Karla Rule | Cebu, Philippines
One day, you’re scrolling through Instagram, and suddenly —
A secret.
Sharp. Heavy. Cutting through the endless stream of workout selfies, tri-city vacations, cat videos, and thirst traps on your feed.
“My mom has caused me more pain than anything else in the world.”
“I wish I told my little brother to just stay home the night he got into a car accident.”
“I was never allowed to be angry all my life.”
It’s confessional, familiar. Voyeuristic, almost. It’s Things You Wanted to Say But Never Did.
What started as a personal internet project became a collective gift. The creative behind it? 33 year-old Filipino photographer, Geloy Concepcion.
In Cebu for a workshop and book signing of “Things You Wanted to Say But Never Did” — his internet series turned book — Person of Interest caught up with Concepcion to talk about his journey, the cost of creativity, the art of vulnerability, leveling the field for creatives, and what comes next.
Or, as he likes to put it — “Basic na araw lang.”
From Pandacan to Prime Time
In the loneliness and entrapment of the pandemic, on the brink of quitting photography, Concepcion asked the internet a question.
And the internet answered.
Anonymous confessions, vandalized in raw, unfiltered strokes against his film outtakes. The aesthetic, reminiscent of forgotten journals and punk-rock album covers. Blackouts and whiteouts granting anonymity. And with it — comfort. Courage. The freedom to say anything, anywhere.
But before the internet sensation, the merch, and the creative street cred that swept Manila — and eventually the country — off her feet, there was a boy from Pandacan.
“Wala akong idea sa photography. Ang alam kong photographer noon, yung sa class picture. Hindi ko siya naisip kahit konti,” Concepcion admits, settling into the quiet Happy Garaje Design Studio Co. workroom.
Fresh off Day 2 of his book signing and workshop at Luna Gazette in Atua Midtown, he reflects on how photography once felt like a luxury.
“Dati nga feeling ko yung mga mayayaman lang yung pwede mag-photography kasi nakakapunta sila sa ibang bansa.”
As a kid, Concepcion dreamed of becoming a cartoonist. He imagined himself working behind the beloved characters of Cartoon Network — the ones that shaped his childhood. This passion grew into street art and murals, becoming the catalyst that broadened his worldview.
But fate had other plans for this Advertising major from UST’s Fine Arts and Design program.
Concepcion didn’t know it then, but an unassuming school project would quickly introduce its real face and become something else entirely — his future.
“Nagkataon may photography subject. Required yung camera, kailangan bumili. Nangutang kami para makabili. Naki-credit card kami.” Concepcion recalls.
His first camera? A Nikon D90. PHP 56,000. Some one to two years to pay.
An avid documentary enthusiast, he interned at the now-concluded ABS-CBN documentary series “Storyline” under the wing of journalist and “Some People Need Killing” author Patricia Evangelista, and award-winning filmmaker Paolo Villaluna.
“Doon na-hone yung storytelling. Iba pa yun sa photography eh.”
From there, his lens bore witness to stories that defined Filipino life. From the tide of bodies at the iconic Feast of the Jesus Nazarene to the inimitable, unwavering Manila Golden Gays. Scene after scene of protests, celebrities, and all sorts of communities. He was documenting Filipino history as it unfolded — one frame at a time.
And didn’t take long for the industry to notice.
Think — byline credits in Rappler, Esquire, and CNN Philippines, just to name a few. Special Mention at the 2016 Pride Photo Awards.
Everybody knew it. Geloy Concepcion was the shit.
Geloy Concepcion vs The World
2017 came, and with it fidget spinners and “Reputation” by Taylor Swift. For Concepcion — this was the year of marriage, migration, and fatherhood.
Just as his star was rising in Manila, Concepcion packed his bags and left it all behind, joining his wife, Bea, in the San Francisco Bay Area. The birth of their daughter, Narra, marked the start of a new chapter, a new thread woven into the fabric of their lives.
But in a cruel twist of fate, a snag in his immigration papers left Concepcion in limbo — unemployed in a foreign land, stripped of the comforts he once knew. Stuck.
