“Art lifts man from his personal life into the universal life.” –Leo Tolstoy
Nov. 19, 2025 was the 40th day of the passing of Pablo Tariman, a journalist/poet/concert organizer and writer of TheDiarist.ph. He is not forgotten.
Foremost was how the late journalist-poet-concert organizer Pablo A. Tariman hated hypocrites, especially those in the high circle of society or alta sociedad. Even if his mission of spreading classical music education called for his occasional mingling with socialites and their powerful husbands, he’d observe them closely, then regale me with their tics and pretentious statements on art.
There was this daughter of a former President who ordered this many tickets for the concert of Pablo’s friend and muse, pianist Cecile Licad. The woman’s residence was in Forbes Park, and she invited the impresario to pick up her payment there. He imagined that she’d invite him in for coffee, tea and a short chat. This was when Pablo would deliver the tickets himself so he could have cash on hand for concert expenses.
Lo and behold! The help made him wait and stand outside the pedestrian gate for quite some time. Then a postdated check was handed out to him. He was confident that the temporary humiliation would be washed away when he listened to Cecile’s music. And he was right.
He laughed this off; it was par for the course in organizing cultural events. From then on, he invented a secret nickname or code for this society woman. He would go on to chat with her, even smile sardonically at her, but his close friends were privy to how he openly used the code in Facebook posts. I could imagine him chortling as he typed the name “Chelsea Clinton.”
When I shared one of my favorite Joni Mitchell songs, Chelsea Morning, on my FB, he called me out, saying to this effect, “Chelsea sends her regards to you, Babeth.” I was tempted to delete my post.
Another habit of Pablo that I later acquired was getting up early at 4 a.m. and using the quiet morning to begin composing one’s article for the day or the week. When he finished, he would declare “Deo gratias!” in FB, then go back to sleep only to get up at six to prepare the breakfast and baon or brownbag lunch of his grandson, Emmanuel Acosta. His devotion to Eman was admirable.
It took a while for me to learn that discipline; this time I’d prepare brekkie for my husband in Baguio or my siblings in Pasig after I finished with my writing assignments or correspondence, even my poetry compositions.
Post-concert meet and greet with Damodar Das Castillo, third from left, Pablo Tariman, violinist Adrian Ong, the author and grandchild Kai
Pablo used the enormous vacant time during the pandemic and after the slayings of his daughter Kerima and later her husband, Ericson Acosta, to write poem after poem to channel his grief. Although his resounding laughter could still be heard at JT Manukan Grille, the Quezon City or Makati branch, as he consumed one bottle after another of San Mig Light, he’d wake up cold sober the morning after and write those heartfelt poems that would be compiled in Love, Life and Loss During the Pandemic.
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His tryout readers were his FB followers. His poems were shared and re-shared by them. When he had written enough for a book, he tapped me to go over his poems as a copy editor, while I, in turn, tapped my godchild Jenny Cariño to design and layout the book. Joseph Uy, the guy I like to call the other impresario, looked around for a printing press where we could get a fair deal. From Germany, Pablo’s eldest child Kalon (real name: Karenina, a sign of her father’s literary bent), sent support funds.
Using his marketing skills in selling concert tickets, Pablo pre-sold his book until copies ran out. Buyers/readers deposited an amount in his bank, then he had the book sent by Lalamove or similar delivery services. No more actual delivery by him. The book is now a collector’s item.
Tariman with British-Romanian diva Nelly Miricioiu
From him I also learned to work fast. “Otherwise,” he warned, “the vultures will fly over your carcass, Babeth. In the jungle, you have to learn to run fast. Otherwise, Babeth, you will be eaten.”
He knew my family loved the Bicolano food he would send, especially the pinangat with coconut-milk-soaked gabi or taro leaves. He was precise in his instructions on how to reheat it. Best eaten with steaming rice and with one’s hands, the way Cecile does. In return, I could send him only bottled jam from Baguio. My sister Evelyn would send him chocolates and other snacks. Her voice would crack whenever she remembered the tragic fate of Kerima and Ericson although they were strangers to her.
At Milky Way on Arnaiz Avenue, Makati, where Chit Roces and Vergel Santos would host lunches for Pablo, me and Cielo Lutz (a.k.a. Marichelle Roque), he would first swing by me in a white taxi in Kapitolyo, Pasig, then we’d chat during the ride. We’d split the taxi fare and do the same on the ride back to our respective homes.
Pablo loved the restaurant’s fresh lumpia and deep-fried hito or catfish. He would listen to Vergel’s political discourse with rapt attention, asking questions or sharing his own opinions now and then, while Chit, Cielo and I gossiped.
One time, Pablo, who tried to be impeccably outfitted when in public always, wore a pair of shiny charol black shoes, a hole in one shoe. “Babeth,” he said, choking down his laughter, “I hope Chit didn’t notice this hole. Otherwise, she may give me money from her charitable heart so I can buy a new pair.”
Pablo, who calls himself Arthur Espiritu’s vocal coach, with the author, Joseph Uy, Arthur and wife Christine
Ah, basta! I have adopted not only his mantra of “Life is beautiful” (after the movie of Italian director Roberto Benigni), but also Joseph and I vow to continue where Pablo left off. To bring music to Filipino souls. God help us, indeed!
