It was just a painting, really. A medium-sized framed canvas that lived in the living room of my grandparents’ house in Oklahoma City. But to my young eyes, it was something more – it felt alive, a scene not just painted, but real. Looking at it wasn’t just looking; it was visiting. I’d step into the quiet of a faraway clearing, where a young woman in a yellow headscarf sat, eternally still, at a rough-hewn wooden table.
She was on the verge of smiling, it seemed, considering a mango held delicately in her right hand. Near her, less defined figures sat or stood amongst baskets and mounds of fruit. The deep shade, pierced by streaks of sunlight, felt both sheltering and inviting. When I gazed at that painting, I felt transported, entering a peaceful scene outside of time.
But time, of course, kept moving in the world beyond the frame. My grandparents passed away, their house was sold, and some of their belongings – including the painting that, in its own way, had helped shape my childhood awareness – found new homes with the next generation, until that generation, too, began to fade. Like many American families, we accumulated a waterfall of possessions, too many objects of little apparent material worth, yet kept because they held threads of memory for one relative or another.
Some cousins and siblings remembered the painting, cherished it; others didn’t. I was fond of it in a nostalgic sense but never considered if it was anything more than a generic pastoral scene, perhaps picked up at an art fair or a commonplace gallery. We only knew it originated from the Philippines and had been gifted to our grandmother by her brother, Victor Lednicky, who had spent much of his life in Manila.
After my grandparents were gone, it hung above the mantel in my Aunt Rosemary’s house. Following Rosemary’s passing, it seems no one in Oklahoma City had wall space for it, and it ended up stored under my Uncle Mike and Aunt Susan’s bed.
Then, my brother Jim was sorting through Rosemary’s belongings and discovered something intriguing. It was a crumpled piece of paper, with my grandmother’s name, Gladys, written in ink in the top corner, and below it, a typed artist’s statement:
To Whom This May Concern:
I certify that the oil painting “Fruit Market”, on canvas size 20” by 26”, was painted by me in Manila during this year with materials imported from the United States of America.
Manila, October 21, 1952 Fernando C. Amorsolo
870 Lepanto, Manila
The artist’s name was unfamiliar to us. But to anyone with knowledge of Philippine art history, Fernando Amorsolo would have been instantly recognizable. In fact, Fernando Amorsolo was one of the Philippines’ most celebrated and prolific painters, often called the “master of Philippine sunlight.” His idealized landscapes and depictions of rural life helped solidify and celebrate a specific vision of Filipino identity – a tranquil, idyllic world seemingly untouched by revolution, war, or colonial exploitation. For families with connections to the Philippines, encountering an Amorsolo, even unknowingly, is a brush with significant cultural and artistic heritage. Discovering a Family Painting is by such a renowned artist can transform its meaning and value overnight.
Amorsolo, the first National Artist of the Philippines, was born in 1892, six years before the Philippines became a U.S. territory after the Spanish-American War. His talent was evident early on, earning him awards at the University of the Philippines’s School of Fine Arts. He became an instructor there soon after graduating, and in 1919, a Manila gin magnate sponsored his art education in Spain. There, he encountered European masters like Goya and Velázquez and absorbed Impressionist techniques, particularly their fascination with natural light and color. For many families, family paintings serve as silent witnesses to personal histories; in this case, the painting’s journey was about to reveal a connection to a significant artistic and historical narrative.
Upon his return to the Philippines, Amorsolo was highly sought after by wealthy Americans for portrait commissions. However, his personal work often leaned towards portraying a rural Philippines, untouched by American influence. Among his famous works is Under the Mango Tree, another scene of fruit pickers, featuring a woman in the foreground, seen from behind, resting on a mango branch, speaking to someone who bears a striking resemblance to the central figure in our family painting. It could even be the same mango tree, a recurring motif in his celebration of Philippine pastoral life.
During the Japanese occupation of the Philippines in 1941, Amorsolo remained in Manila, continuing to create his idealized canvases for Japanese patrons who admired his art. Yet, he didn’t ignore the turmoil engulfing the country. He painted scenes of burning ships, destroyed churches, and Defend Thy Honor, a powerful piece depicting a Filipino man protecting a woman from a Japanese soldier. These wartime paintings reveal a depth beyond his idyllic scenes, showcasing an artist responding to his nation’s struggles. For families, understanding the historical context behind a family painting enriches its story and significance.
