This Caloocan-born assemblage artist reimagines debris as vessels of truth, faith, and lived experiences

For Filipino assemblage artist Max Balatbat, meaning does not begin in the studio; it begins in the act of noticing. In his practice, objects are never just materials to be used, but presences to be understood.

In an exclusive interview with adobo Magazine, Max reflected on this intuitive process, one shaped by attention and encounter rather than intent alone. Across warehouses, streets, and overlooked corners of the city, he moves through spaces where others might see debris or discard. 

For him, each fragment, including a piece of wood, a rusted surface, or a forgotten relic, carries something forward and unresolved ideas that he believes need to be seen.

“Yung pagpili ko ng materyales para sa piyesa, hindi siya spontaneous na pili-kuha lang. Kapag nasa isang lugar ako, parang may mga bagay na nagpapadampot sa akin — parang nakikipag-usap,” he said. (My selection of materials for a piece isn’t spontaneous or random. When I’m in a place, it feels like certain objects are calling out to me—as if they’re communicating.)

According to Max, there is no urgency in this process. Some objects stay with him for years before finding their place in his work. Others remain unused because, for him, what matters is the quiet exchange that unfolds over time — a sense that the material already knows something, even before the artist intervenes.

“Parang may kombinasyon ng pakikipag-usap sa materyales at timing kung kailan mo siya gagamitin. Hindi ako pumipili base sa preference — basta nag-stand out siya sa akin. Naniniwala lang ako na kahit gaano na siya kaluma o kasira, mabibigyan ko siya ng panibagong buhay,” he explained. (It feels like a combination of communicating with the material and timing when to use it. I don’t choose based on preference — only if it stands out to me. I believe that no matter how old or broken it is, I can give it a new life.)

This sensibility extends beyond material and into the core of his practice. Thus, he believes that art is not about constructing meaning from a distance, but about returning to what has always been there.

Earlier in his career, however, that clarity was harder to access. Like many artists navigating visibility and validation, he found himself making work designed to appear “deep,” layered with research calibrated for recognition, but the work felt hollow.

As an assemblage artist, Max believes some objects take years to be used, while others are never used at all. What matters most is the quiet connection that builds over time, as if the material already knows what it’s meant to be, even before he works on it.

“Noon, gumagawa ako ng mga piyesa na feeling ko “malalim,” para lang ma-impress yung ibang tao. Pero narealize ko, niloloko ko lang yung sarili ko. Sa dami ng rejection, napaisip ako kung ano ba talaga yung mali. Bakit ako nagpapakalalim… eh may sarili naman akong kwento? (Before, I created works I thought were “deep,” just to impress others. But I realized I was just fooling myself. After many rejections, I started questioning what was wrong. Why was I forcing depth when I already had my own story?)

What followed was a turning inward. Instead of searching for meaning elsewhere, Max began with what he already knew by exploring his own environment, his own history, and even his own contradictions.

Raised in Third Avenue in Caloocan City, he grew up in a community often defined by its most stigmatized realities — prostitution, drugs, and violence. These were not abstractions, but part of everyday life. Rather than distancing himself from these narratives, he chose to confront and embrace them.

This is where “Kapilya” was born, which Max described as his “most stripped-down, most honest, and most liberated work.” 

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The work brings together Catholic iconography, penitensya rituals, and folk gambling, elements that, within institutional frameworks, are often seen as contradictory or even irreverent. Yet in Max’s rendering, they coexist without hierarchy as he believes that faith, in this context, is not confined to doctrine. It is lived — messy, improvised, and deeply entangled with survival.

“Pinanganak akong Katoliko… yung lola ko sobrang relihiyoso. Pero habang nandun ako, nakikita ko rin yung mga tao sa labas—mga adik, mga nagbebenta ng katawan, mga nagsusugal. Doon nagsimula yung tanong ko,” he said.  (I was born Catholic… my grandmother was deeply religious. But while I was there, I also saw people outside—drug users, sex workers, gamblers. That’s where my questions began.)

One of the most striking images in Kapilya shows a child standing outside a chapel—faceless by choice. The missing face protects the child’s identity and shifts the focus. Inspired by real children who sell sampaguita on the streets, the image reflects how they are often ignored—or worse, reduced to something to be looked at. As Balatbat puts it, “Some motorists don’t look at the flowers—they look at the child.”

Max added, “May tama ba o maling dasal? Kasi karamihan ng tao, pag nagdadasal, humihiling. Lahat — sugalero, tulak, magnanakaw — nagdarasal din. Hindi ko sinasabing mali. Nagtatanong lang ako.” (Is there a right or wrong prayer? Because most people, when they pray, are asking for something. Everyone—gamblers, dealers, thieves—also pray. I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m just asking.)

The tension between these spaces became a source of inquiry. As these questions linger unresolved, Max does not actually attempt to answer them. Instead, he created space for them to be felt.

Rewriting the “other side”

This commitment to visibility — to telling stories from what he calls the “other side” — runs through his entire practice. It is shaped by his own experience of being judged, of having his background reduced to a stereotype.

“Lumaki akong hinuhusgahan dahil sa lugar namin. Pag sinabi mong Third Avenue, Caloocan —automatic negatibo. Pero ako, hindi ko yun naramdaman. Pare-pareho lang tayong naghahanapbuhay. Job description lang yan. Yung nanay sa bangko at yung nanay na nagbebenta ng katawan — parehong nagpapasaya ng anak. Magkaiba lang ng proseso. So alin dun ang mali?” Max asked. (I grew up being judged because of where I’m from. When you say Third Avenue, Caloocan — people immediately think negatively. But I never felt that. We’re all just trying to make a living. It’s just a job description. A mother working in a bank and a mother selling her body both make their children happy. Only the process is different. So which one is wrong?)

“Why is one seen as dignified and the other as shameful?” he asked. 

Even his understanding of faith resists categorization. While belief remains central, it is no longer tethered to institutional structures.

“I believe in God, but I don’t subscribe to religion,” he says. “I don’t like labels or rigid structures.”

Instead, his faith is personal and fluid — something that can exist across spaces, beyond boundaries.

“Naniniwala ako sa Diyos, pero wala akong religion. Ayoko ng label. Mas malaya yung faith ko ngayon.”  (I believe in God, but I don’t have a religion. I don’t like labels. My faith feels freer now.)

Ultimately, Kapilya for Max is an ongoing narrative. Each piece is not separate, but part of a larger continuum where an unfolding story is shaped by memory, place, and material.

Max’s work brings together Catholic imagery, penitensya rituals, and folk gambling—things that are often seen as conflicting or even disrespectful. But in his work, they exist side by side, without one being more important than the other.

Per him, that story continues to draw from the same sources featuring the community he grew up in, the people who shaped him, and the materials that carry their own quiet histories. This also includes elements such as rust, dust, and decay that are often dismissed as remnants of neglect, which, essentially, in his hands, become vessels of meaning.

In the end, Max’s practice is not about resolution. It is about holding space for contradiction, discomfort, and truths that resist simplification because in the lives we overlook, in the objects we discard, and in the questions we avoid, something is always waiting to be seen.

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