Emerging from a family of artists yet carving a distinctly contemplative path of his own, Luis Antonio Santos is a Filipino artist whose work quietly insists on the complexity of memory, loss, and transformation. Rooted in the Philippines’ rich and evolving creative landscape, his practice bridges painting, photography, and printmaking—mediums he treats less as fixed categories and more as porous, shifting languages.

Whether reconstructing funeral flowers in dissolving watercolour or echoing the textures of corrugated steel in meticulous oil, Santos explores how images and objects—like memories—can slip, glitch, or fade. His art, often grounded in personal experiences of care, grief, and intergenerational illness, carries a reflective weight that feels both intimate and collective.

In this conversation with CNTRFLD.ART, Santos speaks with candour about growing up surrounded by art, initially resisting—and eventually embracing—the call to create, and how distortion has become both subject and method in his search for meaning. From solo exhibitions in Manila to Art Basel Hong Kong, and from funeral bouquets to construction materials, his practice becomes a meditation on what it means to remember: imperfectly, tenderly, and on one’s own terms.

“There’s a kind of dignity in distortion—it’s how memory works. Things get blurred, faded, but that doesn’t make them less true. In fact, it’s in the slipping that something more honest can appear.”—Luis Antonio Santos

CNTRFLD. Can you tell us about your childhood and upbringing? How did these early experiences shape your journey to becoming an artist?

LAS. I grew up literally surrounded by art. My grandfather was an artist, my parents are both artists and they're gallerists too (they run West Gallery), my uncle was an artist, and my siblings are artists too. We all live in the same compound, so art was always around—not just physically, but as part of everyday life.
My parents always brought us to gallery openings and museums from a young age. There were always art materials lying around, and the house was filled with art and books about art and artists. Growing up, I thought that this was normal for everyone. I realize now how fortunate I was to have been raised in that kind of environment—where making and looking at art felt normal and every day.
But I actually came to art quite late. I began painting when I was twenty‑five and had never handled oil paint before then. For years I tried to avoid becoming an artist; my understanding of art felt narrow, and I worried about repeating themes my family had already explored.
After college I moved to Singapore to try to work as a graphic artist and spent two weeks living in the home‑studio of painter Elaine Navas. I was so inspired by her practice, and they were encouraging me to try to paint. When I returned home, I picked up a brush just to see if I could, and those first attempts felt surprisingly natural. That small discovery marked the beginning of my journey.
In hindsight, I think those early experiences planted something deep, but it took time for me to figure out how to grow it on my own terms. Today, art feels less like a career choice and more like a way of paying close attention to life.

CNTRFLD. Your father, Soler Santos, is an established artist, and you recently exhibited alongside him at Art Basel Hong Kong. How has growing up in a family of artists influenced your own artistic journey?

LAS. It's something I don't take for granted. My parents never pushed us into art, but they led by example. I deeply admire my father's dedication—he’s in his studio every single day, consistently making work whether or not there’s an exhibition soon, all while managing a gallery. Observing him showed me that artmaking isn’t just a profession; it's truly a way of life, a daily practice. I’ve learned from him that being an artist is a long game—more like a marathon than sprint.
Exhibiting together at Art Basel Hong Kong was incredibly special but also somewhat surreal. Even if we don’t explicitly talk about it, there’s an ongoing generational dialogue in our works. Growing up surrounded by artists didn’t just influence my journey—it grounded me in quiet persistence and perseverance.

CNTRFLD. Memory, loss, and entropy are recurring themes in your work. How did you come to explore these ideas, and what personal or cultural influences shaped your approach? Your recent solo show, As If It Was Swimming, at The Drawing Room explored images of flowers from your grandmother’s funeral. Could you discuss the process behind this series and how it reflects your ongoing engagement with memory and transformation?

LAS. Before I became an artist, I spent a significant amount of time caring for my grandfather, who suffered from both Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease. He was bedridden during the last few years of his life, and witnessing his slow deterioration deeply affected me. It left me with a fear of aging—and of inheriting the same illness. I became fearful by the idea of losing control over my own body, my own memories.
That experience shaped my interest to make work about the people I love, and most importantly about the things I fear—loss, failure, vulnerability. Watching someone I love and cared for slowly fade away changed how I think about memory. It no longer feels like something fixed or reliable, but something fragile.
My most recent solo exhibition, As If It Was Swimming started with a bunch of funeral flowers my mother brought home after my grandmother passed. I photographed them, then processed the images using watercolor that distorts and dissolves them. It’s both a tribute and a study in impermanence. It's about preservation and loss. 