As a man raised to believe a father must provide, it was disorienting. As a creative forced to start over in unfamiliar terrain, it was stifling.
To shake the restlessness, Bea handed her husband a lifeline and urged Concepcion to shoot on her days off.
But the images didn’t lie. What once felt raw and personal now seemed distant. The physical and emotional gap between Concepcion and his subjects was palpable on film and in real life.
He didn’t know these streets. He was a stranger to the city. Back home, his peers were documenting history in real time. Meanwhile, he was stuck with baby bottles, diapers, and BTS music videos.
2020 couldn’t come fast enough. Finally, an immigration miracle — Concepcion was cleared to work. Only for the world to shut down as the COVID-19 pandemic stretched its oppressive hand across the globe.
Coming to terms with the cards he’s been dealt, Concepcion considered giving up photography altogether. But as he scanned his old film outtakes — like the last look before a funeral — one lingering question came back to him.
“What’s something you wanted to say but didn’t?”
His second lifeline. Like the countdown at the end of a bad round in a video game, taunting, unrelenting, asking him — “Try again?”
Things You Wanted to Say But Never Did
One question. At first, only 30 responses. From there, some 40 images.
Who knew a single social media post could snowball into a life-changing conversation between Geloy Concepcion and the world?
Today, a staggering 280,000 confessions have poured in over five years. And through it all, one promise remains — “This project will continue until the last note is received.”
Does Concepcion feel responsible for telling these stories?
“Babasahin ko yun no matter what. By hook or by crook, kahit gaano katagal. Not to tell, but to read,” Concepcion leans in, setting the record straight. “Hindi naman yun endgame ng mga nagsusulat, eh. Gusto lang nila, may magbasa. Gusto lang nila masulat yun, eh.”
But how many confessions can a man take in a day? The answer — enough. At its peak, Concepcion read 3,000 entries a week — until the weight of it all forced him to pause. To balance the emotional toll, he added a question to his Google Form: How has this project helped you?
“Ginagawa ko yun para hindi ako malunod sa bigat,” he explains. “Yung encouragement, yung thank you, parang debrief. To think, hindi naman kami magkakilala. Never kami magkikita. Pero may sinabi sila sakin na hindi nila masabi sa parents nila.”
Sure, the project impacted its audience in profound ways. But how did it affect Concepcion?
“Dumami yung reach nung project. Wala akong kinikita dun sa project. Yung reach ang nagbibigay sa akin ng work. Pero ang pinaka-nadagdag niya is confidence. Iba siya. Nagkaroon ako ng confidence na kaya ko. Pwede pala.” Concepcion nods to himself, satisfied with his leap of faith.
Like any social media sensation, others began mirroring Concepcion’s format, some outright copying his approach. At first, it stung. Until one message put things in perspective.
“May nareceive akong letter na pinostpone niya yung suicide niya [because of the project]. Yun na. Wala na.” Concepcion puts his hands in the air.
From using his own photos, the project now includes photographs sent by audiences — the ultimate collaboration. People often ask why Concepcion doesn’t watermark his work. Why he let others imitate it so freely. At the end of the day, ego is just ego. But this? This was something bigger.
“As much as possible, tinatry ko tanggalin yung utak na yun.” he says.
When Harper Celebrate approached Concepcion with the opportunity to turn “Things You Wanted to Say But Never Did” into a book, it was more than just a publishing deal. It was sustenance. The project had never been about profit, but Concepcion was still a father with a family to provide for.
The book became a tangible extension of the digital confessional — a “Photographic Journal to Process Your Feelings” to be exact. It sold out in the Philippines, but not without raising a few brows first.
“Siyempre, inisip ko rin nung una. Okay ba ’to? Kasi binebenta mo yung kwento ng ibang tao.” Concepcion pauses.
“Pero paano ako mabubuhay as an artist? Karamihan naman sa nagsulat doon, okay lang sa kanila. Yes, merong consent. Meron silang chinecheck [na box]. Pero ang dami ko rin natanggap na message. ‘Okay lang yan, tama lang yan. Kailangan mo gawin yan.’ Yun na yun.”
