Allow me to dry-swallow my pride here. I’ve cooked up some mean scenarios, with me mostly being all witty and clever and Quark Henares being flagrantly impressed with the grandeur of my sarcasm. By the end of the interview, he would have baptized me as an honorary “OG” (Original Gangstah). In my mind, as I believed I just made the most compelling work of fiction about-to-be-made-reality, I’ve always known (and inherently denied) this: I’m naive and convinced I could be a playwright. I was lucky if he didn’t think I was a little nuts and too self-involved.

As I plopped myself down in CSR waiting for him to enter the room, I didn’t know why I was expecting a grand entrance. Maybe, because in all the times that I have seen this guy, there’s already a particular rush that I’ve assigned him into. Not in an obnoxious or in-your-face way, but just in a there-he-is, kind of way.

When Quark enters, two things strike you: first, he was definitely not your typical teacher, and second, this will not be a typical class. Dressed in a turquoise shirt and jeans, he started off quite simply—first order of things was for the class to submit their index cards. “Please pass your homework!” he says, with an enthusiasm of someone who’s been having a good day. That’s the thing with him, though. He always seems to be having a good day.

Welcome to short film class

The decision to sit-in in his class had a hidden agenda, of course, but I wasn’t able to account for the part where I would feel like a complete idiot. If this were a mis en scene (something I learned from his class!), I would be totally out of the frame.

He begins with a classic, an experimental film called The Human Body, and right then, as if adding insult to injury, I have (re)established that I didn’t belong there. Not only was I confused, I only knew a couple of directors, seen only a couple of movies (one of which happened to be New Moon), and knew only one film term – the rule of thirds. But there was a strange ease that you’d instantly feel around him, like ignorance was an irrelevant character flaw—and suddenly I didn’t feel so bad.

“I’ve been teaching for seven years–”, he says “No, I’ve been teaching for eight years,” he corrects himself as he counted with his fingers. “But I skipped one year, and now I’m back. I really, really love [teaching]—I missed Ateneo.”

That love manifested itself evenly through the three-hour class. The occasional animated “Yeahs!”, elaborate hand gestures and “I’m going to show you the brilliance of Scorcese in a bit!”, can only come from a guy who genuinely loves what he’s doing. I mean, who else offers a complimentary coupon to Blowup Babies with a syllabus? “That’s how much I love you guys,” he says, and the entire class laughs.

7 years into the present

The class progressed to the lecture, and it inevitably advanced to technical film terms. Whenever I saw something familiar, I gave a mini homage to my pop culture knowledge. Not that it’s a vast list, but when you’re in a room full of people who knew their stuff, you’ve got to exercise your inalienable right to compensate. Even when he asks, “Who are the Twi-hards here?”, I snorted—but  raised my right hand when it was time to root for Team Jacob (no judging now).

“Can you give me a copy?” he asks as I informed him that when he was 22—back in 2003, Features also did a profile on him entitled “A Spark for Quark.” He laughed as I announced the article’s title, also inquiring if he said anything questionable back then.

I reassured him with a no, only telling him that what he did then—making films and being in a band, was still something he did now. Only, within the past seven years, he’s become one of the most recognizable faces and names in the film and music industry. “Back then, my band didn’t have an album,” he says. “But now [Us-2, Evil-0], we do.”

Quark has definitely escaped the ties of his cosmetic empire kin, and moved on to be an entirely separate entity on his own. But he’s not done exploring just yet. “I really want to write a book,” he says.

“It’s all about reinvention. You can’t just be doing one thing.”
—Quark Henares

The end of an era

As Quark recalls the list of things he’s been dabbling on over the years, the casual yet tinged with melancholy mention of Mag:net causes me to heave a sympathetic sigh. As he is part owner of (in my opinion) the last establishment in Manila that should ever close down (but unfortunately did), and because it was the only place other than my shower that I’d be comfortable singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” in, I was pretty emotionally invested on Rockeoke—I  had to ask.

“May 31 – it was one of the best nights,” he says with that kind of nostalgic smile. “All my friends were there…ang daming nangyari eh [so many things happened].”

That Sunday night, the last day of Rockeoke, SPIT, and also, Mag:net High Street, was a night that deserves some beating yourself up if you didn’t go. It brimmed with such combative conviction that it filled us all with fire, depth and passion that the combustion might as well have been real. “Did you sing?” he asks as we momentarily reminisced about that night, and I told him yes—I  sang “Torn”, and it could have been imagined, but I’m pretty sure I got a mental high five.

Rockeoke Monday was and is a massive force on its own, but right now, an imminent return is not in the works. “The future of Rockeoke is undecided,” he says.

Rakenrol

Ever the multi-tasker, he paces around the room, trying to get his stuff together while patiently answering my questions. I initially wanted to dodge the subject of film, but this is Quark we’re talking about—and after all, I just sat-in his film class—it was as inevitable as it was compelling.

“The film industry here is dead,” he says matter-of-factly yet without disdain. “We used to do about over 100 films, now it’s down to about 30. But at least there are a lot of people coming up with independent films,” he says.

Shortly after this, he shows me the trailer of his next masterpiece, one that he’s been working on for some time now. Though his film Rakenrol, a fictional story about the rock and roll industry in the Philippines, has become the punch line of his anecdotes in class—the five years it took to make, crashing systems, and the repetitive editing doesn’t seem to faze the perpetually good-spirited guy. “My deadline is June, but since June’s almost over, I’m moving it to July,” he says.

Generation of slashies

As my mind was still reeling from A Clockwork Orange and Boogie Nights, I couldn’t help but feel like I’ve just been led to some sort of cinematic enlightenment. I’ve evidently just been schooled by a master—but to this though, Quark contests. “I don’t actually consider myself successful,” he says. To him, the last seven years have been a struggle between doing what he loves, and doing what you have to do. When it comes to success, he says, “There’s really no formula to it.”

In order to survive the cutthroat and competitive arena that he likes to call the slashie era, the teacher/filmmaker/band front man/writer/entrepreneur/all-around-badass (the epitome of slashie, really) says, “It’s all about reinvention. You can’t just be doing one thing.”

The jack-of-all-trades continues to keep us on our toes on his next exciting venture. Whatever that is, it’ll most likely be something unexpected, very much like his style. On my end though, I did a lot of anticipating myself. I was prepared to hold the interview in a place where I’d find him yet again singing on a table full of people sprawled with bottles of consumed beer. I’ve even procured a “rock and roll” oufit: something nonchalant, less groupie, more Band-Aid—I was determined to make Penny Lane proud.

Instead, we had it in his classroom, under the harsh fluorescent lights, and I wore something that counts as the antithesis of nonchalant. But the thing with my compelling work of fiction about-to-be-made-reality was that Quark Henares was both its hero and villain, and well, he’s a badass constant that couldn’t be bothered with neither expectation nor reality—he’s just always going to be that guy begging for a more riveting plot.