Former Factory Studio, Friedrichshain - Two years later
The morning light streaming through the studio's large windows no longer felt as warm as before. Arjuna sat in front of his easel with red eyes and disheveled hair, unwashed for three days. Before him, a painting he'd been working on for eight months appeared nearly finished—but that "nearly" was what frustrated him. Something was still wrong, something that made him want to tear the canvas and start over.
"Jun, have you had breakfast yet?" Dina approached with a cup of coffee and toast. It had become a daily routine—Dina, who arrived earliest at the studio, always made sure Arjuna ate something. "I made extra, so just eat it."
"Thanks, Din. But I'm not hungry." Arjuna didn't take his eyes off the painting, his hand still holding a small detail brush. "The woman's eyes here... something's not right. The expression is still flat."
Dina set the food on a side table and observed the painting with critical eyes. Indeed, Arjuna's technical skill had developed rapidly over the past two years. His use of light and shadow approached master level, his color palette was sophisticated, but...
"Jun, you know what the problem is?"
"What?"
"You're overthinking. This painting is technically perfect, but..." Dina pointed to the eyes Arjuna had mentioned, "soulless. You're painting with your head, not your heart."
Arjuna stopped his brush movement and looked at Dina with narrowing eyes—a sign he was getting annoyed. "What do you mean? This is eight months of hard work, Din. I studied anatomy, color theory, composition rules. This isn't soulless."
"Okay, okay," Dina raised her hands in surrender. "I'm just giving input. You're the artist."
"Fighting so early in the morning?" Bayu entered with his usual high energy, carrying a bag of spray paint and stencils for his new mural project. "Hey Jun, you still tinkering with that painting? It's already amazing, bro. Just add your signature and submit it to galleries."
"It's not perfect yet." Arjuna's answer was short and curt.
Bayu looked at Dina questioningly, but the photographer just shook her head slowly. They'd experienced this situation often—Arjuna stuck in a perfectionism loop, refusing to consider any work "finished."
"Jun, you know what? Yesterday I met a gallerist from Hackescher Hof. He's looking for fresh talent for a group exhibition next month. I mentioned your name, he was interested. But you have to submit something in two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Arjuna finally turned from his painting. "This isn't ready, Bay. There's still so much to fix."
"Ah come on, your perfectionism is what's keeping you from moving forward. Dina's already shown photos in three galleries, I've gotten a commission for a mural in Kreuzberg. You? You're still stuck with the same painting from months ago."
There was annoyance in Bayu's usually cheerful voice. Dina sensed the building tension and quickly tried to mediate.
"Bayu's right, Jun. Sometimes you have to dare to be imperfect. Art isn't about technical perfection, but about connection with the audience."
"Easy for you to say," Arjuna stood from his chair, his face beginning to redden. "You take photos, click, done. Bayu makes murals, finished in a day. Me? I have to compete with artists who've been here for years, whose techniques are mature, who have connections. I can't be careless."
"So you're saying mine and Dina's work is careless?" Bayu's voice began to rise.
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean? You think you're special because you're a fine artist, while I'm just a street artist from the kampung?"
Dina tried to intervene. "Guys, stop. We're all here to support each other, not to—"
"Support each other?" Arjuna laughed cynically. "How many times have I asked for serious input about technique, and all you give me is 'follow your heart' or 'be more spontaneous.' I need constructive criticism, not motivational talk."
"Because that's what you need to hear!" Dina was getting annoyed too. "You're too much in your head, Jun. You think art is math that can be calculated perfectly. You're losing the joy in painting."
"Joy?" Arjuna stared at them both with fiery eyes. "You think I paint for joy? I paint to survive, to prove that I'm worth it, to... to make my mother proud if she were still alive. This isn't a hobby, this is life and death for me."
An uncomfortable silence filled the studio. The sound of a passing tram outside seemed louder than usual. Bayu and Dina exchanged glances, not knowing what to say. They knew about Arjuna's past trauma, but had never realized how deeply his wounds affected his approach to art.
"Jun..." Dina tried with a gentle voice. "You don't need to prove anything to anyone. Your art is already good as it is."
"Good as it is isn't enough," Arjuna returned to his easel, turning his back to them. "I don't want to be a mediocre artist who's just considered 'good enough.' I want to be exceptional."
