Vogue Profiles: Renee Ultado on Reading, Writing, and Living

The Filipino fashion writer and poet reflects on the books that shaped him, the value of imperfection, and the quiet work of finding one’s voice.

In Paris, Renee Ultado has found a home. The Filipino fashion writer has made a name for himself in the Philippines, where his work has appeared in local publications, including Vogue Philippines. He is currently a wholesale area manager for Loulou de Saison, a Parisian women’s ready-to-wearReady-to-WearReady-to-wear refers to clothing produced in standardized sizes for immediate retail sale, distinct from the individualized fitting process of couture or made-to-measure garments entirely. Filipino designers increasingly translate heritage textileGo to Ready-to-Wear Glossary and knitwear brand founded by French influencer and fashion consultant Chloé Harrouche.

Outside of fashion, Ultado uses his pen to write poetry. Earlier this year, he published his first poetry collection, Brown Sugar, an exploration of love, memory, diaspora, and relationships.

In the interview series Vogue Profiles, we speak with Filipino creatives and cultural voices about their taste, worldview, and inner life, and learn about what informs their creative choices. Below, Ultado shares his love for words, both as a reader and writer.

Vogue Philippines: What’s capturing your attention these days?

Renee Ultado: I seem to gravitate toward Japanese fiction lately, especially after staying in my teenage bedroom in Manila this summer and revisiting books I first read when I was younger, such as Asleep and Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto, and Dance Dance Dance and Men Without Women by Haruki Murakami. I am always in awe of beautiful writing achieved through simple, straightforward words. How paring down and doing away with embellishments could be more effective in world-building. I feel that without the noise, a message goes straight to the heart.

I haven’t been to Japan yet, but there is a particular melancholy in these books that feels regional, and also a cultural way of coping that educates me and gives me hope. 

What has shaped your creative eye the most?

As a poet, reading Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal felt like a revelation. The idea that something dark and bitter, perhaps even sinister, could still be beautiful. It has informed so much of my writing, but it has also taught me how to sit in dark rooms, how to tend to wounds quietly and keep showing up.

How would you describe your aesthetic—not just in your work, but in the way you live?

I’d say there is a certain tenderness that sits at the core of it all. I am drawn to softness that exists outside the bounds of fragility. Navigating a sticky world with gentleness. Knowing, deep in your heart, that there is a solution to everything, then easing your shoulders and unclenching your jaw.

What do you think people misunderstand about creativity?

That it belongs only to the artistic world. For me, creativity is finding new ways to look at things. It’s an intuition to activate, or special lenses to put on when needed. A posture, a tool available to all of us, from ikebana florists to an electrician untangling wires. 

To borrow from Audre Lorde: “There is a difference between painting a back fence and writing a poem, but only one of quantity. And there is, for me, no difference between writing a good poem and moving into sunlight against the body of a woman I love.”

When do you feel most like yourself?

After eight hours of sleep.

Is there a ritual or habit you return to whenever you need clarity or inspiration?

Complete quiet, a dark room, a single candle burning, and a glass of sancerre. Somehow, this creates a bubble of safety where my inner voice feels comfortable enough to be heard. Maybe it will eventually change, but it was true 5 years ago, and it’s still true now.

What are you saying through your work that words alone can’t express?

I think of my work as holding the reader’s hand and guiding them through different rooms. I don’t simply want to tell you that the walls are blue velvet or that the bedsheets are all scratchy linen and smell faintly of figs. I want you to reach out and feel it for yourself.

Has success changed the way you create—or the way you define success itself?

I have always thought of myself as a reader before a writer. Books have carried me through many periods of turbulence. I don’t imagine that my own work is fundamentally life-changing for everyone, but I have always said that if even one person reads my lines and feels less alone, or feels that life is a little more possible to live, then I will have done my work. I’m happy that Brown Sugar seems to have reached people who needed it.

What are you learning to let go of?

The paralyzing and ultimately futile quest for perfection. And yet, I still believe excellence lives in the same neighborhood, so it remains worth aspiring to, perhaps with a looser grip on the ropes.

What kind of legacy do you hope your work leaves behind?

That all voices are valid. That you can feel your way through sorrow and upheavals, and write your way out of it.