And so the project lives on, as long as there are things left unsaid.
Documenting The Juice of Life
Far from the boy who once had no clue about photography, Geloy Concepcion has become a little bit of everything — photographer, visual artist, street artist, content creator. The guy on Facebook who takes photos of his wife. Couple goals final boss. Taytay ni Narra. At this point, even he isn’t sure which label fits best.
But beneath it all, one thing remains constant — photography. What started as a hobby became his pulse, his language, his way of making sense of the world.
Now, Concepcion is on a mission to document what he calls the juice of life — the small moments in between. The ones that add up to the memories that shape us.
“Para sa akin, yung life, series siya ng problem-solving,” Concepcion explains. “May highlights diba — kinasal ka, ipinanganak ka, first communion, graduation. Pero sa pagitan nun, may depth din.”
For him, the real gold is in the everyday — the routines, the quiet walks in the park, inside jokes with family, the glances across a crowded room. Sure, photographing icons and history is an honor, and he’s not closing the door on that. But what matters most? The intimacy of the in-between.
“Yun yung tinatry ko i-capture. Para sa akin, iyon yung juice ng life. Maliliit lang siya pero yun talaga yun,” he says. “Reaction ko siya [photography] sa buhay, eh. Gano’n lang ako mag-react. I take pictures. Kung ano yung nakikita niyo sa pictures, yun yung nangyayari sakin ngayon. Hindi ko rin siya pinipigilan.”
It’s this radical shift in narrative that elevated his place in the industry.
Where Concepcion once clung to raw, unfiltered images of history, the weight of the past slowly gave way to something softer — baby bottles on the counter, the quiet snip of scissors as his wife gives him a haircut in the bathroom, afternoon walks in the park, his shadow stretching over his sleeping daughter, Bea’s smile catching the last of the light.
Vulnerability runs deep in Concepcion’s body of work. But has he always been at ease with it? Not quite.
“Pagdating ko na doon [sa Amerika].” Concepcion puts a hand to his chin. “Kumbaga nangyari lang siya kasi wala akong choice. Sabi ng kaibigan ko — kwento mo buhay mo, wag mo ikwento ang buhay ng iba.”
It became less about telling stories from a distance and more about weaving himself into them. The act of staying open, of reaching for connection, of standing in his own truth — it’s an ongoing practice, one he’s still learning.
“Mix siya.” Concecpion admits, and likens the practice to a game or a dance. “Hindi naman parang ‘magpakatotoo ka,’ parang PBB. Hindi mo siya ginagawa para magka-reward ka. Weird nga siya, eh. Hindi naman ako ganoon ka-open. May ibang artist, bukas na bukas na talaga. At that time, yun lang yung kaya ko gawin. Eh nag-work. Iba pa siyang usapin kung paano gawin.”
The turbulence of those early days still calls to him — the imperfections in the scans, the rough grain of film from the lens of a humble point-and-shoot.
“Napansin ko na mas malinis na yung mga picture ko ngayon. Mas relaxed, kasi okay ako. Mas paborito ko yung turbulent time namin sa Amerika. Pangit yung scan, yung camera ko point-and-shoot.” he chuckles.
But time smooths out the edges, and in its wake, Concepcion finds new ways of seeing, of loving. His work now traces the quiet joys of his life — his wife, his daughter, their small world moving in sync.
Of course, it’s not a conversation with Concepcion without his family. When asked if he feels some sort of pressure to keep up the image of a perfect family — he doesn’t hesitate.
“Kami ni Bea, kinikilig na kami noon pa, eh.” Concepcion smiles, scratching his head.
“Lagi ko sinasabi sa mga tao. Ginagawa ko siya kasi gusto ko, kilig pa rin kami. Love language ko yan, eh. Nagkataon lang na trip niyo rin siya. Hindi ko naman kayo pinapa-like diyan, eh. Tsaka, dati pa kami ganon. Hindi lang naka-public. Ayoko din naman maging hindi ganoon. Para lang sabihin na may malungkot [na storya] din pala. Dadating din yon. Kapag okay, edi okay kami. Pressure? Wala. Zero.”
