A Reflection on Beauty, Memory, and Human Connection
What should I open this essay with? That art is not merely decoration? That it is not just pigment on canvas or ink on paper? Of course it is.
It is a silent conversation between the artist and the world, a captured moment of emotion, thought, and reaction. To own a piece of art is to hold a fragment of that dialogue, to become part of its story. Of course I did not always understand this. Like many, I grew up surrounded by art in various forms. In a corner of Purwokerto, I grew with books, films, video games, the occasional museum visit, and for a long time I consumed it passively. It was only in recent years that I felt the pull to not just admire art, but to own it, to live with it, to let it seep into my daily life.
The shift came subtly. Perhaps it was listening to Jordan Peterson’s lectures (back when he was still primarily a lecturer, not the polarizing figure he is today) that first made me consider the deeper value of creative expression. Or maybe it was simply the slow realization that life feels richer when you share space with objects that carry meaning beyond their physical form. Whatever the reason, I found myself drawn to the idea of collecting art not as an investor, but as someone who wanted to live among pieces that resonated with me.
The First Painting: A Stroke of Connection
The first original artwork I ever purchased was by an artist named Rukmunal Hakim. It was part of his Berlapis-lapis collection—a monochrome piece, layered with ink strokes that felt both deliberate and spontaneous. At first glance, it was simple, almost wild in its rawness. But the more I looked at it, the more I saw the magic in its imperfections: the smudges that gave it texture, the curves that suggested depth, the way certain lines seemed to tremble with energy.
What made the experience even more meaningful was the chance to speak with Hakim (and Ferry, his collaborator) before buying the painting. He shared how the work was a reaction to fragments of memory from his family, how his upbringing shaped his perspective. Hearing his story bridged something in me, it wasn’t just a painting anymore; it was a piece of someone’s life, a distilled emotion that I now had the privilege of keeping.
I paid 3.5 million IDR for it, a sum that, at the time, required me to borrow money from my wife (all my savings were tied up in mutual funds). Some might call that impractical, but I’ve never regretted it. Money comes and goes, but the presence of this artwork in my home is a constant reminder of why we value beautiful things, not for status, but for the way they make us feel.
The Story Behind the Object
When Hakim delivered the painting’s certificate, he rode his bike all the way to my house in Parung Panjang. By the time he arrived, his tire was flat. There was something poetic about that—an artist, exhausted but determined, handing over his work in person. It wasn’t just a transaction; it was a moment. That flat tire is now part of the painting’s story, a small but human detail that makes it even more precious.
This is what separates real art from the endless stream of AI-generated images that flood the internet. AI art can be technically impressive, even aesthetically pleasing, but it lacks the weight of a human hand, the intention behind every stroke, the flaws that make it alive. The painting on my wall is not just an image. It’s a record of Hakim’s decisions, his hesitations, his confidence. It carries his history, and now, in some small way, mine.
Why Own Art at All?
In a world where digital reproductions are infinite and free, why bother owning physical art?
Because art is not just about seeing, it’s about experiencing. A print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night is not the same as standing before the original, feeling the thick swirls of paint, seeing the cracks in the varnish. Similarly, owning Hakim’s work means living with its presence: the way light changes its texture in the morning, the way it catches my eye when I’m lost in thought.
Art also serves as a mirror. The pieces we are drawn to often reflect something within us, our fears, our joys, our unresolved questions. My Berlapis-lapis painting, with its layered strokes and raw edges, feels like a visual echo of my own thoughts: sometimes messy, sometimes precise, always searching for meaning in the layers.
The Hope for More
I hope, in time, to own more art, not for the sake of collecting, but for the continued privilege of sharing space with works that move me. Each piece is a door into another mind, another way of seeing the world. And in a life that often feels rushed and fragmented, art is one of the few things that asks us to slow down, to look closer, to feel deeper.
Perhaps that’s the true beauty of owning art: it is not passive. It demands something of you. It asks you to pay attention. And in return, it gives you a kind of quiet magic, one that lingers long after the initial purchase, long after the artist has ridden away on a bike with a flat tire.