What Makes The Bongbong Marcos Caricature Politically Viral?

Try focusing first on the single thing that makes the teacher uniquely them — a slouched shoulder, a perpetually raised eyebrow, that habit of tapping a pen against the desk. I start by watching and listening: how they move when excited, what turns their face red, the cadence of their sentences. From there I pick one to three traits to exaggerate. If their glasses sit on the tip of the nose and they squint when explaining, I’ll make the glasses gigantic and the squint a tiny, stubborn line. If they’re all energy and hands, the hands get stretched, fingers like conductor batons. Next I think about silhouette and props. A strong silhouette reads at a glance — a hunched back, a tall bun, a boxy cardigan. Props are storytelling shortcuts: a stack of sticky notes, an old coffee mug with a cracked rim, a rumor of chalk dust on the sleeves. Place those things around the figure or weave them into the pose. Don’t overcomplicate; the best caricatures are simple, readable shapes that shout the personality. Finally, play with line and color to sell mood. Quick, sketchy lines give nervous, jumpy energy; clean, heavy lines suit blunt, confident personalities. A warm palette can make even a strict teacher feel fondly remembered, while desaturated tones add world-weary gravitas. I always do lightning thumbnails — ten little faces in five minutes — and pick the one that instantly reads. When one of those thumbnails actually makes me laugh because it nails their laugh or their stare, I know I’ve captured them.

I get really excited trying to put this into a crisp line because caricature is one of those things I both admire and try (and often fail) to replicate in my sketchbook. காரிக்கேச்சர் என்பது ஒருவரின் முகம், உடல் அல்லது உள்ளார்ந்த பண்புகளை நகைச்சுவையாக மிகைப்படுத்தி, விமர்சனத்தையும் காமெடியையும் நோக்கி உருவாக்கப்படும் ஓவியம் அல்லது வரைபடம். I love how that single-sentence definition captures the push-and-pull between affection and satire — it’s playful but can be sharp, and I always leave a doodle session feeling amused and a little wiser.

If you enjoyed the historical and political depth of 'Philippine Cartoons: Political Caricature of the American Era, 1900-41', you might find 'The Power of Comics: History, Form and Culture' by Randy Duncan and Matthew J. Smith equally fascinating. It explores how comics and cartoons have shaped political and social narratives across different eras, though it covers a broader global scope. The way it dissects visual satire’s role in dissent reminds me of how Philippine cartoons critiqued colonial power structures. Another gem is 'Cartooning for Suffrage' by Alice Sheppard, which zeroes in on early 20th-century American political cartoons advocating for women’s rights. The parallels in using art as protest are striking—both books reveal how marginalized groups weaponized humor and imagery. For something closer to Southeast Asian context, 'Thai Cartoon Art: From Sacred Tradition to Modern Satire' offers a vibrant look at how Thai artists blended tradition with political commentary, much like the Filipino caricaturists did.

I get a kick out of how visual jokes spread, and with the Bongbong Marcos caricature it wasn’t one lone artist so much as a tidal wave of creators who echoed and amplified each other. During the 2016 and especially the 2022 election cycles, editorial cartoonists in mainstream papers and their digital versions sketched exaggerated features that meme-makers then remixed. Newspaper cartoonists gave the caricature a stamp of legitimacy while Facebook pages, Twitter/X threads, and Instagram illustrators took those templates and ran wild, adding captions, stickers, and animated loops. Beyond newspapers and big socials, independent illustrators, protest artists, zine-makers, and young designers in college groups also played huge roles. They translated political critique into stickers, posters, and shareable images that fitted perfectly into comment threads. The combined effect was a collage of styles — classic editorial linework, bold webcomic shapes, and crude phone-made memes — and that mixture is what made the caricature feel everywhere. I still chuckle at how a handful of brush strokes turned into a national meme, and it fascinates me how communities can make an image stick.

