At the wake of Nora Aunor at The Chapels at Heritage Park, a life-sized portrait quietly stood watch in the room. Painted by Victor “Cocoy” Laurel, it showed her in profile, a bare shoulder wrapped in sheer fabric, her gaze turned to the side. She didn’t appear distant, only calm. The portrait drew people in without needing to declare its presence.
Cocoy, the son of the late Vice President Salvador “Doy” Laurel and artist Celia Diaz Laurel, has long moved between performance and painting. While many know him for his work in theater, music, and film, he has also spent years developing his craft as a portrait artist. He studied in Madrid, where he received classical training. But it’s his sensitivity to emotion and memory that gives his portraits their staying power.
He and Nora had shared stages and screens. Over time, what endured was a quieter kind of friendship. At the wake, Cocoy said painting her again had felt necessary. “I hadn’t thanked her enough,” he said. “She gave so much to me, and to everyone fortunate enough to have worked with her.”
It wasn’t the first time he had painted her. Years ago, he had given her a portrait showing her mid-performance, with flowers falling from the audience. That piece was later damaged while in transit from a family exhibit. The face had been scratched. “She was upset,” he recalled. “And I understood. That painting meant something.”
The new portrait wasn’t meant to replace the first. It was created with more time, more distance, and perhaps a deeper sense of gratitude. It didn’t try to summarize who she was. It simply allowed her to be – poised, reflective, and at ease.
Visitors paused before it. The painting didn’t lean on nostalgia or public memory. It offered stillness. It didn’t ask for emotion, but made room for it.
In the days following the wake, Cocoy returned to the chapel. He was also mourning his sister, Suzie Laurel Delgado, who had passed not long after Nora. Then came the news of another loss: their friend, singer Hajji Alejandro. The days became a string of quiet farewells.
The portrait wasn’t meant to define Nora’s legacy. But it held one truth; that she had been seen. And now, she was being remembered, not with fanfare, but with presence.
What Cocoy gave wasn’t a monument. It was a gesture. A final image shaped not by performance, but by affection, memory, and the quiet that remains after the lights dim and the room empties.
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I first met the Laurel family in the late ‘90s, when I was working at the Philippine Centennial Commission under the late Vice President Doy Laurel. Years later, I reconnected with his son Dave and wife Ruby through the Bukas Loob sa Diyos Community and the Rockwell Chapel, where we now serve in the music ministry.
As an art enthusiast, I’ve long admired the work of their family, especially the late Ma’am Celia and her children, Cocoy and Iwi. In upcoming columns, I’ll be writing about Cocoy’s recent religious painting, as well as Iwi’s impressionistic works.
