of killing or summary execution, or in which the bodies of victims are thrown in remote fields, empty spaces, and abandoned lots” (24)), “to scavenge” does not promise the discovery of something, but the (hopeful?) act itself of sifting through detritus. Who or what may empower us to scavenge? Can a tool shed be a junk shop where wear and tear is a prerequisite of and not a detriment to worth? Ultimately, modularity, refusal, affect, and surrender underscore “tools” that are not primarily valuable for their reliability, usefulness, or heritage, but for how they disrupt, reexamine, and open up possibilities for an entirely new structure, in no particular order or expectation.

I would like to thank Dr. Kristine Santos, Kath Gadaingan, Madel Quidic, and the entire team of Ateneo Library of Women’s Writings (ALIWW); Smile Indias, Roxan Cuacoy, F Llenaresas, Dan Demata, and the entire Department of Fine Arts; Setareh Noorani, Delany Boutkan, and Clara Balaguer, and the entire Collecting Otherwise Working Group, Asterisk, and TBD-THC Cells @Nieuwe Instituut, my ARTS181 Class Section T SY 2023-2024, and the Rizal Library of Ateneo de Manila University for their help in making this article possible.

• 1 Bahay Kubo sketch. July 2022. Mañosa Company, Facebook, https://www.facebook.com/share/p/PDyjU97FwFbktPhr/. Accessed Oct. 2024.
• 2 Brainard, Cecilia Manguerra. “Flash Fiction - the Dirty Kitchen by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard.” TRAVELS (and More) WITH CECILIA BRAINARD, Blogspot, 23 Apr. 2015, cbrainard.blogspot.com/2015/04/flash-fiction-dirty-kitchen-by-cecilia.html.
• 3 Balmes, David. “The ‘Dirty’ Kitchen.” Theuncleankitchen, WordPress, 18 Mar. 2014, - theuncleankitchen.wordpress.com/.
• 4 Damatac, Jill. “Dirty Kitchen.” The Margins, Asian American Writers’ Workshop, 11 - Nov. 2020, aaww.org/dirty-kitchen/.
• 5 McMurrain, Gary. “Paradise Kitchen Is A Dirty Kitchen.” Retiring to the Philippines, 16 Dec. 2013, retiringtothephilippines.com/guide/about-the-philippines/paradise-kitchen-dirty-kitchen/.
• 6 van der Wall, Hidde. "10 Incompetent masters, indolent natives, savage origins: The Philippines and its inhabitants in the travel accounts of Carl Semper (1869) and Fedor Jagor (1873)". Savage worlds: German encounters abroad, 1798–1914, edited by Matthew P. Fitzpatrick and Peter Monteath, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2018, pp. 185-205. https://doi.org/10.7765/9781526123411.00014
• 7 Muijzenberg, Otto Diederik Van den, editor and translator. Colonial Manila, 1909-1912: Three Dutch Travel Accounts. Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2016.
• 8 Collecting Otherwise. “Collecting Otherwise: To Be Determined Trojan Horse Cell (TBD-THC).” Nieuwe Instituut - International Visitors Programme, Nieuwe Instituut, Sept. 2022, nieuweinstituut.nl/en/projects/international-visitors-programme/tbd-thc.
• 9 Jacobs, Aletta H., and Otto Van den Muijzenberg. “Aletta Jacobs: ‘In The Philippines.’” Colonial Manila, 1909-1912: Three Dutch Travel Accounts, Ateneo de Manila University Press, Quezon City, 2016, pp. 15–94.
• 10 Ibid.
• 11 Raftery, Judith R. “La Girl filipina: Paz Marquez Benitez, brokering cultures.” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, vol. 9, no. 2, Apr. 2010, pp. 232–243, https://doi.org/10.1017/s1537781400003960.
• 12 Licuanan, Virginia Benitez. Paz Marquez Benitez: One Woman’s Life, Letters, and Writings. Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1995.
• 13 Benitez, Paz Marquez. “Dead Stars.”_ Philippines Herald_, 20 Sept. 1925.
• 14 Oppenheim, Julius. Aletta Jacobs, 1924. Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Washington, D.C. 1924. Brooklyn Museum, Brooklyn Museum, https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/eascfa/dinner_party/heritage_floor/aletta_jacobs. Accessed Oct. 2024.
• 15 Raftery, Judith R. “La girl filipina: Paz Marquez Benitez, brokering cultures.” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, vol. 9, no. 2, Apr. 2010, pp. 232–243, https://doi.org/10.1017/s1537781400003960.
• 16 “Gantala Press.” Gantala Press: Filipina Feminist Press, WordPress, 2015, gantalapress.org/.
• 17 Alfredo F. Tadiar Library, La Union PPPP, Instagram, 2017, www.instagram.com/aftlibrary/.
• 18 The activity is based on a SessionLab article that I unfortunately cannot ascertain at the time of writing.
• 19 @unrelearning. POOK ARALAN UNRELEARNING, Instagram, 2019, www.instagram.com/unrelearning/.
• 20 Paquiz, Melissa Joy. “Beyond Rumors: The Real Tale behind the Famous Alimango Restaurant in Dagupan City.” Vestigium 2017: Journalism 106 – Investigative Reporting A.Y. 2016-2017, WordPress, 7 May 2017, vestigium2017web.wordpress.com/2017/05/07/beyond-rumors-the-real-tale-behind-the-famous-alimango-restaurant-in-dagupan-city/.
• 21 WALKING PED, THE. “WHAT HAPPENED TO ALIMANGO (CRAB) RESTAURANT? DAGUPAN PANGASINAN [4K] INSTA360 INKEE FALCON GIMBAL.” YouTube, 10 Mar. 2022, www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=yupm4tyljVM.
• 22 Ventura, Albert. The Alimango (CRAB) Restaurant In Dagupan City, During 1980s Ctto: Jp Brosas, Philippine History. 20 Apr. 2020. Facebook, https://www.facebook.com/share/p/DUCKRg483bsv61AZ/. Accessed 27 Oct. 2024.
• 23 Ms. Jo. December is Coming! All I want for Christmas is Beautiful Nails. Nov. 2023. Mich & Myl Nails Eastwood City, Facebook, https://www.facebook.com/share/p/yNtX8budJi7XPNdn/. Accessed Oct. 2024.
• 24 Rosales, Joaquin. “Salvage in the Phillippines.” Stillpoint Magazine, 15 Mar. 2022, stillpointmag.org/articles/salvage-in-the-phillippines/.