The Gift That Needed Six Years

I can't stop thinking about the fact that Laurence didn't return to his low-paying government work—a job that was completely different from where his heart truly belonged.

After five years as a Job Order employee in our municipal government office, he finally decided to leave and pursue art full-time.

Laurence has been an artist since he was young. Even now, whenever I watch him paint, I don't just see talent—I see obsession. The kind of obsession that cannot be taught. The kind that quietly consumes a person. His eyes change when he talks about painting. His patience becomes endless. His passion becomes relentless. It is obvious that art is not simply something he does; it is the language through which he understands the world.

That is why it always bothered me to see someone like him spending years working in a place that never aligned with his deepest desire.

As of writing this on August 3, 2026, I had a conversation with his sister. Somehow, it brought back every conversation Laurence and I had over the past few years—especially the times I kept encouraging him to trust and do not undervalue himself, and pursue the thing he truly loved instead of settling for security alone.

This year, he finally did it.

He committed.

But after hearing everything today, I couldn't stop asking myself one question:

How do I support someone beyond simply giving advice?

Words are easy.

People often tell artists to "follow your dreams."

Very few people become the reason those dreams become sustainable.

Around the same time, I was already thinking about what gift I wanted to give my mom for her birthday next month.

She would turn fifty-four.

Some would thought about flowers.

Money.

A dinner.

All of those are wonderful gifts.

But they are also expected.

I wanted to create something that couldn't simply be bought from a store.

Something that couldn't be replicated.

Something that would become part of our family's history.

Then one word suddenly came into my mind.

Time.

Not money.

Not size.

Not luxury.

Time.

Instead of giving my mom something for her fifty-fourth birthday next month, what if I stretched the timeline all the way to her sixtieth birthday?

Six years.

Suddenly everything changed.

Six years transforms an ordinary commission into a life's work.

Six years allows skills to mature.

Six years allows patience to become part of the artwork itself.

Six years allows memories to accumulate before the final brushstroke is even placed.

And then another idea appeared.

What if the person who painted it was Laurence?

Not just any painting.

A large, classical oil portrait inspired by Renaissance techniques.

Not a copy of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, but inspired by the same philosophy: slow craftsmanship, subtle sfumato, layered glazing, and relentless refinement.

A portrait of my mother and father together.

One painting.

One family.

One imagined landscape inspired by Tubungan.

One heirloom.

At first, Laurence mentioned that something like this would cost around ₱25,000.

Then, half jokingly, I asked,

"Would you do it for ₱5,000?"

To my surprise...

He said yes.

I laughed.

But after the laughter faded, something inside me felt uncomfortable.

Not because I wanted to pay less. I will not.

Because I realized just how willing he was to lower his own value.

That moment stayed with me.

It wasn't really about the number.

It revealed something deeper.

Sometimes talented people become so desperate for work that they begin negotiating against themselves.

Imagine agreeing to paint a museum-scale oil portrait...

Using professional materials...

Spending years refining it...

For less than the cost of many smartphones.

That wasn't a fair reflection of the work.

It was a reflection of the circumstances.

So I stopped joking.

I told him my real plan.

Not ₱5,000.

Not ₱25,000.

Not even ₱30,000.

₱50,000.

With one condition.

He would have until September 15, 2032—my mother's sixtieth birthday.

When I calculated it, the number became surprisingly reasonable.

Six years.

That's only around ₱595 per month.

About twenty pesos a day.

The gift suddenly became less about spending fifty thousand pesos.

It became about slowly investing in something that my family might still be looking at fifty years from now.

We also talked about how the painting would be created.

No rushing.

No impossible deadlines.

The faces could be painted first.

The clothing could wait until later.

The background would be an imagined combination of Tubungan's mountains, rice fields, forests, rivers, and countryside.

The artist would have complete freedom to revisit any part of the painting over the years.

Every refinement would represent not just more paint...

But more experience.

More maturity.

More understanding.

More life.

Then another idea made me even more excited.

I asked him to take a photograph at the beginning of every painting session.

Every single one.

Imagine watching six years compressed into a few minutes.

A blank surface.

The first charcoal sketch.

The underpainting.

My mother's eyes appearing.

My father's face emerging.

The landscape growing.

Tiny sfumato glazes layered over years.

Finally...

The completed portrait.

The time-lapse itself becomes another work of art.

Not just documenting the painting...

But documenting the artist becoming a better artist.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized something.

This commission isn't only a gift for my parents.

It is also a vote of confidence in Laurence.

Every artist needs at least one person who says,

"I believe in the artist you're going to become, not just the artist you are today."

Maybe this portrait becomes the piece people remember him for.

Maybe it doesn't.

Maybe one day he becomes known for Renaissance-inspired portraiture.

Maybe he develops a body of work that carries his signature style.

Maybe this commission quietly becomes the beginning of that journey.

I don't know.

But I do know that I would rather support someone while they are still climbing than tell people years later that I knew them before they became successful.

There is another reason I chose six years.

I have dreams of my own.

By 2032, I hope Duruha has become something far bigger than it is today.

I hope I have built a company that genuinely improves how people receive information.

I hope the sacrifices, sleepless nights, and uncertainty eventually become worthwhile.

If that happens...

Paying Laurence fifty thousand pesos won't feel like an expense.

It will feel like fulfilling a promise.

A promise to my parents.

A promise to my friend.

And perhaps even a promise to the younger version of myself—the one who always believed that meaningful things deserve time.

Perhaps the greatest lesson from all of this is that some gifts cannot be bought instantly.

They have to grow.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Just like relationships.

Just like careers.

Just like mastery.

Just like great paintings.

Sometimes the most valuable thing we can give another person isn't money.

It's the confidence that their work deserves time, patience, and belief.

Maybe that is what this portrait is really about.

Not oil paint.

Not sfumato.

Not Renaissance techniques.

But faith.

Faith in family.

Faith in friendship.

Faith that six years from now, two dreams—his and mine—will meet on the same day, in front of a single painting hanging on a wall, while my mother smiles on her sixtieth birthday.