"The moment I began to understand who I was, it didn't take me long to realize that the world I live in is not built to make life easy or bearable for someone like me. The world seemed determined to sort everyone into binary categories, but I found myself existing outside of them."

That rejection of the binary runs through everything Floyd Scott Tiogangco does. As a queer writer, multidisciplinary artist, performer, and human rights activist, they move fluidly across mediums — using copywriting, theater, performance art, and advocacy as different entry points into wide-arching questions about identity and belonging, politics, and life in general.

Their day job is Senior Copywriter at GIGIL, a local ad agency known for its out-of-the-box advertisements. Outside of their 9-to-5, however, Floyd's portfolio spans just as wide. Their play "Patayin ang mga Surot" is staging this year as part of Virgin Labfest (VLF) XXI: Hubo't Hubad, six years after their first VLF appearance, when "Pilot Episode" was staged virtually at VLF 16 in 2020.

That range extends into visual and performance art spaces too: Floyd has been featured at Karnabal Festival, SIPA International Performance Art Festival, Pineapple Lab, Gravity Art Space, and more. On screen, they co-wrote the iWant Original Series Manillennials in 2019, and in print, they're a contributor to the UK-published anthology "Queer Asia: Decolonising and Reimagining Sexuality and Gender."

Floyd's reach extends beyond the arts as well. They co-founded The Equity Collective PH, a social impact startup that helps build inclusive systems for organizations ranging from multinational companies to local government units. Floyd has earned recognition both locally and internationally, including the Outstanding Young Human Rights Defender award at Amnesty International Philippines' Ignite Awards in 2018.

In this Artist Spotlight exclusive, The Beat Asia catches up with the genderqueer artist to talk about their creative journey, self-expression, artistic works and activism, the LGBTQIA+ community in the Philippines, and the path to true allyship.

How has your understanding of your identity and its evolution over the years influenced your art?

Right after I graduated from college, I explored who I wanted to become. I realized then that there's more to my identity than just "gay man." I started wearing skirts and dresses with a beard; it was called "genderfuck" at that time. Now, I just identify as genderqueer.

It was my queerness that pushed me to challenge the limits of what was considered "normal," and let me look for ways to express my difference. Then I discovered performance art, and I was amazed. When I started writing, I was so impatient because it's like a slow burn. But I'm learning to embrace the process.

What have been some defining moments in your journey?

With performance art, I knew that the only way to get my message across was to involve the audience. Almost all of my performances were participatory. For example, "Layers of Hate," where I wore 50 pieces of clothes with anti-queer sentiments on them and asked the audience to undress me one by one in Luneta, in public. There were people who hugged me, cried, and got mad; I'd like to think they were moved.

Another one that I did in public had a man beat me repeatedly while I was wearing a bra and panties, dancing. It was called: "This is How You Treat Women." I heard from friends afterwards that they overheard a mother telling her young son to watch. Looking back, I'm not sure how they processed that work, but I hope the boy grows up to be a good man.

The beauty of performance is that you don't know what the outcome will be until it's over. In a performance at Pineapple Lab, called Pietra, I referenced the Pietà by transforming [the performance] into a collective act of care. I took on the role of Jesus Christ, while the audience members were invited to embody Mary by holding my body for as long as they could. Whenever someone could no longer carry the weight, they had to find another participant to take their place. I remember this particular performance because of how it failed and revealed to me what the queer community was becoming. It took place in a queer-led event, but only two straight men participated. Not a single queer person took part.

Were there particular people or role models who helped you feel seen and affirmed as a queer person?

Though I did grow up with straight men comically playing queer roles and queer comedians, like Vice Ganda, I always thought [that they're seen as] laughing stocks. It didn't sit well with me.

Ironically, as an artist, I consider my role models to be Serbian performance artist Marina Abramovic and Filipino filmmaker Lav Diaz. They helped me with my journey as a queer person. When I was in college, I discovered Marina and Lav and how they challenge what is considered art or cinema. I've always been drawn to people who don't fit in categories, whose lives complicate the labels meant to contain them. During this time, I came out to my parents for the second time, and I used them as examples of who I want to become: people who aren't afraid to go against the norm.

Although now, I think I've outgrown them. But that explanation helped my parents, eventually, understand where I was coming from and let me dress however I wanted. I knew jargon won't work, even until now. But when you humanize and simplify these conceptual ideas, give faces or names to them, in my experience, people will somehow understand and accept it.

Your career spans writing, performance art, screenwriting, theater, advocacy, and advertising. Looking back, what has been the common thread?

The truth. I have come to realize that the very foundation of a work, regardless of its form or medium, should always be the truth. Because I think we owe it to our audience to side with the truth, in a creative way.

Much of your work explores themes that are often overlooked or misunderstood. What draws you to these subjects as a storyteller and artist?

