Bacolod-bred Yciar Castillo confesses to occupational malaise tempered by a continuing quest for fulfillment. She is, after all, the fruit of a family tree with several diligently defined branches (she is director Peque Gallaga’s niece, for one). But while the kin of this self-confessed “girl next door” have influenced Philippine history and culture, she has yet to find her own niche. Nicolas Lacson speaks to the lovely Negrense and is left convinced that she is on the cusp of her own personal saga

This is a story of a kiss from a girl named Yciar.

Yciar. It’s an uncommon arrangement of consonants. That initial standout y, and immediately after, the confusion caused by the c—do you pronounce it like a k or as an s?—both of which are enough to make me wonder how she orders a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Sorry, ma’am, is that Ēk-si-yar? Ē-shar? Or Ī-sē-yar??

“I-thyar,” she says, emphasizing the short i at the beginning, but in a tone that borders on apologetic, as if it is her fault that people have to deal with the inconvenience of her tongue-twisting name. She welcomes me into her home, a bungalow she has lived in since she was nine, tucked in a subdivision (which shall remain unnamed) in the middle of the urban sprawl that is Makati. The c in her name is actually pronounced as th, in the Castilian manner, a slithering, sexy, susurrous duet of consonants. You will discover that it is Nabokovian pleasure to utter that name, that th: the tip of the tongue taking a trip against the top of your two front teeth. Yciar, I say it, an obssessive Humbert Humbert emphasis on the th, and it is like speaking of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, as if the name were some exotic ore or rare oil extracted from a faraway land.

Which is apt, because the name itself exists in a faraway land, as a little town in the Basque region of Spain, although the actual spelling is Itziar. “It was really a pagan town,” Yciar explains, “until it became Catholicized. They named a little black Virgin Mary statue after Yciar, after the town, so it’s Nuestra Señora de Yciar.” She recalls with eagerness in her voice how her mom, after graduating from college, had gone to Spain and had ended up teaching English. “She had this student who was tall, had dark, beautiful hair, blue eyes, and her name was Yciar. And she liked the name, so she named her second daughter—me—after Yciar.”

“From the beginning, my love was really theater.” On the plays she has appeared in, she stresses, “I didn’t really star in them, but I came out in Steel Magnolias. Also, Wind in the Willows. I was the laundrywoman’s daughter—that sort of thing!”

That juxtaposition of the images of the Virgin Mary and the beautiful, ebony-tressed English student (A heartbroken flamenco dancer? A struggling model?) is probably the best way to describe Yciar. Sinner: well, sort of. She is dressed for the impending arrival of summer—in a denim skirt that stops just above mid-thigh, enough to make the nuns at the Assumption, where she went for high school and university, roll their eyes and whip out their wooden rulers. A sea-green top shows off a sliver of collarbone. Saint? Well, she has dolled herself up for this interview. Not the fancy kind of dolling up, but rather the kind where you wash your face and put on something decent like it is Sunday or because there are guests—the kind of dolling up you do if you’ve got manners.

That sinner-but-saint metaphor becomes more apparent as she settles into the sofa opposite me. This is the view of Yciar from her living room, an airy space with two plush sofas flanking a large wooden table: she has put on large silver earrings in the shape of Dreamworks half-moons and they dangle from her elven-shaped ears. A tightly done, practical ponytail—a dancer’s ponytail, meant to keep the hair out of the face—pulls back her dark, wavy hair, so that not a strand is out of place. This creates the unintentional effect of showing off her perfectly symmetrical, Hispanic face, including the fine, high bridge of her nose and the natural rosy flush of her cheeks.

Her trademark Mona Lisa-like smile—I had stalked and Google-imaged a few photos of her before the interview—is subtle, almost careful, the lips rarely parting to say cheese, ultimately adding to her mystery. When she talks to you, she will look you straight in the eye, and it is disconcerting, that gaze. Those eyes, under the clean arch of her brows, always the eyes—round, dark, but full of sparkle and incandescence when she speaks of the things that matter to her, but sometimes infinitely deep and doleful, like the Virgin Mary. The kind of eyes that would make you get on your knees.

