The Demanding Mr. Valenzu

Bobi Valenzuela, curator par excellence (or prestigious curator as we used to kid him) had been lingering in the pre-departure area since his second massive stroke in 2005. For three years until his death on Dec. 12, he was bedridden, his food had to be processed to a fine pulp, he could neither speak—for someone who was gregarious, voluble and pointedly critical—nor walk until his body atrophied.
It was a condition that we knew he abhorred. At the peak of his health, when we would encounter aging or crippled persons, he would wish aloud he would never find himself in the same state. He even asked me to be part of an assisted suicide pact should he ever lose control of his faculties.
Yes, he was a proud person, of the annoying kind who would admit no wrong and consider himself always right. Before his second stroke, this trait estranged once dear friends from him., including myself. He could show displeasure with his infamous eyebrow rising up to the 13th floor. He was already confined to a hospital bed in his family’s home in BF Paranaque when we reconciled one emotional, tear-filled afternoon.
Angie, his sister and main care-giver, told us how he refused to cooperate with his physical therapist. Many times she would send distressing text messages describing his deteriorating health.
One of our friends, Gigi Custodio, called Bobi “The Star of Our Lives,” and he was for close to two decades, the ties forged at the old Hiraya Gallery in the waning Marcos years. Bobi organized courageous exhibitions showcasing the works of the social realists that pierced the veneer of normalcy.
He enjoyed being given importance to—friends called it pagpupugay when they went up the mezzanine of the gallery and paid their respects to him. Birthdays were particularly special as he kept mental tab of those who remembered to call. Even after his first stroke, Noel Cuizon and I were on a neck-and-neck race as to how many times a week we called Bobi to report on the goings-on in our lives. He was great at keeping score and keeping grudges. The last, I suspect, was what triggered the debilitating third stroke.
If he was a good curator, he was even a better friend. Bobi once wondered why so many young and veteran artists came to him with their personal problems. Manny Chaves told him, “Kasi naman, Bobi, tingin nila sa iyo isa kang malaking tenga.”
However, if you were expecting a sympathetic listener, Bobi could be brutal in his frankness and tell the person off, especially if that person did not heed his advice the first time around. If you overstayed your welcome in his premises, he could pointedly remind you, “Di ba may appointment ka pang pupuntahan?”
And of course his appetite for the fine things in life defined him, too. The first stroke made him give up his chain-smoking and his 36 cups of coffee. But diet-wise, he backslided, openly enjoying fatty foods like lechon kawali and kare-kare in the company of people he called “kindred spirits.”
Tonight is a gathering of kindred spirits. I am sorry I cannot join you in this last sendoff for Bobi. I will be in Baguio feeding VCDs of “Camelot” and “The Sound of Music” in our videocorder. I do not exaggerate when I say Bobi can hum and sing in his wonderful tenor all the songs in those two musicals from the overture to the finale. Auf weidersen, Herr Bobi. Long may your music play!