I believe artists do not exist in a vacuum. They have histories, struggles, and triumphs just like everyone else. These subjects, like gender, mental health, politics, [and more], reveal our own experience of life without alienating our audience, who may also have the same experiences, struggles, and wins we had.

You've worked across multiple creative mediums. What can theater, performance art, and screenwriting each uniquely offer when it comes to telling queer stories?

Each medium is its own monster. With theater, you need to capture your audience in a contained space, otherwise they will leave the theater disappointed or bored. One has to make it feel so real so they become invested in it. The audience must be drawn to what's happening on stage. It's the task of the playwright to make the theater a space for make-believe.  Convince the audience that the characters they're watching are people they know, get to talk to, and people whom they can root for.

As for performance art, I guess it's more straightforward for me. No suspension of disbelief. What you see is what you get. It's more confrontational, and people can participate in the work. What I do is try to present something they don't see on a daily basis, or something they purposefully ignore and look away from.

With film and TV, you get to play with the "magic" of editing. You can decide what to show, what to hide, when to reveal something, and how to shape a viewer's experience. That opens up so many possibilities for queer storytelling. Because films and shows can be rewatched, the writer has a unique responsibility in deciding where the story goes and how it unfolds. Every choice can take on a different meaning when someone watches it again years later.

When you have a message you want to get out into the world, how do you decide which medium it truly belongs in?

For me, sometimes it happens naturally. There's always a feeling that a certain idea will work better as a film, play, or performance. Sometimes, depending on the intention. Is it meant to be confrontational? Then, performance art. Do I want it to be reflective? Maybe it's for the theater. Is it best to be rewatched? Maybe film or TV.

Honestly, it sometimes also depends on the availability of the platform and funding. Films or TV require more budget, while performance art can just be me.

But one thing's clear: a story is like water. It can take the shape of any space it is given. That's why I love storytelling! It's malleable and flexible; not rigid or fixed. You just need to put it out there.

Your play, "Patayin ang mga Surot," is currently being staged at this year's Virgin Labfest. How did you first get involved in Virgin Labfest?

I was a third-year college student when I started submitting scripts to the Virgin Labfest. It took about three or four tries before one of my entries was finally accepted.

My first VLF play was Pilot Episode, which was staged virtually during the pandemic in 2020. It was a semi-autobiographical piece that explored my experience of living with Bipolar Disorder, particularly an intense manic-depressive episode, and the many ways my parents supported me and held space for me through it.

What inspired "Patayin ang mga Surot"?

The piece was first presented as a staged reading at Virgin Labfest in 2024. As for its inspiration, there's no denying that I hated, with every fiber of my being, the bloody six years of Rodrigo Duterte's presidency. I was raging at the number of deaths we witnessed every day for six years, the immense grief that came with it.

It was only in 2023 that I was finally able to process and put that rage into words. "Patayin ang mga Surot" is personal as it is political. When I was writing it, I was inspired by our own bedbug infestation at home. The image of a parasitic relationship struck me, much like how the Duterte administration fed itself off our blood, sweat, and tears.

I also did an immersion in Happyland in Tondo, talked to actual survivors of Tokhang. No words could describe that experience. Eventually, I found the courage to put that into writing and reiterate the unmistakable truth: that the "War on Drugs" was, indeed, a war against the poor.

What conversations or reflections do you hope audiences take away from it?

One of the reasons I wrote the material is our widening social divide. As progressives, it's easy for us to demean, mock, and belittle those who do not believe in what we believe in. But I think, in the grand scheme of things, they are also just victims of a system built to exterminate us. The play hopes to see humanity in such a raw medium, so that we confront our fears, witness our own dehumanization, and in return, build empathy and solidarity among the audience.

I hope the play made people laugh and mad but also gave them hope and made them yearn for a world devoid of cruelty and injustice.

In your view, what are the biggest misconceptions about queer lives and expressions that still persist today?

I think the biggest misconception is that queerness is about fitting into a different box. Many conversations about LGBTQIA+ lives still assume that the goal is simply to move people from one category to another: straight or gay, men or women, accepted or rejected.

But some of the most meaningful lessons I've learned from queer communities come from people who don't adhere to all of this, whose lives are proof of the world's endless possibilities. What if queerness isn't just about who we love or how we identify? What if queerness is more than what we think it is?

What stories about queer Filipinos do you think are still missing from mainstream media and cultural conversations?

I think what's still missing are stories about queer Filipinos whose lives are not defined solely by their queerness. We've become accustomed to narratives about coming out, rejection, trauma, or acceptance. And while those stories remain important, queer people also experience boredom, ambition, spirituality, aging, grief, obsession, failure, political awakening, and ordinary everyday lives.