I get excited when people ask about the way Tamil signals caricature, because the language has a handful of sharp little words and phrases that do the job so well. For a straightforward label I often use 'காரிக்கேச்சர்' — a Tamilized borrowing of "caricature" — which people readily understand in print and speech when referring to exaggerated portraits or comic drawings. Beyond that, the real flavor comes from words that mean ridicule or exaggeration: 'நகைச்சுவை' (humour/comic tone), 'கிண்டல்' (teasing, taunt), 'பரிகாசம்' (derision/ridicule) and 'அதிகப்படுத்தல்' (exaggeration). In political cartoons or lampoons you’ll see 'காரிக்கேச்சர்' alongside lines that call out a person’s mannerism — that technique is simply 'குணம் எடுத்து மீறுதல்' (taking a trait and overdoing it). I also notice colloquial boosts like 'மிஞ்சி' or 'மிகை' used in speech — people will say ‘‘இவன் மிஞ்சிட்டாரு’' or ‘‘அவங்க பங்கு மிகை’' to hint that someone’s being acted up for comic effect. Overall, Tamil has both direct labels and a rich set of verbs/nouns that signal caricature, and I love how each word carries its own social bite.

If you want something that reads as friendly, professional, and polished, I usually start by picking a platform that gives me tight control over linework and color: Procreate on iPad for drawing, Adobe Illustrator for vector finish, and Photoshop for painterly touches. My workflow often goes sketch → clean lineart → flat colors → lighting and texture → finishing passes. For a teacher caricature I exaggerate a single trait — big glasses, a dramatic eyebrow arch, or a clever hand gesture — then anchor them with props like a stack of books, a coffee mug, or a pointer. Procreate’s pressure-sensitive brushes make the sketch-to-ink stage expressive, while Illustrator’s pen tools are unbeatable if the final deliverable needs to be a crisp logo or print-ready vector. I’ll also throw AI generators into the mix for speed: use Midjourney or Stable Diffusion to iterate poses and color schemes, then import the best result into your editing app and refine. That hybrid approach saves time on composition without surrendering creative control. For textures and patterns, use Photoshop’s blend modes, gradient maps, and halftone brushes to add a retro classroom vibe. Export at 300 DPI for print, and keep a vector version if you need infinite scaling. Small production tips I swear by: keep a limited palette to read clearly at small sizes, test the caricature at favicon size to ensure silhouette clarity, and create a few alternate expressions or poses for social media avatars. I love seeing how a little exaggeration and careful polish turns a simple portrait into a memorable teacher mascot — it always makes me smile when a client recognizes their personality in the caricature.

The ending of 'Edifice Complex: Power, Myth And Marcos State Architecture' is this fascinating unraveling of how grandiose structures built under Ferdinand Marcos weren't just buildings—they were deliberate symbols of his regime's power and propaganda. The book ties it all together by showing how these architectural projects, like the Cultural Center of the Philippines or the Manila Film Center, were meant to project an image of modernity and legitimacy, even as the dictatorship crumbled. The final chapters really hammer home the irony: these edifices, intended to immortalize Marcos, now stand as eerie monuments to his excesses and failures. What stuck with me was how the author frames their decay—physical and symbolic—as a metaphor for the regime's collapse. The cracks in the marble, the neglected halls, they all whisper about the fragility of power built on illusion. It’s a haunting reminder that architecture isn’t neutral; it’s a language, and in this case, one that spoke in lies. I left the book feeling like I’d walked through a ghost town of ego, every corner dripping with unintended truths.

If you're fascinated by the intersection of architecture, power, and political mythmaking like in 'Edifice Complex,' you might enjoy 'The Power Broker' by Robert Caro. It’s a mammoth deep dive into how Robert Moses shaped New York City through sheer bureaucratic force—buildings, highways, and bridges were his tools of control. The way Caro unpacks Moses’ obsession with grand projects feels eerily similar to how Marcos used architecture to legitimize his regime. Another gem is 'Bauhaus Women' by Ulrike Müller, which explores how design became a tool for both utopian ideals and propaganda. While less overtly political, it shows how spaces can reflect power dynamics. For a darker twist, 'The Devil in the White City' blends architecture with true crime, revealing how grandeur can mask corruption—much like Marcos’ edifices hid his regime’s brutality.