Amorsolo passed away in 1972, leaving behind a vast body of work – landscapes, portraits, postcards, children’s book illustrations, comic strips, and commercial art – possibly as many as 10,000 pieces, and fathering around twenty children.
Fernando C. Amorsolo’s Fruit Market painting displayed on a chair, showcasing its vibrant colors and composition.
Knowing Fruit Market was by a celebrated artist transformed it from a cherished family painting into something of considerable value, and a source of nervous excitement. My cousin Carolyn decided it needed to be rescued from under her parents’ bed and, because I seemed to have the strongest emotional connection to it, placed in my care. The responsibility of preserving a valuable family painting now rested with me.
Decades had passed since I last saw the painting. When Carolyn and I met at her brother Michael’s house in Dallas, and she unwrapped the mattress pad protecting it, a wave of memories washed over me. Not specific memories, but a deep sense of recognition of the timeless young woman in the shade, a figure I had noticed at various stages of my life, from childhood to adulthood. The enduring presence of a family painting in our lives can act as a touchstone to our past.
Hanging the painting in my Austin home, I handled it with care. This canvas, in its aged frame, felt like a fragile artifact, perhaps prone to crumbling like ancient papyrus. It was comforting to gaze at something so deeply embedded in my consciousness, and rewarding to see it anew as the work of a significant artist. I examined Amorsolo’s brushstrokes closely and gently touched the canvas. The slightly loose, almost swaying feel of the canvas gave it a sense of life and vulnerability. The tactile connection to a family painting, especially one with age, adds to its personal significance.
“Yeah, that’s a gold mine,” Joe Lednicky told me when I showed him the painting to get his expert opinion on its value. Joe, my second cousin, a former NASA engineer, now owns Primal Gallery, a diverse gallery in Dripping Springs featuring local artists and selling everything from fine art to pre-Columbian pottery and vintage toys. Seeking professional appraisal is a crucial step when you suspect a family painting might be valuable.
Joe’s assessment impressed me. He had sold Amorsolo paintings before and estimated this one to be worth at least $75,000. It was Joe’s grandfather, Victor Lednicky, who had originally acquired the painting before gifting it to my grandmother. The history of a family painting often includes fascinating connections beyond the immediate family.
Victor was a legendary figure in our family, a young man from Kansas who graduated from the University of Kansas in mining engineering in 1911. He ventured to the Philippines a few years later, and despite warnings about headhunters, befriended the Igorot tribespeople who had worked the Luzon mines since Spanish times, and even before. He later founded the Lepanto Consolidated Mining Company, a major player in copper and silver production. The provenance of a family painting, tracing its ownership, can reveal rich family history.
Among Joe’s family treasures is a large memorial plaque of his grandfather, Victor, featuring a bronze relief of his head surrounded by game animals, inscribed “Victor E. Lednicky, 1888–1970. Pioneer Mining Engineer and Geologist. Explorer—Marksman—Adventurer.”
He was indeed all those things, and a colorful writer. A passage from his pamphlet about early American mining in the Philippines reads: “Much tapuy was drunk, the subtle cane-wine of the Ifugao, that looks like Brittany cider and is served he-men in deep goblets. Wahoo!”
Victor was a U.S. Army captain in World War I. Early in his Philippines years, he befriended the Sultan of Johor (Malaysia) and helped build a major causeway between Johor and Singapore. He and the Sultan were also hunting companions. Victor entered Philippine wildlife lore for capturing a specimen of Crateromys schadenbergi, the giant bushy-tailed cloud rat, at Mount Data, Luzon. A lizard he discovered on Masbate Island in 1917 was named Sphenomorphus lednickyi. Victor Lednicky’s adventurous spirit and diverse accomplishments add layers to the story behind the family painting.
His marksmanship was legendary. John Lednicky, Joe’s older brother and a microbiologist, recalled watching his aging grandfather, from forty feet, reliably shoot through the necks of Coke bottles set on their sides.
Victor Lednicky was a man of his era, a resourceful American entrepreneur who, today, might be seen as a colonizer, an extractor of resources, even a slayer of cloud rats. Yet, according to Joe, he was incredibly generous. Churches across the Philippines feature stained-glass windows with plaques stating “donated by V.E.L.” He also didn’t seem to have an imperialistic mindset. In a 1924 Kansas newspaper interview, he argued for Philippine independence: “The Filipinos are as ready for their independence now as they ever will be . . . the only thing left to do is to free the islands.” Understanding the values and context of the person who originally acquired a family painting offers deeper insight into its journey.