And when it comes to weathering life’s storms — trust, faith, and an unshaken belief in each other have carried them through.
“Sinabi ko kay Bea nung wala akong work. Alam ko yung way ko, basta bigyan mo ako ng chance. Alam ko ang sistemang yan. Kaya ko yan.”
Now, the greatest privilege isn’t in grand gestures but in the simplest of days. The ordinary made precious by the very act of choosing it.
“Basic lang yung araw.” he says. “Kasi sa Amerika, mahal yun. Privilege yun. Binabayaran ko yun. Lagi ko sinasabi.”
The Price of Creativity
And for his honesty? A thriving career as an artist. A homecoming hero for many Filipino creatives.
Asked about the difference between being a creative in the Philippines and abroad, Concepcion points out it’s not just about the projects — it’s about access.
“Mas maliit dito [sa Pilipinas]. One step closer ka sa mga tao. Mas madaling pumasok. Pero yun lang yun, nasa Pilipinas ka. Sa Amerika, mahirap. Pero kapag pumasok ka, nandoon na yun. Mas mahirap pumasok, pero mas malaki siya.”
Beyond opportunities, he’s noticed stark differences in how creatives are treated. While he has his reservations about the U.S. and its global influence, he admits the industry doesn’t play.
“May pros and cons. Wala masyado tropa. Pero sobrang professional lahat ng katrabaho mo. Walang masyado toxic. At the end of the day, tapos yung trabaho, maganda yung output. Ang bayad, mabilis. Kung ano ang napag-usapan, okay.”
The Philippines? Well, it’s a different story. Maybe even a masterclass at getting finessed — unfortunately.
Delayed payments, mystery budgets, lowballing — where creatives are given the runaround, where payments get “lost,” where the person who needs to sign off is conveniently on leave.
“Minsan nadadayaan ako dito. Parang bakit kailangan ko mag-beg para sa pera? Nakakahiya. Mahiyain tayo tungkol sa pera. Minsan, may shoot ka, hindi mo alam yung budget. Sinasabi na dapat yun. Pero ikaw pa magtatanong, ‘Bayad ba ’to?’”
So how does he navigate it? Experience. Expensive lessons. But even if he’s learned the system, it doesn’t mean the system has changed.
“Natuto na rin ako. Bago ako kumilos, bayaran niyo na muna ako. Kapag hindi ka papayag, mas mabilis. Pero sa mga maliliit, hangga’t kaya nila, ipu-push talaga nila ng matagal. Sana maayos na yung gano’n. Kasi masaya dito, puro Pinoy ang katrabaho mo.” Concepcion quips.
And then there’s the creative trap — paying the bills with client work that drains your energy and limits your imagination. The antidote?
“Dapat talaga meron kang personal work. Yun yung pang-balance mo sa lahat eh. Ang trabaho ko lang, mag-shoot ng kasal. Minsan tinatry ko na siyang kontrolin. Eh hindi pwede. Hindi ko naman siya kasal. May mga tao, naiinis sila. Gusto nila yung commercial, dapat art. Eh, hindi ka naman client. Tagagawa ka lang diyan.” Concepcion explains.
At the end of the day, personal work is what fuels the fire.
“Kaya dapat may sarili kang trip. Doon mo ibigay lahat. Yung yabang mo doon na din manggagaling yon.” he urges.
So what if his portfolio includes some celebrity posing with a bottle of water?
“Wala akong pake. Kailangan ko picturan yung sisig or cake? Gawin ko bukas.”
Because for Concepcion — this is more than finding a seat at the table. You have to be smart enough to hold it, too.
No Creative Left Behind
At the end of Concepcion’s book signing and workshop in Cebu, a hand shot up with a question:
“Do you have plans to support creatives outside Manila?”
A question that’s kept him up at night. A question without a neat answer. Because the truth is, it’s not just about one person opening doors — it’s about the system, the culture, the sheer weight of how things have always been done. And fixing that? That takes more than just good intentions.
