Louie Cordero’s latest exhibit, Brain Rot, was an idea that struck him intuitively in the same way other works and creative sources have inspired him—from books to music, as well as the internet and social media. It is a reflection of this phenomenon: the limitless exposure to a barrage of knowledge and information that the mind is supposed to digest slowly and appreciatively, but which has instead led to the paradoxical outcome of poor comprehension, the disappearing habit of reading, and all manner of repulsive behavior online—deemed, perhaps, as counterproductive.

Cordero broadly defines the title of his show as a “mental decline from overconsumption of low-quality, repetitive, or unchallenging online content.” It represents our current state, especially within a reality filtered through varying degrees of haphazard data. It is a reality that, in part, has become a reflection of our culture’s own sordid affairs: corruption scandals, bureaucrat capitalism, and the normalization of substandard projects. There is a brooding detachment amid the smorgasbord of reels and viral videos—and it is the kind of detachment that leads to a lack of critical thinking and, at some point, a society that lacks conscience.

In his own uncompromising imagination, Cordero seeks to convey a form of commentary through his paintings by elaborating on and combining symbols, memories, and other cultural facets that once represented a bygone era when everyone’s attention seemed more intact, rather than aimlessly wandering. In one of his works, Blasé, he depicts a seemingly unresponsive and absent-minded character who is content to go with the flow and has surrendered itself to a kind of mutation in order to adapt to civilization’s own confused and hollow devolution. “Mutation, not rebellion”—a phrase associated with one of the 1980s’ pioneering techno bands, Devo—has since become an accompanying theory in much of Louie Cordero’s art, where every character, every city, and every bodily appendage seems to succumb to a form of mutation bordering on the grotesque figure, a rotten outcome—perhaps a reflection of society’s own failure to address what is truly ailing it: a failure to focus and to pay attention.

In his other works, Cordero combines his own collection of myriad content: from references to a series of earthquakes that hit the country, his brushes with bike accidents, a childhood memory of storming Malacañang, his father’s fascination with UFOs and Betamax players, to his own fascination with Fangoria magazine and a slew of old horror shows. The large, painted movie billboards in Cubao until the early 1990s, the live broadcasts of Senate hearings on anomalous flood control projects, the airbrushed jeepney chassis, and his own longing for prayer and meditation—all contribute to his vast array of references and images. But here, he staves off the possibilities of brain rot to turn these elements into a more structured kind of rottenness. His elegant grotesquerie is a predominant feature of Cordero’s art, in line with the Romanticist view that ugliness is the true mirror of society.

While this show is by no means only an exploration of rottenness, there is no denying the visceral force and detail of these works in their remarkable diversity, ranging from the intimate and personal to the large-scale and epic. The smaller paintings, almost all measuring 27 by 27 inches, could qualify as a separate show or an extension of Brain Rot—and may be viewed as quasi-portraits of characters who perhaps convey private turmoil apart from Cordero’s warm personality among friends and associates.

An artist responding to the times is always an engagement to look forward to. This is especially true of Louie Cordero’s Brain Rot, his latest exhibition of 14 mostly acrylic works, which provides, in part, a glimpse of the state of the nation today—a mutated, rotten, and abysmal sight—both from the vantage point of history and from Cordero’s refracted imagination.

- Ricky Torre w/ CLJ