DACMan

Lindu, an artist’s artist, fits and breaks all the standard artist molds. When we first met four years ago, he was living alone. After a couple failed attempts at morning visits to see him, we learned to wait until mid-afternoon to show up at his shop/workshop/house/studio. If we arrived any earlier, he would be asleep or so blurry-eyed from working all night on his creations, that he was completely worthless. His workers were busy by 9 am, but there was never a sign of “the man” that early. In the hot Java afternoons, he was invariably shirtless, lean and brimming over with jokes, good humor, and playfulness, very much like the sculpture he makes. Dek dubbed him “the funny man” when I couldn’t keep everyone’s names straight during our trips to Java.

I found his art so irresistible that during my first meeting with him I asked him to plan for an exhibition in America. He refused to take me seriously. Each subsequent trip to Java I would ask him again to prepare for a show. Over time he has learned to say “yes” and proceed to give reasons why he could not do an exhibition that year.

On our next trip, Dek and I were shocked to find him two months married. His new wife was sweet, bright and utterly exasperated. She got more (or less) than she bargained for. “He never comes to bed at night and won’t get up in the morning. He only works and sleeps.” It wasn’t a complaint, more a worry about how life would turn out living with this happy madman.

The next time in Java, Jakfar, Justin and I found Lindu still shirtless but not so lean. Regular meals and more sleep were taking their toll. He was almost done building a house for his beloved on the back of the property. It was a house James Hubbell or Anton Gaudi might have built, had they lived in Java. It was stunningly beautiful, rich in texture and materials, and playful throughout. He built it in the same vein he makes sculpture; full of surprises, humor and beauty. The house was his first acceptable excuse for not preparing for my exhibition.

If I ever build another house in Bali, I want his madness at work in the design process. We joked, laughed, ate treats his wife prepared, and played ping-pong on a sheet of plywood under a single light bulb until we were all dripping with sweat, happily exhausted, and ready for dinner and bed.

It is rewarding and inspiring to see a great artist change often and in wonderful new directions. Lindu’s soul-stretching, life-giving art has been evolving, as was he, in both his home and work life. On my latest trip to Java, in late January 2009, our schedule was such that we could only see Lindu in the morning. We called ahead to see if his wife could wake him up and get him moving. He was already at work.

Interior Lindu's House

By then, I’d given up on asking him to prepare for a show at David Alan Collection. I was resigned to buying what I could (or what he would allow me to buy from his personal collection), and showing his work as I was able. When we entered his shop we found an entire exhibition was available, by chance, not by design. I had only to choose my favorite twenty-five pieces, arrange for the shipping, and transfer the funds. As we walked through his gallery, piece after piece brought laughter, delight, and chills, as we recognized great art from the soul of a great man. Before this trip, I considered him to be one of a small handful of great living, producing, folk artists. Now his work had risen to a new level of purity, simplicity, and playfulness.

Lindu is now in his mid-thirties. What a gift to have found him, be able to share him with you, and to look forward to seeing decades of his evolving art and wonderful spirit.

Gyem Dorgi, our Bhutanese guide and devoted Buddhist practitioner, became a friend and trusted companion in the two weeks we were with him. One of my favorite memories of Gyem, is him dressing me in a “Gho,” the traditional Bhutanese man’s outfit, which he wore every day with ease and grace. In the late afternoon of our second day in Bhutan we walked to his favorite (locals only) Gho shop, just down the street from his wife’s kitchen utensil and appliance store. I pawed my way through dozens of one-size-fits-all Ghos, until I found a formal, finely woven, all black, woolen Gho, with a sky blue lining and deep red border. After we picked out the removable, nine inch white cuffs, theoptional white collar, a multicolored hand woven belt, and black socks, I carried my 12 pound bundle of clothes back to the hotel for the first of three training sessions with Gyem. He approached these training sessions with the same patience, grace, compassion, love, and humor with which he approached everything in life.

