“Art is not just what you see, but what you survive.”
I was forged in the dry heat of Nusa Penida, a small island where the limestone cliffs meet the relentless sea. It is a rugged land, but beneath its arid surface lies a deep reservoir of ancient culture. My story was carved before it was written. My grandfather was a master sculptor, a man who could coax divine forms—ancient arcas—out of cold rock. Watching his hands work, I learned my first lesson in art: beauty requires patience.
In 1995, at the age of twelve, I picked up a brush. I immersed myself in the sacred traditions of Bali, painting the Barong and the Legong. For five years, I painted with devotion, yet a quiet emptiness grew within me. My hands were moving, but my spirit was still waiting to be awakened.
Hungry for meaning, I left my island for Ubud and later, Kuta. The streets were unforgiving; I had no job, only a burning desire to learn. Fate eventually led me to an old master painter who took me in, not just as a student, but as a son. Under his tutelage, I mastered Realism. By twenty, I could replicate the world with photographic precision.
But perfection felt cold. Realism captured the skin of the world, but I wanted to paint its pulse.
“Realism captured the skin of the world, but I wanted to paint its pulse.”
In a moment of artistic rebellion, I laid down my fine brushes and picked up a palette knife. This was the turning point. The thick, textured strokes of impasto allowed me to sculpt the paint, channeling the spirit of my grandfather’s chisel. I wasn’t just coloring a canvas; I was building emotion. The colors became bolder, the texture rougher, the feeling more honest. I had finally found my signature.
But art demands a whole heart, and mine was lonely. For three years, I stopped painting entirely. I was adrift, unable to create without love to anchor me. Then, I met her—a woman from Singaraja who would become my wife. She became the light that ended my long winter.
We built a life together, blessed with a son who is now twenty-two. She is the unsung hero of my career. When I doubted myself, she believed. When the path of an artist became financially difficult, she worked tirelessly to support our family, allowing me the privilege to dream and create. Her sacrifice is the invisible underpainting beneath every masterpiece I make.
“Her sacrifice is the invisible underpainting beneath every masterpiece I make.”
Today, my art is a testament to that journey. It is a practice of Upeksa—equanimity and inner peace. My path has led me to Mr. Putu of Morry Gallery in Gianyar. He is a visionary patron who has given me the ultimate gift: absolute freedom. With his support, I paint without boundaries, pouring my past, my gratitude, and my soul onto the canvas.
From the dry earth of Nusa Penida to the vibrant walls of the gallery, I have learned one truth: the canvas is a mirror, and today, mine reflects a life fully lived.
Bringing the spiritual elegance of Balinese craftsmanship to collectors worldwide. Each piece is a heritage of art, preserved for generations.
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