CNTRFLD. In your 2024 solo show at West Gallery, Tremor, you further explore themes of deterioration and intergenerational illness as a form of memory. How did witnessing your grandfather’s struggle with memory impact your artistic process for this work, and what message do you hope to convey about the relationship between trauma, memory, and identity?

LAS. I decided I wanted to make work about the thing I fear most — losing my memories. Making art became a way to confront that fear. I’m drawn to the function of memory and the many forms it takes: how it’s recorded, retrieved, fragmented. From personal to collective histories. Painting as memories, photographs as memories, gestures as memories, technology as memories and trauma as memories.
These forms often carry distortions and deterioration, which in turn shape our sense of self and how we navigate the world. Over time, I began to understand trauma and memory not just as psychological, but also as physical, even material.
In Tremor, I tried to capture that instability. A single neon bulb—based on a simple line drawing—is reflected infinitely in mirrored, steel-clad walls. I want the viewer to be immersed with the work, to be part of the work. The result is something that feels like it’s slipping: shifting, distorting, dissolving—almost like memory itself. Somewhat familiar and distant at the same time.

CNTRFLD. Your practice involves a tension between painting, photography, and printmaking, often blurring the boundaries between these mediums. What drew you to this multidisciplinary approach, and how do you decide which medium to use for a particular work?

LAS. It depends. Sometimes it starts with thinking about experimenting with different processes then other times I already have an image in mind and it's like analyzing why I was drawn to that particular image. I’ve always been drawn to the in-between spaces, works that defy genre or medium. Each process has its own quality and its own failures which I like. I look for the errors within the process and I try to make that prominent. The tension between mediums mirrors the tension in the subject matter—between presence and absence, clarity and distortion.

CNTRFLD. In The Flowers are Blooming Again, But They Have No Scent, you explore labour-intensive processes like silkscreen printing and oil painting to replicate industrial materials. What is it about every day, utilitarian objects that resonates with your artistic vision?

LAS. I’m drawn to materials that people instantly recognize—metal sheets, cyclone wire, plastic tarps. Their familiarity creates a shared baseline, a surface the viewer already knows how to read: how it feels, sounds, ages. In the Philippines, corrugated sheets are everywhere. They’re functional, not decorative — meant to divide, shield, or patch, not to be looked at. That’s what interests me.
I have a fondness for objects so commonplace they become invisible. My work often engages with that invisibility, along with the loss of information and the transience of an image. Corrugated sheets, for example, mark transitions: construction sites, temporary dwellings, spaces in flux. Over time, their surfaces collect rust, debris, graffiti—recording traces of atmosphere and use like a kind of geological data. A memory of a space in limbo. 
When I translate these materials into other forms, I focus on the errors that occur in the process—whether through meticulous, hyperreal oil painting, the halftones of a screenprint, or even the physical aging of the actual object. The subject becomes the distortion itself. It’s a negotiation between the ordinary and the extraordinary, the real and the hyperreal.

CNTRFLD. Your works often involve a process of distortion—whether through physically altering materials, manipulating imagery, or reversing impressions. What do these disruptions say about how we perceive and remember things? Additionally, many of your paintings and prints engage with themes of barriers, absence, and presence. Do you see these as reflections of personal experiences or are they broader social commentaries?

LAS. I think distortion is closer to how memory actually works—recollection is never neat or complete. It's both an act of remembering and forgetting. It’s always fragmented, reframed, rewritten. Even though some of my works, like the hyper realistic paintings, seem to say otherwise, I’m not interested in accurate representations as much as echoes. The barriers and absences in my work reflect both personal experiences—loss, grief, disorientation—and broader realities. I live in a country where we have a difficult relationship with memory. Things are constantly erased, torn down and rebranded. My works aren’t direct commentaries, but they carry those tensions—personal, historical, material.

CNTRFLD. As an artist based in the Philippines, how has your environment shaped your practice? What unique challenges and opportunities do you encounter in the Philippine art scene, and what kind of support structures exist for artists?

LAS. Being based in the Philippines means living with constant contradiction. As an archipelago, we're physically separated by bodies of water—and in many ways, socially and economically divided too. The landscape, both physical and cultural, is layered, volatile, and often in flux. 
There’s a strong sense of resourcefulness here, but also a persistent precarity. Support structures do exist—artist-run spaces, independent curators, occasional grants—but they’re uneven and often unsustainable, especially outside major cities. Still, there’s a real sense of community. Artists here are deeply engaged, and the conversations feel urgent and grounded. We learn to work with what we have—and sometimes, those limitations become part of the methodology.

