What if a pearl could speak? Or a butterfly could narrate its journey? Stephanie Comilang’s art dares to ask these questions, and the answers are as mesmerizing as they are unsettling. In her so-called ‘science-fiction documentaries,’ Comilang doesn’t just blur the lines between human and non-human perspectives—she erases them entirely. Take her film Search for Life II (2025), where a pearl ponders its existence in Tagalog, sounding like a neurotic influencer: ‘Is the perfection of my fullness the only way I am perceived?’ Personally, I think this is where Comilang’s genius lies: she forces us to confront the absurdity of our own anthropocentric worldview. What makes this particularly fascinating is how she uses these non-human voices to comment on very human issues—migration, labor, and the global flow of commodities.
One thing that immediately stands out is Comilang’s choice of the pearl as a symbol. It’s not just a pretty object; it’s a commodity with a history of value, movement, and exploitation. From my perspective, this parallels the lives of migrants, who are often treated as mere units of labor in global systems. What many people don’t realize is that the pearl’s journey—from oyster to market—mirrors the displacement and circulation of human lives. If you take a step back and think about it, both pearls and migrants are valued for their ‘fullness’—their ability to fulfill a role, whether as a luxury item or a worker. This raises a deeper question: Are we all just commodities in some form, shaped by forces beyond our control?
Comilang’s personal history adds another layer to her work. Born to Filipino parents who fled the Marcos dictatorship, she grew up straddling cultures and identities. Her father’s experience as an Elvis impersonator in Canada is both hilarious and poignant—a detail that I find especially interesting because it speaks to the ways immigrants adapt, perform, and survive in new environments. This theme of adaptation recurs in her films, like Search for Life I (2024), where the resilience of a monarch butterfly is juxtaposed with the struggles of Filipino seafarers. What this really suggests is that migration isn’t just a human story—it’s a universal one, shared by species and objects alike.
Technology, too, plays a starring role in Comilang’s work, but not in the way you’d expect. In Lumapit Sa Akin, Paraiso (2016), a drone named Paradise becomes a spiritual medium for Filipino domestic workers in Hong Kong. This isn’t dystopian sci-fi; it’s a celebration of how technology can connect, archive, and empower. When I first saw this, I was struck by how Comilang reframes technology as a tool for intimacy rather than alienation. What many people don’t realize is that smartphones, drones, and social media aren’t just gadgets—they’re lifelines for those separated from their families. This raises a deeper question: Can technology ever be more than a functional tool? Can it be a vessel for spirituality, memory, or even humanity?
Comilang’s latest project, which explores the history of cacao near the Mexico-US border, feels especially timely. Cacao, like pearls, has a fraught history as a commodity, but Comilang isn’t just retelling that story. She’s asking whether cacao domesticated us—or we domesticated it. Personally, I think this is a brilliant inversion of the typical narrative. What if the objects and commodities we exploit have agency of their own? What if they’re shaping us as much as we’re shaping them?
In the end, Comilang’s art isn’t just about pearls, butterflies, or drones—it’s about perspective. By giving voice to the voiceless, she challenges us to see the world differently. From my perspective, her work is a reminder that every object, every being, has a story to tell. The question is: Are we willing to listen? If you take a step back and think about it, that’s the real sci-fi here—not the talking pearls, but the idea that we might one day understand the world beyond our own limited gaze.
