Berlin, Prenzlauer Berg - Ten years ago
October rain in Berlin felt like ice bullets piercing bone. Arjuna pulled his thin leather jacket tighter as he hurried along Kastanienallee, his worn boots—paint already peeling from their surface—leaving wet prints on the cobblestone sidewalk. In his tattered backpack, his portfolio of paintings lay wrapped in plastic—the only treasure he'd brought from Jakarta three months ago on a student visa that was nearly expired.
The Indonesian warung "Rumah Kita" appeared like an oasis amid the rows of hipster cafés and vintage shops that dominated the Friedrichshain district. Warm yellow light illuminated the fogged windows, and the aroma of rendang wafting out stirred the homesickness he'd suppressed for months. Arjuna wiped the window glass with the back of his hand, peering into the room filled with Indonesian students gathered around worn wooden tables.
"Hey, you planning to go in or just stand there until you freeze?" A woman's voice with a Javanese accent startled him.
Dina stood behind the glass door, an analog Pentax camera hanging from her neck, her long black hair carelessly tied back. Her narrow eyes regarded Arjuna with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "I've been watching you pace back and forth in front of the warung. Are you afraid of rendang or something?"
"Oh, no," Arjuna opened the door, a small bell chiming sharply. "I was just... thinking."
"Thinking about what? Whether to order gudeg rice or Padang rice?" Dina laughed. "Come on in, it's freezing out there. I'm Dina, by the way. Amateur photographer looking for inspiration in someone else's city."
Arjuna followed Dina to a corner table by the window. The warung was indeed small—only about ten tables—but warm and full of memories that reminded him of the warungs in Kemang where he used to gather with his fellow art students from ITB. The walls were covered with old photographs of Jakarta, batik served as tablecloths, and a small speaker in the corner played old Chrisye songs that nearly brought him to tears.
"You just arrived, didn't you? You still have that shocked look—classic for Indonesians experiencing their first European winter," Dina poured hot tea from a small thermos on the table. "I've been here almost a year, so I know exactly how it feels."
"Three months," Arjuna accepted the cup of tea with hands still cold from outside. "Came on a student visa, but... well, it's hard to focus on studies when your stomach's constantly empty."
"What are you studying?"
"Fine Arts at UdK. But now I spend more time looking for part-time work than attending classes." Arjuna laughed bitterly. "My parents back in Jakarta think I'm living like a rich student in Hollywood movies. The reality is I'm sharing an apartment with five people, sleeping on a sofa, eating instant noodles three times a day."
Dina nodded knowingly. "I was the same way at first. But you know what? Berlin is paradise for broke artists like us. Rent is still affordable, the art scene is alive, and most importantly—nobody gives a shit about your background. Here you can become whoever you want to be."
Their conversation was interrupted when the warung door opened again, bringing in cold air and a tall figure with curly hair wearing a denim jacket covered in underground band patches. Bayu immediately seemed like a magnet drawing attention—the way he walked with casual confidence, his genuine broad smile, and energy that filled the room.
"Hey, a new face!" Bayu approached their table uninvited, typical of Batak people who don't know formality. "I'm Bayu, street artist trying to become a legitimate artist but failing constantly," he extended his hand to Arjuna while laughing loudly.
"Arjuna. Painter who's... well, still searching for his identity."
"Painter? Damn, that's cool! I'm more into murals and graffiti, but I have mad respect for you fine art people. That's a skill I don't have." Bayu sat down without permission, immediately ordering Padang rice in a loud voice to the woman running the warung. "Have you seen the art scene here yet? It's insane, bro. Galleries in Mitte, underground scene in Kreuzberg, legal street art everywhere. Paradise for weirdos like us who were considered strange back in Jakarta."
That night, without them realizing it, was the beginning of a friendship that would change all three of their lives. They sat in that small warung until nearly midnight, sharing stories about their grand dreams. Dina wanted to photograph Berlin's urban life from an immigrant's perspective, Bayu wanted his murals recognized as art rather than vandalism, and Arjuna... Arjuna wanted to paint something that would make the world stop and pay attention to him.
"You know what," Bayu said while sipping black coffee that had gone cold, "I have access to a former factory studio in Friedrichshain. The place is huge, and I'm sharing it with two local artists. Want to join? Split the rent four ways, makes it cheaper."