CNTRFLD. You have exhibited extensively in the Philippines and internationally, including Singapore, New York, and Hong Kong. How do you see Philippine contemporary art evolving, and what role do you think it plays in the global art scene?

LAS. Philippine contemporary art has always been anchored in local stories and histories, yet continuously in conversation with what is happening around the world. Recently, I've noticed a more experimental, process-driven work that are more thoughtful. Artists are increasingly delving into material, identity, and historical narratives with greater nuance. Internationally, there's still a lot of work to be done—not merely in terms of visibility, but also in achieving genuine understanding and dialogue. However, I’m encouraged by the way Filipino artists are carving out space internationally without diluting their complexity. I'm particularly grateful for the risks galleries based in the Philippines—like Silverlens, Drawing Room, and Art Informal—are taking in bringing local artists to key cultural cities like New York, London, Seoul, and Hong Kong. I feel like the role we play isn't about fitting neatly into established categories but rather insisting on the specificity of our perspectives—speaking authentically from our context rather than merely addressing external expectations.

CNTRFLD. What projects are you currently working on, and are there any new themes, mediums, or ideas you are exploring in your upcoming works?

LAS. I'm currently developing new works for the National Museum exhibition featuring the current CCP Thirteen Artists Awardees, where I plan to expand my Index series. I started Index in 2016 as a way to explore memory, perception, and distortion through layered, glitched images drawn from museum artifacts found online thru the museum's archives. This series juxtaposes different narratives, engaging ideas about visibility, invisibility, and how histories are constructed or remembered. For this latest version, I'm incorporating the National Museum’s digital archives and combining my current interests in retroreflective fabrics and watercolor monoprints, pushing the series further into new visual and conceptual territory.

CNTRFLD. Having received numerous accolades, including the CCP Thirteen Artists Award and the Fernando Zobel Prize, what advice would you give to young artists navigating the challenges of building a career in contemporary art?

LAS. I don't think there's a single piece of advice that fits everyone, and I acknowledge that I've been fortunate with my circumstances. But what I am also trying to do now is to develop a daily practice and that also includes rest—it's just as important as productivity. I also think that a good advice is to avoid comparing your artistic journey to someone else’s and invest genuinely in your relationships. I feel like a meaningful art practice grows from authenticity and care.

About the artist.

Luis Antonio Santos (b. 1985) is a visual artist based in Quezon City, Philippines. His practice explores memory, entropy, isolation, and longing through painting and photography.
Santos employs techniques such as oil painting and different forms of printing and image manipulation via the use of digital and analogue means to investigate the relationships between these mediums and their ability to reflect the shifting nature of recollection. He incorporates utilitarian and ubiquitous materials as metaphors for memory, space, and identity, emphasizing their transient and mutable qualities. By layering and altering imagery, he examines how memories are preserved, distorted, or lost over time.
He has been exhibiting since 2010 with solo shows in Singapore (Fost Gallery) and Manila (Silverlens Gallery, West Gallery, Blanc Gallery, Finale Art File, MO Space, Artinformal and the Drawing Room). He has also been included in several group exhibitions in Manila, New York (Jane Lombard Gallery), Hong Kong (Art Basel), Singapore (Art SG), Beijing (Tang Contemporary), Athens (Athens Video Art Festival), and Malaysia.
In 2024, he received the Cultural Center of the Philippines's Thirteen Artists Award. He won the Fernando Zobel Prize, and the Embassy of Italy Purchase Prize for the Ateneo Art Awards 2023. He was also a finalist for the Sovereign Asian Art Prize 2023. He has been shortlisted for the Ateneo Art Awards twice (2014, 2015) and was nominated for the Singapore Art Museum's Signature Art Prize (2018).

With thanks to Cesar Jun Villalon, Jr. and The Drawing Room for facilitating this conversation.

About the Drawing Room.

Founded in 1998, The Drawing Room is a Manila-based gallery committed to supporting artists whose practices reflect the Philippines’ ever-evolving cultural landscape. Originally established as a space dedicated to works on paper, it has grown into a platform for interdisciplinary artistic exploration, championing complex, critical, and socially engaged practices. Alongside monthly exhibitions in Manila, the gallery actively circulates its artists through off-site presentations and major art fairs in cities including Hong Kong, Singapore, Taipei, Jakarta, New York, and Paris.