“Ayaw kong maging patronizing,” Concepcion admits. “Kasi hindi ko siya mababago overnight. Madaya ‘yung system eh, nadadayaan din ako. Nando’n ‘yung trabaho sa Manila — bakit wala dito? Ano bang puwede nating gawin? Baka doon ako puwede tumulong. Cebu na nga ‘to, paano pa ‘yung mas malalayo?”
Maybe he can connect the creatives he meets outside Manila with his network. Maybe he can convince them to take on apprentices. But at the end of the day, the problem stays the same — opportunities stay in one place while the rest claw their way in.
Sometimes, the system isn’t broken — it’s working exactly as intended. Keeping other areas on rations just enough so they don’t ask for more, so they all flock to one place, where the gatekeepers get first pick while the rest fight for scraps.
“Ang hirap. Kasi aalisin mo ‘yung tao dito. Pero kahit gustuhin nilang bumalik, paano? Wala namang trabaho.” Concepcion muses, the gears in his head churning.
Growing up in Pandacan, Manila was his turf. And as much as he loves the city, he sees how Manila-centric the industry was — and still is.
“Wala akong probinsya. Manilenyo ako. Rep ko yun. Pero in fairness sa amin, tropa-tropa tayo pero kapag trabaho na, box out lahat. Masikip na yung fish pond dito. So paano?”
Moving abroad, he saw how his Manila privilege didn’t automatically translate. Competing against Americans — where even skin color played a role — meant leveling up five times over.
“Bad trip. Pareho lang naman. Taga-San Francisco ako. Walang mangyayari sa akin ng malaki dahil nandoon ako. Kailangan kong mag LA o New York. Kailangan ko makisabay. Gets ko rin siya. Ganoon ako sa Amerika. Kung gusto ko ng kasing parehas ng trabaho ng puti, kailangan mas magaling ako sa kanya ng five times.”
Make no mistake — Concepcion wants to help, but he knows there’s a bigger conversation to be had, and for many creatives, the next best step is to learn the system while hacking a way through it.
“That’s the reality. Masakit pero totoo. Kaya testingin ko na lang sarili ko.” Concepcion affirms.
It’s not a one-person job. The solution isn’t just up to the artists — it’s about those with money seeing the value and actually investing in it, wherever they are. Alongside that, it’s about the artists having the fire to prove it’s worth the investment.
“May joke sa Manila, eh — guard pa lang, hindi ka na papapasukin. Doon pa sa loob ng building? Kaya sa lahat ng talk ko, may nagsasabi, ‘Hanep ah, parang motivational speaker ka na.’ Pero totoo. Men, hindi puwedeng relax lang. Lalo na nanidto tayo. Kailangan malupit ka. Hindi puwedeng pucho-pucho lang.”
That’s why, when Cebu-based photographer Jonathan Kim Canoy messaged Concepcion, responding to the latter’s posts about exploring Cebu, Concepcion said yes. He may not be able to break the system, but if he can help move the needle, why not?
Concepcion’s advice? Brace yourself. He doesn’t want to be the poster child for success, but like it or not, he kind of is. And that’s not a bad thing.
“Posible siya, eh. Hindi naman ako mayaman. Ayaw kong magmukhang example, pero secretly, gusto ko rin maisip ng mga bata: ‘Okay, hindi siya mayaman. Wala siyang kakilala. Zero. Pero kung pwede sa akin, baka puwede din yun sa kanila.’”
And if there’s one thing that’s never failed him — from his intern days at “Storyline”, to documenting history, to moving abroad, to shooting everything from portraits to commercials to weddings — it’s honesty.
“Honest ka lang sa gawa mo. Maloloko mo ‘yung iba. Pero hindi mo maloloko yung sarili mo. Basta ako, proud ako na kahit anong nangyari, gumawa ako. Hindi ako nawala. Kahit pangit ‘yung reception o maganda. Kahit flop or okay. Basta gumawa ako. Konti lang proud ako, eh. Proud ako doon. Proud ako kapag proud yung family ko sa akin. “
Concepcion is not easily fazed, but he’s not bulletproof either. If there’s one thing he wishes he had starting out, it was courage. The kind that silences shame.
