Arjuna's Studio, Prenzlauer Berg - The final night
The masterpiece was finally complete.
Arjuna stood in the center of his studio at 11 PM, gazing at the work that had consumed nearly three years of his life. The 2x3 meter canvas stood majestically on the custom easel he'd built himself, illuminated by three professional spotlights he'd bought with the last money from his savings. The artificial light made every detail come alive—the young woman's face that combined memories of his mother with universal features of longing and displacement.
"Heimweh" was finally complete. The background merging Jakarta and Berlin was perfect—there was Monas barely visible behind Berlin's morning mist, palm trees impossibly growing in European winter, the Spree river somehow flowing through a tropical landscape that was familiar yet dreamlike. The hybrid technique between hyperrealism and impressionism that he'd developed over years had finally matured in one coherent and powerful work.
"You're beautiful," he whispered to the painting, a voice that hadn't heard response from another person in so long. "You are everything I dreamed of."
He walked around the easel, viewing the masterpiece from various angles. From anywhere you looked, the composition was balanced, the color palette sophisticated, the emotional impact undeniable. This was museum-quality work, a piece that would make critics stop and acknowledge that there was a significant new voice in Berlin's art scene.
The confirmation email from Galerie Contemporary had arrived three days ago. Klaus Weber personally wrote that he was "very impressed with the proposal and preview images" that Arjuna had sent. The solo exhibition was scheduled for March—only four months away. Exhibition title: "Displaced: Works by Arjuna Prasetyo." The masterpiece "Heimweh" would be the centerpiece, the work that would greet visitors the moment they entered the gallery.
"Ma," he said while carefully touching the canvas with his fingertip, "I finally did it. I finally proved that I'm worthy. My first exhibition at Berlin's most prestigious gallery."
But even in this moment of triumph, there was deep sadness. There was no one to share this happiness with. Bayu and Dina had long stopped reaching out after months of being ignored. The last message from Bayu was three months ago: "Jun, I don't know what you're doing, but if you need a friend, I'm still here." A message he'd never replied to because he was too proud to admit that he did need a friend, needed the support system he'd sacrificed for this obsession.
His phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Arjuna? This is Klaus Weber from Galerie Contemporary."
Arjuna's heart immediately raced. Why would Klaus call this late?
"Oh, hi Klaus. Is everything okay?"
"Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to personally congratulate you again on the upcoming exhibition. I've been showing your preview images to some colleagues, and the response has been extraordinary. There's already interest from collectors in Munich and Paris."
"Really?" Arjuna could hardly believe it. International interest before the exhibition even started.
"Really. I think this exhibition will be a launching pad for a significant career. But Arjuna, one important thing—media will be present at the opening night. There's potential coverage in Art Forum and Frieze Magazine. This is a big opportunity, so make sure your centerpiece really represents your best work."
"Of course. The masterpiece is finished, and... Klaus, this is honestly the best work I've ever created."
"Perfect. Get some rest, enjoy the moment. You've earned it."
After the call ended, Arjuna felt euphoria that nearly made him dizzy. International coverage. Collectors from Paris. A career that would launch to levels he'd only imagined in his wildest dreams.
He decided to celebrate alone—something he'd never done in the past three years. He opened a bottle of cheap wine that had been sitting on the kitchen counter for months, poured a glass, and toasted the masterpiece.
"To you," he said to the painting. "To us. To everything that will change after this exhibition."
The wine was cheap and slightly bitter, but it tasted like victory. He drank while walking around the studio, taking in the environment that had been both prison and sanctuary for years. Walls covered with sketches and color studies, floors stained with paint from countless experiments, air thick with the smell of turpentine and oil paint that had become familiar perfume.
"I'll miss this," he thought while touching the wall that had witnessed the longest struggle of his life. "But I won't miss the loneliness."
For the first time in months, he checked social media. His Instagram feed was filled with updates from Bayu and Dina whose lives continued moving forward. Bayu had just gotten a commission for a large-scale mural on a museum facade, his photo showing a broad smile with an international artist team. Dina had just opened a photo exhibition at a small gallery in Kreuzberg, with behind-the-scenes photos showing an intimate and warm opening night, surrounded by friends and supporters.
"They moved on," he murmured while scrolling through photos. "They have community, support, recognition. And I... I'll have all that too, but in a different way."
There was a trace of regret. Maybe if he hadn't isolated himself, maybe if he'd maintained relationships with Bayu and Dina, this triumph would feel more fulfilling. But it was too late for regret. Decisions had been made, the price had been paid.
He composed a text message for the "Jakarta Berlin Art Collective" group chat that had been silent for months:
"Hey guys, I know I've been an asshole friend. But I have news I want to share. Solo exhibition at Galerie Contemporary, March. I hope you can come to the opening night."
The message was sent at 1 AM. He didn't expect an immediate response, but within minutes, his phone was buzzing with notifications.
Bayu: "DAMN JUN! Seriously?! Galerie Contemporary??? That's huge, bro! Congratulations!!!"
Dina: "Jun, I'm so proud of you. I know you've been working hard for this. Of course we'll come. Can't wait to see your masterpiece."
Simple responses, but genuine warmth that he'd almost forgotten existed. Maybe the friendship he'd sacrificed wasn't completely lost. Maybe there was a chance to rebuild connections after the exhibition's success.
Arjuna replied with gratitude and a brief explanation about the isolation he'd chosen to focus on the masterpiece. They responded with understanding and support that almost made him cry—emotions he'd suppressed for so long to maintain laser focus on painting.
At 2 AM, he finally decided to sleep. Tomorrow would be the last day before the painting was handed over to the gallery for installation. He'd already arranged for a professional photographer for documentation, prepared an artist statement he'd written and edited dozens of times, coordinated with Klaus for technical exhibition details.
Before sleeping, he performed the ritual he'd done every night for three years: talking to the masterpiece about the day that had passed and hopes for the future.
"Tomorrow we'll begin a new journey," he said while adjusting the spotlight so the painting remained visible even in darkness. "After this, our life won't be the same. After this, we'll be part of history."
He didn't turn off the spotlight—a tradition he'd developed, keeping the painting visible even when he slept. Something about the constantly illuminated painting provided comfort, like a night light keeping nightmares at bay.
At 3 AM, Arjuna finally slept with a smile on his face that hadn't felt genuine happiness in so long. In his dreams, he stood in the gallery surrounded by admirers, explaining technique and concept to interested critics, posing for photos with Klaus Weber and international collectors ready to bid on future works.
He didn't know that in a few hours, the outdated electrical system of the Altbau building would create a small spark behind the wall. He didn't know that the spotlight he'd left on would become witness to a disaster that would change everything. He didn't know that the masterpiece he loved more than anyone in his life would soon become ash that would blow away with Berlin's winter wind.
What he knew in his dream was success, recognition, validation he'd chased for years. In his dream, the sacrifice he'd made was worth it. In his dream, isolation and suffering finally paid off.
Reality would be different. Far more cruel, far more ironic.
But for these last few hours before everything collapsed, Arjuna slept with a peace he hadn't felt in so long. The masterpiece stood in the spotlight, magnificent and complete, not knowing this would be its last night existing in the world.
Berlin's winter wind blew fiercely outside, making the building structure creak. Aging electrical cables groaned under pressure from cold and overuse. Sparks began forming in the junction box hidden behind the plaster wall.
Fire had already been born, small and patient, waiting for the right moment to claim the masterpiece that had consumed three years of one man's life, soul, and sanity.