Dismissed by certain art circles as too formulaic, Fernando Amorsolo’s genius never really resided in his methodology—which bordered on the mercenary. Instead, the National Artist remained secure in the self-knowledge that his gift could render even the most wearisome commission into a masterwork

“What’s the big deal about Amorsolo?” a friend asked me as he flipped through an art book on my desk. As I was about to say something to smother his insolence, I realized that there was no single answer snappy enough to put him in his place. But in the same vein, I also realized that the world Fernando Amorsolo had painted—peaceful, pastoral scenes set against illuminated Philippine landscapes—is so far removed from modern times.

The recent His Art, Our Heart movement was established to raise awareness for the late National Artist, and to pass on his artistic legacy to the next generation of Filipinos. While his technique was revolutionary for Filipino painting, his success was largely due to the fact that his subject matter was simple enough—and appealing enough—that everybody can appreciate the fleeting world he immortalized on canvas.

Amorsolo’s landscape paintings became the staple of his portfolio. So much so that his method of creating these bestsellers came down to a formula. Despite reaching the status of an iconic Filipino painter who captured the purity and pride of the Filipino people, he also attracted some controversial criticism. In an article by Purissima Benitez-Johannot of the Ayala Museum, Amorsolo’s daughter, Sylvia, recalled how she—along with her father’s assistants—would divide paintings into grids, then transfer images from a photograph of his works to the canvas. Their clients could come to workshop, choose from an album of Amorsolo’s previous works, select a format or style they liked, and the painting would be customized for them. After his assistants carried out the basic prep work, Amorsolo would modify the images and add his signature brush strokes.

This technique was similar to the way European masters worked during the Renaissance. The attribution “Workshop of Tintoretto,” for example, was given to a piece if it was not fully created by the Venetian master himself. This practice of made-to-order paintings is found all over the world. As much as we’d like to romanticize a great artist’s work, in the end, it all boils down to the economics of art. Benitez-Johannot, in the same article, also revealed that Amorsolo even admitted to remaining faithful to one particular style. “I decided it was better to remain with this technique and to improve on it, perfect it rather,” Amorsolo explained. “You see, there will always be those who will want this kind of painting.”

Highbrow scholars have looked down on this method, but Amorsolo’s technique is undeniably his own. The true beauty in these types of paintings is that the artist has added an idyllic dimension to the work, rather than concentrating on the grueling task at hand. Ironically, it is the wealthy who spend millions on paintings that depict the country’s simple, provincial folk in their native setting. Indeed, there is something ironic about viewing the rural world through a gilded frame. French philosopher Pierre Bourdieu said that art is one way that the rich distinguish themselves from the rest: “Art and cultural consumption are predisposed consciously and deliberately or not, to fulfill a social function of legitimizing social differences.”

In this context, we can understand why many “proper” Philippine households of the 1930s to the 1960s were in possession of an Amorsolo portrait, proudly on display in their living rooms. However, just like any other luxury item, there are the standard issues which are in the permanent collection, and those that are customized and special editions. Of course, nothing is more customized than a personal portrait—and nothing backed up Bourdieu’s theory of distinction like an Amorsolo portrait.

Every generation has an imported social chronicler who was “in” with the well-heeled crowd, who then painted or photographed them privately. In postwar Manila, American photographers Chat Peypoch and Chas Miller were well known for taking portraits of society figures. These same photographs were brought to Amorsolo’s studio to be immortalized on canvas. Amorsolo exercised his artistry by dressing up their black-and-white pictures, adjusting their poses, and turning them into life-size portraits of the rich and famous. More often than not, he portrayed the wealthy in traditional Filipino dress (barong tagalog for the men, and a baro’t saya or terno for the women). Since he was known to portray idyllic, pastoral scenes, he passed on this branding to his portraits, wherein his moneyed subjects were pure and free of ornament. For instance, his 1954 portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Manuel Lopa, Sr. was painted using a photograph from the couple’s silver wedding anniversary, where Manuel Lopa wore a white tuxedo and his wife, Purificacion, donned a modern gown that was probably in vogue at the time. Amorsolo replaced the tuxedo and gown with a barong and terno.

It was during this time, when success as a genre painter came around, he was forced to set up an atelier to keep up with the demand. He could customize genre paintings to his clients’ liking. After all, why should a wealthy patron pose for days on end when society photographers could capture the images, then have Amorsolo to bring the image to life with the Midas touch of his brush? Was he, as Poussin put it, a strapazzone? A hack? Sure he was. But Amorsolo was in good company. Rubens and Tintoretto were masters who, at one point or another, resorted to an assembly line set-up to keep up with the demand.

However, there are still other works that truly differentiate his works from any other genre painter. Old Man in a Salakot, which depicts a man weathered by the sun, has the attributes of one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, owing to the manner by which it was lit, and the way the texture was built up with every stroke. Mi Modelo is a painting of an elderly lady whose fine, wispy hair is deftly captured, while giving soul to the old lady’s eyes. The Palay Maiden is a Rubenesque Filipina beauty that the artist has given sex appeal, thanks to the amount of skin on her décolletage that is exposed, and the slight transparency of her sleeve. When looking at Maytime in Antipolo or Tinikling, one can almost hear the animated banter of the country folk as they engage in lighthearted pleasures. Anyone can paint a scene of the parochial countryside, or the flattering portrait of a wealthy patron. But it takes a true Filipino master like Fernando Cueto Amorsolo to embrace the commonplace and create a lasting archetype.