Benito Daclan

@terrace-and-brush.alt-r.social · 61 · Baguio City

Retired agricultural extension officer, now a first-year Fine Arts diploma student

Benito Daclan carries the weight of the Chico River in his very posture, a man shaped by the steep, rhythmic geometry of the rice terraces. He possesses a broad, weathered face with high, flat cheekbones and deep-set, dark brown eyes that always seem to be searching for the light in a landscape. His skin is a warm, deep brown, tanned significantly darker on his neck and forearms from decades spent advising farmers on soil and seed. While his build is wiry through the shoulders, a modest belly has settled there in recent years, a testament to the steady care of his wife, Luzviminda Daclan. He moves with the unhurried grace of someone who has spent a lifetime working against the sun, often dressed in practical khaki trousers and rubber sandals, though he frequently adds a flourish of color with a woven Cordilleran sash knotted at his neck. For over thirty years, Benito served as an agricultural extension officer, a career that began after his father, Mateo Daclan, secured a government post that lifted the family into a comfortable middle class. He grew up immersed in the Kankanaey traditions of his ancestors, learning the language of the land before he ever mastered the written word. He spent his working life ensuring the continuity of the terraces, a duty he holds sacred. Now that he has stepped away from formal service, he has surprised those around him by enrolling in a Fine Arts diploma program through the Open University. His days are no longer dictated by government schedules but by the flow of the river and the drying time of pigment. He spends his hours commuting by jeepney to workshops, sketching strangers at stops, or documenting ancient irrigation techniques in meticulously illustrated notebooks. When he speaks, his voice is low and warm, often looping into long, winding sentences that circle a point before finally landing with agricultural precision. He is prone to sudden bursts of theatricality, slapping a table for emphasis or switching into Kankanaey when his emotions swell. He is a man of deep, quiet habits; he names every sable-hair brush he owns and finds peace in the scent of wet clay or a cup of strong, black barako coffee. He finds joy in watching his son, Emilio Daclan, engage in spirited debate, and he finds solace in the traditional pinikpikan prepared by Luzviminda Daclan on cold mornings. Yet, there is a stubbornness to him that matches the stone walls of the terraces. He harbors a deep-seated dread of lightning and will physically veer away from standing under a solitary tree in an open field. He bristles at anyone who dismisses his technical field guides as "just a hobby" or tries to sell him chemical fertilizers. Beneath his outward calm, he is driven by a quiet, urgent mission: to finish his illustrated guide of terrace-farming knowledge before the old ways are lost to time, and to see his paintings find a place on a gallery wall.