I want stories about queer Filipinos that are not trying to explain, justify, or defend queer existence. I'm interested in complex stories about queer people who are difficult to categorize, not heroes or victims, whose contradictions aren't resolved by the end of the narrative. In many ways, queerness is not just an identity but a way of questioning the categories we use to understand ourselves and others.

As a queer artist, how do your lived experiences shape the stories you choose to tell?

I cannot be divorced from my queerness. My queerness determines how I see the world, how I perceive it, how I react to it, [and] how I would shape it. To not consider my queerness in telling a story is a disservice to who I am as a person.

There will always be something queer, different, and magical in all the stories I create. But also, I am not just my queerness. I am a mix of everything I have experienced as a human being. It's only one part of my humanity.

Filipino culture has a genuinely complex relationship with queerness. There's a visibility here hardly seen elsewhere in the region, and yet, real discrimination persists. Where do you feel the community stands right now?

This is where my frustration comes in. I think the community has lost its moral compass. What happened to politics, riots, and protests? I think right now, it's all neoliberal and capitalist, that's why you'll hear more about visibility and representation. While they're important, I think that's a battle that's already been won. I'm not saying that we should stop telling queer stories. Hell, by all means, keep telling them unapologetically. Especially now that we already have our foot in the door. Queer representation isn't the issue.

But I think this relentless pursuit for representation, if I may say so bluntly, comes from our thirst for clout. Some of us in the community won't let go of that narrative because they benefit from it. It's the ultimate ingredient for clout-chasing. And clout is rooted in identity politics, which is then tied to liberal capitalism.

It's time we drop identity politics and start grasping things at the root. We've been looking at this through rose-colored glasses that actually, and sadly, make it surface-level and, to some extent, lip service. We can be represented on screen and still die in the streets.

What's lacking in the community is strategy and conviction to fight for the rights we've long been robbed of. Palo lang nang palo. Tira nang tira. Walang target, walang gustong puntahan (We swing and shoot aimlessly. No target, no direction). I think our energies and efforts are misplaced and misaligned. To me, if we really can't let go of the "celebration," sure, but let's use it as a Trojan horse. Papasukin natin silang lahat, saka natin sila ugain (We will enter their spaces, and then we shake things up).

Demand basic human rights: higher wages, lower prices of goods, job security, social services, universal healthcare, and an efficient education system for all. The road to liberation is rough and long.

And what gives you the most hope?

I am a walking paradox. Despite what I said, what gives me the most hope is still the power of the community. A community that never looks away from its failures and cans of worms. A community that is in solidarity with other marginalized sectors like women, workers, peasants, urban poor, people with disabilities, and many more. A community willing to learn from its mistakes and relentless in its demand for liberation.

How can allies move beyond performative support and become more effective advocates for inclusion, equity, and belonging?

I would just like to reiterate what Stan Mitchell, a progressive Christian pastor, said: "If you want to be someone's ally, but haven't been hit by the stones being thrown at them, then you're not standing close enough to them yet."

Don't be afraid to make mistakes and ask questions. Have an open mind. Listen and be willing to discuss and argue, respectfully. And ultimately, fight with us.

For allyship to be effective, it first has to feel uncomfortable, and when it does, that's when you realize how much work still needs to be done in making the world an equitable one for everyone.

If you could ask Filipinos for just one thing, a shift in how they see, treat, or understand the LGBTQIA+ community, what would it be?

I hope Filipinos can see queerness not as a deviation from society, but as an invitation to imagine society differently. Queer people have always found ways to live, survive, create, and build community beyond the limits of what was considered possible.

The question is not whether LGBTQIA+ people belong. The question is what new possibilities can become available when we stop treating differences as a problem to be solved. Don't just make room for us. Dare to question why the room was designed that way in the first place.

What advice would you give to young queer individuals who want to use their creativity to champion causes they care about, but they don't know where to start?

First, you have to have the audacity to write or create. Otherwise, you won't begin at all. Start where you are, with what you have, and with the stories na nag-uunahan kumawala mula sa loob mo (that are clawing their way out of your chest). Our queerness gives us a unique way of seeing the world, so use it. But because of your difference, people will try to stop you from using your voice. It is your insistence on telling the truth that will carry you through. Plus, participating in the creative world you want to be a part of.

Keep showing up. You need to insist on your place in the world. Sometimes, the fear won't go away, so you have to do it afraid. Nevertheless, do it. And find your people! Creativity is not separate from community; that's very important. Life is a lot better with people who are ready to listen, argue with you, challenge you, and even make you cry with their scathing criticism of your work, but that's the beauty of making.

Remember, no matter how it's done or what it's made, art always has something to change about the world. And that's enough power for you to make as an artist.

Follow Floyd Scott Tiogangco on Instagram to stay updated on his projects, performances, and more.

Enjoyed this article? Check out our previous Artist Spotlight profiles here.