A Death in Bali. Nancy Tingley
with its paintings of Bima’s quest, the son who travels to hell to obtain his father’s release. I came across a photo of the cave of Goa Gajah with its fantastic carved entrance, a gigantic head alternately identified as Kala, who swallows time, an elephant, or Rangda. The thought of Rangda brought to mind dark forces. I thought of Flip. I saw the blood. I shook myself.
I’D agreed to sightseeing with Seth and Randall today, a decision I now regretted. I wanted to be alone. To wander. To think. The bird squawked. I wanted to stay away from men. I had time for a short walk before I met them.
I exited the dining pavilion through the lobby, nodding my hellos to the two receptionists, who cheerfully said good morning. At the entrance I started to turn right, but stopped myself. Better to go away from downtown, walk through the rice paddies, wander some quieter streets.
The streets were narrow, made narrower by the plants that graced every door and the occasional motorbike parked along the way. I could hear voices behind the compound walls, but few people were out walking, most having already found their way to work, to school.
I turned left, then right, admired a door painted a rainbow of colors, passed a sign identifying a homestay, glanced into a courtyard that seemed to contain a school. It was only when I came to the end of the block that it struck me what type of school I’d passed.
I walked back and stood in the doorway. Half a dozen young boys squatted on the ground or sat at tables, easels or tablets in front of them, paintbrushes or pencils in hand. An elderly man leaned over one boy, pointing at something on his page, then at the work he was copying. Without looking up, he waved me in.
The courtyard was spacious, the furniture haphazard, the boys quiet as they worked. One, who looked twelve but was probably quite a few years older, gripped a cigarette between his lips, the smoke that poured from the side of his mouth the only indication he’d just inhaled. I walked over to him, figuring he might be the least self-conscious of the group. He squatted on the concrete, his pad lying on a slanted construction of bricks. He was fine-tuning his drawing with rapid strokes of his pencil in preparation for the paint.
The scene was a typical Balinese painting of the type that had developed in the 1920s and ’30s and that I’d come to Bali to study. The hero Bima battled demonic figures in the foreground, while the humans, arrayed in a forest above him, fled. Though two different places, two different worlds, were depicted, the only indication that they were not the same landscape lay in the figures—those at the bottom of the page, mythic, and those in the forest above, human. Only foliage demarcated distinct areas—the distant village toward which the humans fled was surrounded by trees of every imaginable type, distinguishable by their varying leaves.
“Very good,” a voice beside me said. The teacher.
“Yes, it is,” I said, not taking my eyes off the drawing.
“You must show the young lady your other work,” he encouraged his student.
With a duck of his head, the boy reached behind him and pulled out a portfolio, which he handed me.
“No,” said the teacher. “You can explain to her your work.”
Embarrassed but obedient, he reached into the portfolio and riffled until he found the painting he wanted, then said in hesitant English, “This painting I copied from the great Lempad.”
“Yes,” I acknowledged, then realized I should take care in what I said, as any show of knowledge might intimidate him. I took the painting from his hand. Like most Balinese paintings it was small, the size of an average sheet of paper. The drawing was assured, with only a few slashes of color. Some of the ferocity of Lempad’s work had been captured, but the freewheeling style of that artist, his demonic figure striding unhindered through space, wasn’t quite there. From a teenager it showed great promise. “Very nice. Do you have more work in this style?”
“We learn by copying,” he said.
I nodded.
“I have some that I have not copied.”
“I’d like to see one of those, if I may.” Two of the younger students had come over to us. Squatting behind him, they watched his every move, glancing surreptitiously at me. As he searched through his portfolio, one of the younger boys put his hand on his shoulder in a gentle, comforting gesture.
He hesitated, looking up at his teacher, who nodded and gave a quick flick of his hand, as if to say, that’s right, you’re doing fine. His warmth and encouragement made me sympathetic to him and his school, and I, too, nodded.
The painting he handed me was not what I’d expected. The forest foliage was, for it filled every inch that wasn’t inhabited by figures. But the figures weren’t doing what humans normally do in typical modernist paintings of village scenes. They weren’t cooking, or bustling around their homes, or hunting in the forest, or shopping at the market. Instead, a road wound through the growth and figures riding bicycles filled it. Hunkered down over the handlebars, they skimmed past each other, the race uphill grueling and slow.
“Wonderful,” I said, laughing. And it was true. It was wonderful. It was a painting with an eye to the present. “Completely unique! I love it.”
He smiled shyly and glanced at his teacher, who nodded encouragement.
I sat down on the ground next to him, studying the work. The drawing was fine, the composition lively, with the curve of the road leading my eye up the page. Each of the figures was coping with the hard ride uphill in a different way. Leaning further over the handlebars, leaning back on the seat. One had given up and was pushing his bike up the hill.
“He is very talented,” said his teacher.
The boy flushed.
“He certainly is. Excellent composition. Great tension in the smooth curves of the road and the sharp angles of the spiky grasses and palm fronds.” I looked at the boy. “You should feel great pleasure from your accomplishment. May I see more?”
He pulled a pile of paintings from the portfolio and reached for the painting I held.
I shook my head and put it to one side on the small table behind him. I took the paintings he offered and settled in to look. The pleasure of examining something beautiful was the balm I needed. The work varied, as one would expect from a developing artist, but he had an eye for composition and a sense of humor. In one, a man dumped a bucket of water off a balcony, drenching two children. In another, a child pilfered a mango at the market as the shopkeeper lectured the child’s friend.
I glanced at my watch. “This has been a marvelous way to begin my day. Thank you for sharing your talent with me. Do you sell your work?”
“I, yes, I do,” he said uncertainly, looking to his teacher for help.
“May I ask what you would consider selling this painting for? I’m a bike rider, so it’s particularly interesting to me.”
He looked again to his teacher for help. The man said, “Fifty dollars U.S.”
“Have you sold paintings before?”
“No,” said the boy.
“Then I will buy this painting for the asking price. Normally I would bargain ruthlessly, but I’m happy to be your first client.” I reached in my pocket, then realized that I hadn’t brought my money. “I’m afraid I don’t have money with me. Would you be willing to hold the painting for me? I promise that I’ll come back.” I looked from him to his teacher.
“Yes,” he said, more confidently than he’d spoken before. As if the idea of a sale was enough to imbue him with self-assurance.
His teacher took the painting. “I will put it away for your return. May I ask your name?”
“Jenna Murphy. Do you have a card?” I asked the student.
He laughed and shook his head.
“I will give you one of my cards and will write his name,” the old man said.
“Thank