Bayu shook his head and began gathering his things. "You know what, Jun? Exceptional artists aren't the most perfect ones, but the most human ones. You're losing your humanity."
"I don't need a lecture from you about art, Bay."
"Fine. I don't want to argue with a wall." Bayu headed for the exit. "Dina, I'll be at the café next door if you want to talk without Mr. Perfect here."
The studio door closed with a slight slam, leaving Arjuna and Dina in awkward silence. Dina still stood to the side, not knowing whether to follow Bayu or try to talk to Arjuna.
"You want to leave too?" Arjuna asked without turning around.
"I want to, but I won't leave you in this state."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." Dina approached and sat in an old chair beside the easel. "Jun, I've known you for almost two years. I know you're struggling, but isolating yourself from friends won't help."
Arjuna finally put down his brush and turned to Dina. His eyes looked tired, with dark circles underneath, and for the first time Dina realized how much thinner Arjuna had become compared to two years ago.
"Din, you don't understand the pressure I'm feeling. You and Bayu are already getting recognition, people are buying your work, galleries are interested. Me? I'm still invisible. Every time I submit to galleries, I get rejected. Every time I apply for grants or exhibitions, there's always a reason why my work is 'not quite right.'"
"Rejection is part of the process—"
"It's not just rejection, Din. This is about... about feeling like I don't belong here. You and Bayu have already integrated with Berlin's art community. I'm still an outsider. An immigrant artist whose technique is good but whose soul is foreign."
Dina fell silent. It was true—over the past two years, she and Bayu had begun receiving invitations to art events, had gotten to know several curators and gallerists, had begun feeling comfortable with Berlin's art scene. But Arjuna... Arjuna was still fighting alone, still trying to prove himself in the wrong way.
"Jun, maybe the problem isn't your technique. Maybe the problem is you're approaching art like a competition, not like expression."
"But it is a competition, Din. Look at how many artists there are in Berlin. How many galleries. How few slots for newcomers, especially immigrants."
"Okay, true. But you won't win that competition by trying to be perfect. You'll win by being authentic."
Arjuna looked at his painting again. Indeed, technically this was his best work. But why did he feel something empty every time he looked at it? Something missing?
"You know, Jun, I have an idea." Dina stood and picked up her analog Pentax camera. "How about tomorrow we walk around Berlin, without any agenda. Just wandering, seeing this city with fresh eyes. Sometimes inspiration comes from unexpected things."
"I don't have time for wandering. This painting has to be finished—"
"When? What's the deadline? Self-imposed deadline or real deadline?"
Arjuna fell silent. Indeed, there was no real deadline. Only his obsession with perfection that made him feel he had to keep working.
"One day, Jun. Give yourself one day off. If by tomorrow afternoon you don't get any inspiration, I won't interfere with your process anymore."
Arjuna looked at Dina, then at his painting, then back at Dina. There was a part of him that was very tired, that wanted to rest for a moment from the pressure he'd created himself.
"Okay. One day. But if this doesn't change anything..."
"If it doesn't change anything, you can go back to your perfectionist mode." Dina smiled. "Deal?"
"Deal."
But what they didn't realize was that this day of wandering would become a turning point in their friendship—not toward something better, but toward something that would change the dynamics of their trio forever.
That night, Arjuna stayed in the studio until late, despite having promised Dina to rest. He stared at the nearly finished painting in the harsh light of the studio lamps. From the distance, techno music could be heard from the nightclubs in Friedrichshain that never closed.
He took out his phone and opened the "Jakarta Berlin Art Collective" group chat that had been quiet for several days. His fingers moved over the keyboard, wanting to type an apology message to Bayu, but then deleted it again. His pride was too big to admit that maybe he was indeed too obsessive.
Instead, he looked at old photos in his phone's gallery—photos of the three of them in the studio when they first moved in, faces full of hope and excitement. When did it start to change? When did the friendship that was once so genuine turn into competition and judgment?
"Ma," he whispered to the studio's silence, "I'm confused. I've worked hard, but why am I getting further from what I want? Why are my best friends becoming strangers?"
No answer, of course. Only the echo of a passing tram and faint techno music, the soundtrack of a city that never sleeps and never cares about the individual crisis of an Indonesian painter losing his way.
Arjuna picked up a small brush and began touching the detail of the woman's eyes in the painting once more. Maybe Dina was right—those eyes were indeed soulless. But how do you add soul to something that's already technically perfect?