You might have already succumbed to her spell by virtue of the glossies that Bacolod-bred Yciar has graced, which include Candy and Good Housekeeping. But probe beyond the veil and you will find more than just the platitudes reserved for beauties like Yciar. “I come from a family that’s very in touch with art. My mom used to do a lot of painting when she was younger. My uncle,” she adds, “is a film director,” referring to the fact that she happens to be the niece of prominent film director Peque Gallaga, who also stars in this magazine’s pages, and for whom Yciar recently appeared as an extra in a yet-to-be-released indie flick. I ask if she would one day want to star in her own movie. She answers that she wouldn’t mind giving it a try. “Most people think being an artista is glamorous. But it’s difficult.” Any particular kind of movie? “Um . . . sexy! No, kidding!” she quickly interjects, laughing. “I dunno. I have no idea.” Long pause. “A drama.”

Because drama was her original love. “From the beginning, my love was really theater.” On the plays she has appeared in, she stresses, “I didn’t really star in them, but I came out in Steel Magnolias. Also, Wind in the Willows. I was the laundrywoman’s daughter—that sort of thing!” she laughs. “I don’t think I really excelled in it. If not, then I would still be there. But definitely there was an interest there. And now it’s sort of translated itself to make-up.”

She is quick though to make the caveat that, right now, she is still apprenticing and discovering the ins and outs of the make-up industry, under the tutelage of professional make-up artist Aileen Ramos, from whom she admits she “has learned so much already.” Her previous experience includes a stint at MAC Cosmetics, working as a retail manager. “It’s something that I love doing because it’s working with my hands. When I was small,” she reminisces, “I used to play with my mom’s make-up. I used to ruin her lipstick and all that. It’s also the fact that it’s craft.” As she continues to elucidate on the intricacies of the world of make-up—dwelling at length on how it used to be misperceived as menial work but has now become a more accepted field of industry—her passion as a pupil and her respect for the craft involved becomes evident.

“I come from a family that’s very in touch with art. My mom used to do a lot of painting when she was younger. My uncle,” she adds, “is a film director,” referring to the fact that she happens to be the niece of prominent film director Peque Gallaga.

“It’s like being a chef. Before, everybody would think, that’s not a profession: that’s menial work. It’s work in the kitchen. But now, wow, if you’re a chef, it’s a glamorized job. Well, actually, not really. It’s hard work. And it’s the same with the make-up artist: it’s hard work. People think, make-up artist, wow, glamorized—you get freebies, you’re going to make connections, you’re going to meet all the artistas. But it’s not. I’ve watched Aileen on a shoot, standing there, just waiting to be able to go and touch up. Just being on standby. It’s difficult. Studying a person’s facial structure, his skin type, everything. It’s more complicated than what you’re thinking.”

And the longer we talk, the more it strikes me that she, too, is complicated, in the way that people tend to be beautifully messy, conflicted, and torn. “I read about all these people who are 26 and they’re so successful and they’ve found their niche in life. And then I think, God, I’m so old, I’m 32, and I still haven’t—I mean I’ve done things that are big, I think, but I haven’t really found what I’m happy doing.” Enter a brief précis of her life immediately after university. Aside from the occasional modeling gigs, Yciar also found herself plying a variety of trades: host for a lifestyle show called Zine that used to air on Studio 23, scriptwriter for radio station the Hive 100.3’s Gimmick Girl and Fashion Buzz segments, and signature model for the clothing brand Anonymous. She also used to teach english at a call center, which was a job she enjoyed briefly, if only because of her predilection for teaching. “I love teaching, but what I realized is you also have to love what you’re teaching. If not, it’s just for the sake of teaching it. What happened was I started teaching Product. So I struggled with that, then I started looking for other things to do. But I struggled with that, too. So in the end, I thought, maybe it’s really not for me.”

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