“Sana noong bata ako, hindi ako natakot sa mga intimidating na tao. Sa totoo lang. Sana hindi ako nahiya na maitim ako. Na hindi ako magaling mag-English. Sa Maynila, ‘pag maitim ka, minus ka na. ‘Pag hindi magaling mag-English, minus ulit. ‘Pag hindi ka mayaman? Lumiliit lalo ‘yung chance mo na makapunta kung saan mo gusto. Sana hindi ako natakot noon.”
Because let’s be real — the art world isn’t beating the elitist allegations anytime soon. And sometimes, you have to prove yourself abroad just for your own people to respect you.
“Malungkot pero totoo. Pag lumabas ka ng bansa, tas gumawa ka ng pangalan mo parang pag balik mo okay ka na. Malupit ka na ba si ibang bansa? Naging basehan siya kung paano ka respetuhin. Hate ko siya pero kumbaga kung yun yung way ko, edi gagawin ko.”
Basic Lang
So what’s next for Geloy Concecpion? The stories haven’t run out — if anything, they’re only beginning. And right now? They’re pulling him back home.
“Ayaw ko yung inuunahan mo yung flow nung creative flow. Ine-enjoy ko ang kaboringan ng buhay ko sa Amerika. Ngayon, nagkakaroon ako ulit ng thirst na maglakbay. Ngayon, game na ako ulit. Maglalakbay ako sa Pilipinas. Naku, ang dami. Sobrang dami pa. Marami pa. Nag-uumpisa pa lang.”
The road is calling, and this time, Concepcion is picking up. America gave him stillness, structure, the occasional existential crisis. But now the itch is back — new places, new faces, new ways of seeing. The Philippines is an entire world of stories just waiting to be unraveled, and he’s ready to get his hands dirty.
Spending time in Cebu, he found himself drawn to the city’s energy — something different, something real.
“Maganda. Iba ‘yung yabang. Lahat naman ng lugar meron nun. May angas, parang ‘May shit kami dito.’ Bacolod, iba rin ‘yung yabang. Baguio, iba rin. Sobrang natuwa ako. First time ko na tumambay. Gusto ko yung pagka relax ng mga tao. Iba rin, noh? Masaya. Astig.”
His work online is proof of this restless exploration. People know him for his street photography, documentary work, commercial shoots. But he’s also been dipping his toes into the wild waters of digital content creation — so much so that he once submitted a vlog for the CCP Thirteen Artists Awards. Because why not? Who decided what “real art” is anyway?
“Matagal naman na ako sa social media. Trip ko rin siya eh. Parang medyo activism ko siya sa art world. Parang i-blur natin yung line between art and Tiktok. Elitista ang art, eh. Bawal ba Tiktok? Mag double down tayo sa internet. Gawa ako Tiktok, ganyan. Pinattern ko kung ano yung [flow ng] time. Documentary din yun eh.”
Safe to say that Concepcion is not about to let a little thing like “tradition” keep him from experimenting. That openness has led him to connect with creative communities far beyond the usual Manila scene — Albay, Cebu, and beyond. The road trip is just getting started.
Currently, Concepcion splits his time between the Philippines and US — working on his new series “Nice To Meet You My Friend”, dropping official merch via Bad Days Are Temporary, and setting up an art space in Manila.
But despite the many hats he wears, when asked how he wants to be remembered, the answer is almost hilariously simple.
“Wala lang. Nag-try. Inaral kung ano ‘yong limits niya. Yun lang. Sabi ko kay Bea — itry ko to hanggang saan. Alam ng family ko yun.”
No grand statements, no tortured artist monologues. Just a guy seeing how far he can take this thing, one project at a time.
And maybe that’s the point — to keep moving, to keep searching, and to leave room for surprises.
“Hilig ko rin yun. Ayoko yung sasabihin mo kung sino ka agad. Baka pag-uwi mo malaman mo.”
And from there, we shook hands, stepped out of the workroom, and into the buzz of the little Cebuano kickback by the studio front gate. Cold beers, warm chatter, a takeout box getting passed around.
From behind his glasses, another project already swimming in his head, never one to sit still for too long.
End