Archival photograph of Victor Lednicky with Igorot children in Benguet, Philippines, circa 1935, illustrating his connection to the region and its people.
John remembers hearing that General Douglas MacArthur visited the Lednicky home in Manila just before World War II, asking Victor to stop selling copper to the Japanese, Lepanto’s largest client. Victor complied. When the Japanese invaded, he helped arm Filipino resistance fighters, who smuggled weapons past checkpoints hidden in bagoong, a pungent fish sauce guards would avoid inspecting. The history intertwined with a family painting can reflect significant historical events.
For his resistance efforts, Victor had to hide, but was captured. John said the Japanese ordered him to restart his mine. Instead, he dynamited it. He was spared beheading only because a Japanese general in Manila was a former business partner. Instead of execution, he was imprisoned in the infamous Santo Tomas prison camp. My grandmother told me she only learned of his survival after the camp’s liberation in 1945, seeing his name on a list of freed prisoners in Life magazine. While I couldn’t find that Life reference, a 1943 San Francisco Examiner article mentions him building showers for fellow internees. According to John, he also built a water purification system and a prisoner communication code. The untold stories behind a family painting can be incredibly dramatic and moving.
Victor’s prison camp stories, John said, were “horror after horror.” Upon release, he weighed only 85 pounds. He returned to his copper mine, rebuilt, and surpassed his former wealth. However, a business rivalry with Ferdinand Marcos, who became president in 1965, led to a decline in Victor’s fortunes.
When Victor died in 1970, his viewing was in Quezon City. Though a long-time Philippine resident, he wasn’t a citizen and was denied burial in a first-class cemetery. He was buried in Oklahoma City. My mother recalled a woman, unknown to the family, appearing at the graveside service. She explained that as a girl interned at Santo Tomas, Victor had saved her life by sharing his food. These personal anecdotes enrich the legacy of a family painting, connecting it to human stories of resilience and kindness.
Did Victor Lednicky know Fernando Amorsolo? Neither of my second cousins could say definitively, but it seems likely they were acquainted. Portraits of Victor, Joe’s grandmother Maria, and great-grandparents – all painted by Amorsolo – hung in Joe’s gallery office. The connections surrounding a family painting can extend to the artist themselves.
My memories of Victor are hazy – impressions of a lively, talkative stranger from afar, creating a buzz when he visited. I likely first saw the painting he gifted my grandmother shortly after Amorsolo painted it in 1952, perhaps when the oil was still slightly wet. The early viewing experiences shape our lifelong relationship with a family painting.
The colors, painted by the “master of Philippine sunlight,” would have been even brighter then, though they still evoked a sense of calm in my hallway. The enduring visual appeal of a family painting contributes to its lasting presence in our lives.
What should we do with it? A recent Antiques Roadshow episode featuring Amorsolo paintings confirmed Joe Lednicky’s valuation. But it wasn’t mine alone; it was a shared family painting, a legacy for an extended family. Seventy-five thousand dollars split fifteen ways might be a nice sum, but perhaps not enough to relinquish the painting and its associated memories. Donating it to a museum was an option, but Amorsolo’s peaceful scene, focused on a perhaps idealized view of laborers, might be too apolitical for a contemporary museum’s permanent collection. And hiding it in a museum storage room felt similar to it being under my aunt and uncle’s bed. Deciding the future of a valuable family painting involves navigating both emotional and practical considerations.
I was anxious having it at home. It was the most valuable object I owned, worth more than everything else combined. And unlike other possessions, it carried a responsibility – to remember the artist, the collector, and the world it came from. When the weight of its financial and emotional value became too much, I moved it to a safer place, where I could still visit it occasionally, but not daily. It was a gentle painting, yet powerful. At times, it felt like too stark a reminder of loved ones who had once stood before it and were now gone. The emotional weight carried by a family painting can deepen with time and remembrance.
Because that painting, by now, feels eternal. Perhaps it’s just my personal experience, having looked at it since childhood, watching the woman in yellow scarf forever pause under the mango tree. Whether it’s truly timeless is unanswerable. Like anyone encountering art innocently, without expectations of aesthetic or commercial worth, I value it for its impact. And this mysterious scene from across the world will always be a brushstroke on the canvas of my life. Ultimately, the true value of a family painting lies in its personal impact and the stories it holds.
Correction: An earlier version of this story incorrectly referred to the type of fruit the woman in the painting held in her hand.
This article originally appeared in the November 2024 issue of Texas Monthly with the headline “The Unknown Masterwork.” Subscribe today.
