Bald-headed
Ch. 18
Birundasih had finished his bath and was dressed. He opened a window to check the temperature. It was not cold outside, and she decided to wear a simple beige dress with long sleeves and a high neck. It was soft and comfortable, maybe a little fitting, but it looked good, and she had chosen some matching white slippers.
As usual, he would spin two or three times in front of the mirror before finally smiling at the reflection of his banter there. Perfect.
He grabbed a small handbag, put in some things he needed and was ready to get out. Good morning he said to himself.
He spent the morning walking around the city center. Depression had taken its toll here, but he could see signs of prosperity beginning to run again.
Megahriya Cinema, the oldest active theater in the city, appears to have turned into a cultural reserve and changed its name to the beginning but is still operating with some of the latest films.
The Megahriya Theater was built in the year one thousand nine hundred and thirty-two, during the colonial rule that served as the residence of the Dutch family at first.
Until then on the eleventh of August the one thousand nine hundred and forty-nine, and, this house building was converted into a building and began to be converted as a cinema in the year one thousand nine hundred and fifty-one with the name using Dutch spelling at that time. Megahriya was known as the first-class cinema of its time.
Pegangsaan Street and Diponegoro Street, Menteng, look exactly the same as fourteen years ago, and he considers children who play swings in the park also look the same. He smiled at those memories, rethinking when things were simpler. Or at least it seems so.
But now, it seems, nothing is simple. It seemed very unlikely, everything fell into place as before, and he wondered what he would do now, had he never seen the article in the newspaper.
It's actually not that hard to imagine, because the routine rarely changes.
It was a Wednesday, which meant a day of gathering at Selasar Sowenario Art Space for social group gathering, then afterwards going to the Karya Daya Youth-drivers association, where they might hold another fundraiser for a foster school or hospital.
After that, he would visit his mother, then go home to get ready for dinner with Ali, as he decided to go home from work at seven on Wednesday. It was one night a week and he waited for her regularly.
He suppressed the feeling of sadness about it, hoping that one day he would change. He often promises and usually follows it for a few weeks before returning to the same schedule. And it is not uncommon for delays or cancellations to occur.
"I can't tonight, baby," she always explains.
"Sorry, but I can't. Let me make it up to you later." Part of the promises.
He didn't like to argue with Ali about it, especially since he knew the man was telling the truth. Her work is demanding, both before and during the course of time, yet she sometimes wonders why she spent so much time seducing the man if she doesn't want to spend time with him now.
He passed by, almost passing through it in his preoccupation, then turned around and came back. He paused for a moment in front of the gate, surprised to see how long it had been since he last saw the gate.
He stepped inside through the gate, an open area with small shops on the side of the main street, looking young and eating their breakfast in a relaxed atmosphere.
He kept walking towards a gallery, watching how much change was happening there.
The gallery displays the artworks of the artists on a temporary basis. That is, there will be different exhibition themes and organizers within a certain period of time.
There are two floors ready to be explored.
On the first floor are seen on several walls and tables, a number of old archives on display. As well as poster documents of various activities in the place since the year one thousand nine hundred and sixties until the end of the year one thousand nine hundred and eighties.
Birundasi switched and looked around between paintings.
Many artists are local, and there is a strong sense of the sea in their work. Plenty of sea views, sandy beaches, pelicans, old yachts, tugs, docks, and seagulls. And the most important part, the waves. Waves of every conceivable shape, size, and color, and after a while everything seemed similar. The artists were either uninspired or lazy, he thought.
Birundasih is back. He walked slowly through each wall.
And it found on one wall, there were some paintings that better suited his taste. Everything was by a palace artist, Dullah, and most of it seemed to be inspired by the scenes of the battle of life during the war of independence, the figures of beautiful women, women in red dresses, Acehnese girls, and women, a student also portraits one of the proclamator's wives who looks graceful and does not miss, nature.
In the painting he liked the most, he noted that the artist deliberately exaggerated the scene with a smaller-than-life figure, wide lines, and a thick sweep of color, as if not fully focused.
But the color was vivid and swirling, drawing attention, almost directing what should have been seen next. It's dynamic, dramatic.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked it, and he considered buying it before he realized that he liked it because it reminded him of his own work.
He examined her more closely and thought to himself that maybe Sugi was right. Maybe he should start painting again.
At ten thirty Birundasih left the gallery and went to Geren Indonesia, a department store in the city center. It took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for, but it was there, Garamedia, he found what he was looking for in the school supplies section.
Some paper, a box of chalk drawings, and some pencils, are not of high quality but are quite good. It wasn't a painting, but it was the beginning, and he was very happy when he returned to his room. He sat down at the table and started to work, nothing specific, just feeling it again, letting shapes and colors flow from the memory of his youth.
After a few minutes of abstraction, he sketched a rough sketch of the street scene as seen from his room, amazed at how easy it was to happen. It was as if he never stopped.