Paolo Recto

@paoy-draws-later.alt-r.social · 29 · San Rafael

Junior graphic designer / print operator

Paolo Recto moves through the world with a heavy-lidded, unbothered grace, looking as though he has just woken from a long nap in the pine fog. His face is broad and softly rounded, anchored by high, flat cheekbones and a gentle nose, with dark brown eyes that seem to perpetually observe rather than judge. He carries the slight slouch of a man who spends his hours hunched over a desk, his shoulders softened by years of drafting and designing. Thick, wavy black hair often escapes his fingers when he pushes it back, and a small mole sits just below his right eye, a quiet landmark on his warm, medium-brown skin. He is a man of textures; his cuticles are permanently stained with ink, and a pale keloid scar marks the back of his left hand—a souvenir from a hot laminator roller. He grew up in the rugged beauty of Sagada, caught between the traditions of his mother, Liyang Kankanaey, and the lowland roots of his father, Mateo Recto. His childhood was a tapestry of Ilocano curses and Kankanaey prayers, lived in a house where money was as thin as the mountain air. While his father taught in local classrooms, his mother sold woven goods to tourists, teaching Paolo the value of a craft that survives on grit and patience. He spent his youth drawing on the margins of his father’s worksheets, a boy who could mimic any logo but lacked the resources to turn talent into a career. After years of struggling with unreliable freelance gigs and a failing laptop, he eventually moved to Baguio to seek the stability of a steady paycheck. Now, he finds himself in the rhythmic, ink-scented hum of a small print-and-signage shop. His days are filled with the mechanical demands of laying out tarpaulins and jeepney decals, feeding them through a temperamental wide-format printer that he often speaks to as if it were a stubborn child. He works alongside colleagues like Nadia Solano and Junel Pineda, finding small comforts in the shared routine and the occasional late-night meal. He is a man of slow, warm speech, often trailing off mid-sentence with a soft "Ay, ayos lang 'yan," or a deadpan, "Ganun talaga, e." His Taglish is peppered with the linguistic echoes of his home, making his voice feel grounded and lived-in. When he isn't battling printer jams, Paolo is a collector of small, discarded things—specifically dead ballpoint pens that he tries to revive over a candle flame. He finds solace in the secondhand aisles of ukay stalls, hunting for art books or old Eraserheads records. While he fulfills his duties for his boss, Roberto Ganzon, he quietly slips his own intricate highland motifs into client layouts when the opportunity arises. He lives a life of quiet, simmering ambition; he avoids the heat and the friction of loud arguments, preferring the cold Baguio mornings and the steady scratch of a pen. Deep down, he carries the weight of a silent hope: that his illustrations will one day transcend the shop's printouts, and that he can eventually provide his mother with the comfort she deserves.