Arjuna's Studio, Prenzlauer Berg - One year later
The studio apartment in Prenzlauer Berg that Arjuna rented with money from selling his first painting felt like a creative tomb. Unlike the former factory studio that was spacious and full of natural light, this 40-square-meter space was cramped, with one small window facing a dark alley between buildings. But Arjuna no longer cared about aesthetic environment—what he needed was total privacy, without distraction from friends who "didn't understand his artistic vision."
That's what he told himself when he decided to move. The truth was, he couldn't stand the pitying looks from Bayu and Dina every time they saw his paintings rejected by gallery after gallery. Klaus Weber, who had shown interest at Bayu's opening, had eventually sent a polite but devastating rejection email: "Your technical skill is impressive, but the work lacks the unique voice we're looking for in our roster."
Unique voice. That phrase haunted Arjuna for months. What did unique voice mean? How do you find something authentic yet marketable? How do you be different but not weird, profound but not pretentious?
Now, after a year of living alone in self-chosen isolation, Arjuna sat before a 2x3 meter canvas—the largest he'd ever worked on. This would be his masterpiece, the work that would force Berlin's art world to acknowledge his existence. He'd already sold the used motorcycle he'd bought a year ago to purchase the imported canvas from Italy and professional-grade oil paints that cost the equivalent of a month's rent.
"This or death," he muttered while mixing cerulean blue with titanium white for the perfect sky. "If this masterpiece isn't accepted, I'll quit painting forever."
An empty threat, of course. Painting was the only thing he could do excellently. But the dramatization gave him the sense of urgency he needed to push himself beyond normal limits.
The concept for this painting had been planned for six months. Title: "Heimweh"—a German word for homesickness that couldn't be perfectly translated into other languages. The composition was complex: a young woman standing in the middle of a landscape that merged Jakarta and Berlin, past and present, memory and reality. The technique he used was a hybrid between hyperrealism for the figure and impressionism for the background—something he'd never seen other artists do successfully.
The first week, his excitement was still high. He worked 12-14 hours a day, only stopping to eat instant noodles and sleep 4-5 hours. Sketching, underpainting, color studies—everything done with obsessive precision. He bought art theory books, studied works of masters from Renaissance to contemporary, analyzed technique and composition until his eyes burned.
"Are you still alive?" A text from Dina that he hadn't answered for a week.
"Busy with big project. Will call you later."
"Later" that never came.
The second week, euphoria began shifting to anxiety. The detail of the woman's face in the painting—which he based on memories of his mother—didn't capture the expression he wanted. Something in those eyes looked flat, lifeless. He tried repeatedly, scraping paint and starting over, but the result remained unsatisfying.
"Maybe the lighting is wrong," he thought while adjusting the studio lamp angle for the tenth time that day.
The third week, frustration turned to desperation. He began ignoring basic needs—forgetting to shower, forgetting to eat proper food, forgetting to open windows for fresh air. The cramped studio filled with the smell of turpentine and paint that made him slightly dizzy, but he considered it part of the artistic process.
"Great artists always suffer for their work," he told his reflection in the dusty mirror. His face was pale, eyes sunken, hair disheveled. He looked like the stereotypical tortured artist from Hollywood films.
Frau Mueller, the German grandmother in the adjacent apartment, began worrying when she hadn't heard sounds from Arjuna's unit for days. Gentle but persistent knocking on the door.
"Herr Arjuna? Ist alles in Ordnung?"
"I'm fine, Frau Mueller," Arjuna answered without opening the door, his voice hoarse from not talking to anyone for days. "Just finishing something important."
"Du siehst nicht gut aus. When was the last time you ate proper food?"
"Tomorrow, Frau Mueller. Tomorrow I'll eat well."
Always tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Today had to be dedicated to painting.
The fourth week, breakthrough. After dozens of attempts, he finally captured the expression he'd been seeking for the woman's eyes. There was sadness but also hope, longing but also acceptance. Those were his mother's eyes in the hospital bed, eyes that said "it's okay to let go, but it's also okay to keep fighting."
"Yes!" he screamed with a broken voice that hadn't been used to express joy in so long. "This is it. This is the soul."
He worked with renewed energy, 16-18 hours a day. The background landscape merging Jakarta-Berlin began taking shape with meticulous detail. He painted every brick of the Altbau buildings, every leaf of palm trees that impossibly grew in German winter, every reflection in the Spree river that somehow flowed through the Menteng area.
The second month, his obsession reached dangerous levels. He only left the apartment to buy paint and food supplies, interaction with the outside world limited to necessary transactions. Phone calls from Bayu and Dina went completely ignored. Social media accounts inactive. He existed only for painting.
"This will change everything," he whispered to the painting taking shape. "You will make them all see me. You will prove that I'm not ordinary."
He began talking to the painting like talking to a living being. Telling stories about his days, about childhood memories, about dreams and fears. The painting became therapist, confessor, and best friend all at once.
"Ma," he said to the woman's figure on the canvas, "I know you don't like seeing me suffer like this. But this is for you too. This is to prove that your sacrifice raising me alone wasn't in vain."
The third month, his physical health deteriorated significantly. Dramatic weight loss, chronic headaches from chemical fumes, chronic insomnia. But his mental state was euphoric—the painting was 80% complete and the result exceeded his best expectations.
"This is museum quality," he said while stepping back to assess the overall composition. "This is career-defining work."
He'd already started researching submission processes for major galleries, not just in Berlin but also Munich, Cologne, even Paris. This masterpiece was too good for the local scene—this was international caliber work.
But a growing paranoia set in. What if someone stole his concept? What if there was another artist working on something similar? He began covering all windows with thick curtains, not wanting to risk anyone peeking into the studio. He stopped posting any progress photos, even for close friends.
"They don't understand," he said about Bayu and Dina who still occasionally sent concerned messages. "They think art is a social activity. True art requires sacrifice they're not willing to make."
The fourth month, finishing touches. Every detail perfect, every color precisely calibrated, every brushstroke deliberate and purposeful. This was a technical and emotional achievement that would define his legacy as an artist.
But there was a strange emptiness. After months obsessed with completion, the prospect of finishing the painting felt scary. What comes after a masterpiece? How do you top perfection?
"It's okay," he said while adding the final highlight to the woman's eyes. "After this, I won't need to prove anything anymore. After this, I'll be an established artist with a waiting list for my works."
He didn't know that in a few months, this obsession would nearly kill him. He didn't know that the isolation he'd chosen had permanently damaged the relationships that had once been his support system. And he didn't know that the masterpiece he'd created with blood, sweat, and sanity would become the catalyst for the most devastating night of his life.
All he knew was one thing: this painting would change his life forever.
And indeed it would—just not in the way he imagined.