Arjuna's eyes lit up. For three months he'd been painting in the cramped apartment he shared with five people, having to wait until everyone was asleep before he could take out his canvas and paints. Often he painted in the kitchen while standing, because there wasn't enough space for an easel.
"Seriously? But I might not be able to pay every month..."
"Relax, bro. We're artists, we have to help each other. If you can't pay this month, pay next month. What matters is having a place to create."
Dina was interested too. "Can I join as well? I'm looking for space for a darkroom, and my apartment is too small."
"The more the merrier! We'll make our own collective, call it... hmm... Jakarta Berlin Art Collective!"
They laughed, but within that laughter was real determination. In just a few hours, these three strangers from Indonesia had already planned a future together in a city still foreign to them.
Two weeks later, Arjuna moved into the former factory studio in Friedrichshain. The old four-story building with large windows and high ceilings that once produced industrial machinery had become a nest for artists from various countries. Klaus, a conceptual artist from Germany, and Petra, a sculptor from Czech Republic, welcomed them warmly. They were accustomed to artist community dynamics—today they might argue about art concepts, tomorrow they'd be sharing food and cheap wine.
The studio they rented on the second floor was about 200 square meters with east-facing windows that provided perfect natural light in the mornings. Bayu immediately claimed the corner near the window for his mural practice, Dina set up an improvised darkroom in the former bathroom, and Arjuna got the center space with a used easel Klaus had bought from a flea market.
"This is heaven," Arjuna whispered as he stared at his first blank canvas in the new studio. The morning light streaming through the large windows made everything feel warm and full of possibility. For the first time since arriving in Berlin, he could breathe freely.
The first days in the studio passed like a honeymoon. They worked together but on individual projects, occasionally offering input and constructive criticism. Bayu was the most vocal in giving feedback, often approaching Arjuna's canvas saying, "The colors need to be bolder, bro. This is Berlin, not Jakarta. People here like things that strike!"
Dina was more subtle in her comments. She often photographed Arjuna's working process, capturing moments when the painter was deep in concentration. "You have an interesting ritual when you paint," she said one day while showing her shots. "Before you start, you always stay silent for a few minutes, staring at the blank canvas. Like you're praying or meditating."
Arjuna fell silent looking at those photos. It was true—every time before painting, he always remembered the last moment with his mother in the hospital. The first painting he'd made with cheap watercolors, his mother's pale but smiling face. It was a ritual—his way of asking permission from his mother's spirit to continue creating.
"I... I always feel like painting is my way of communicating with people who are no longer here," he said quietly. "So before I start, I have to make sure I'm on the same frequency."
Bayu, who was mixing paint for his mural, stopped his activity. "Did you lose someone important?"
"My mother. When I was ten. Cancer." Arjuna continued his brush strokes, not wanting to dwell too long on the topic. "Since then I've felt I had to paint something that... that could make her proud. Something that couldn't disappear."
Dina and Bayu exchanged glances. They began to understand why Arjuna painted with almost obsessive intensity, why he often forgot to eat when deep in the creative process, why his eyes always looked sad even when he was laughing.
The first months in the studio passed with extraordinary productivity. Arjuna painted almost every day, exploring new techniques, experimenting with color and composition. His paintings began showing distinctive characteristics—emotional use of color, expressive brushstrokes, and something hard to define but that always made people fall silent when they saw them.
"You have a gift, Jun," Klaus said one evening when they all gathered in the studio sharing cheap wine and discussing each other's work. "There's an emotional depth in your paintings that I rarely see in artists your age."
"But the art market here isn't easy," Petra added, pointing to Arjuna's latest painting. "Your technical skill is good, but you need uniqueness that can make gallery owners interested. Competition in Berlin is brutal, especially for immigrant artists."
Arjuna nodded, but in his heart he knew he needed more than just technical skill. He needed a masterpiece—one work that would force Berlin's art world to pay attention to him, to acknowledge that he wasn't just another immigrant artist dreaming too big.
That night, after everyone had gone home to their respective apartments, Arjuna stayed in the studio. He sat in front of a large blank canvas he'd just bought with money from selling a small painting at the weekend market. In the silence punctuated only by the sound of a tram passing in the distance, he began imagining the painting that would change his life.
"Ma," he whispered to the darkness, "I'm going to paint something that will make you proud. Something perfect, something the world can't forget."
He didn't know that this obsession—the obsession with perfection and recognition—would slowly destroy the most beautiful friendship he'd ever had in this foreign city.