Gho Shop

We were invited to a “formal” dinner that evening, so it was a chance to try out the new duds. A Gho is a one-piece outfit that vaguely resembles a long sleeved, knee length tunic with long white cuffs and knee socks. When Gyem helped me get my arms through the sleeves (not an easy task), I found I was wearing a toasty warm, floor length monk’s robe. It was early spring in the Himalayan foothills, so I was glad of the warmth. The process of turning a monk’s robe into a formal piece of Bhutanese clothing would have been comical if it didn’t take such concentration. Each fold has to be measured exactly, held, tucked and refolded on both sides, then once again held with both hands while the belt is wrapped around three times so nothing slips. Gyem assured me that he can dress himself each morning without help. I have no idea how he does it. Even with four hands, it’s a challenge. If the folds or belt do slip at all, the elegance turns to embarrassment. The cost of no slippage is an extraordinarily tight belt. That first night, the belt was so tight I could barely sit down in a chair, let alone eat. I didn’t know how tight was tight enough, so I was afraid to loosen it.

The next day I wore the Gho again and asked Gyem to put the belt on more loosely. This time it was considerably more comfortable. A couple hours later, all the folds came apart, and I had to be dressed again, almost from the “get-Gho,” while standing outside the gates of a temple. The third Gho session brought success, complete with photo documentation. Our lengthy session of Gho on, Gho off, Gho on, Gho off, made us fifteen minutes late for our farewell dinner, and taught me the Gho-For-Dummies basics, which I might be able to duplicate if I had six arms.

This evening I was as comfortable in the Gho as I have been in anything I have ever worn. I felt relaxed, elegant and utterly at home. It was as if I were both monk and nobleman. I hope I will be able to wear it back home with such ease. Perhaps with a few strategically placed strips of Velcro, I’ll be able to pull it off. Check me out at our next winter party!

Every Asian country I have been in is full of motorbikes. Not so in Bhutan. Last week Gyem told me a story about buying a motor cycle and selling it two months later. When I asked him why, he simply said, “It was cold.” He didn’t elaborate. The fact that motorbikes are rare in Bhutan was something I understood once I put on the Gho that first evening and realized how cold it would be riding around at 10,000′ on a motorcycle, legs astride, wearing, for all practical purposes, a skirt. I don’t know what the Scotts wear under their kilts, but it probably isn’t nothing, but also not much more than jockey shorts.

Gyem went through grade twelve, and was ready to start university in India when his plans collapsed because of financial concerns. The resources simply weren’t there. His father, now a farmer and a highly respected lay monk, was sent to a monastery in Tibet at age six, and remained there until China smashed the Tibetan rebellion in 1959. He was forced to flee for his life, back to Bhutan. During his last years in Tibet, he and fellow monks lived in caves in the high Himalayas, meditating and reading scriptures. They were snow bound in the winter and spent a month or two in the fall begging for enough food to take back to the caves to last through the winter. Most other monks had some degree of family support, but being from a poor Bhutanese family, no help was possible for him. At night, he read scriptures by the light of burning incense. Sometime after his return to Bhutan, he chose to become a lay monk and have a family, which is lucky for the rest of us who have come to know, appreciate, and care for his son, Gyem.

Gyem & Family, David & Amita

The love of the Buddhist teaching was passed on to Gyem by his father. I think Gyem would have been happy to be a monk. His face shines when he talks about that kind of life and his own meditation. He happily explains in detail, each step of his early morning hour of prayer. The prayers to each God and Goddess, Buddha and saint are explained with reverence. What prayer is offered, how long each part takes, and why it is done, is gently revealed with passion and self depreciating humor. We did have the opportunity to meet Gyem’s wife and two little gems, as he calls them. I suspect she has her hands more than full, with the three of them.

Never in the fifteen days that we traveled with him, was there a hint of impatience or stress on his face or in his voice. The gentle strength and compassion that Gyem possesses in full measure, is a wonderful presence.

We are missing him terribly today, as we navigate our way through the noisy, crazy, polluted, and traffic choked city of Kathmandu. Bhutan is a tough act to follow. So is Gyem.

If they say, “Just 5 minutes,” don’t believe it for a second. From Bali to Bhutan, there is no such thing as “just 5 minutes.” There is no place that’s a 5 minutes drive. There are no 5 minutes stops, no 5 minute walks, nor 5 minute errands. There are no 5 minute friends, snacks, or temples. No one will ever “be there,” “be back,” or “return your call” in 5 minutes. We will never leave here, get there, or stay there 5 minutes. There are no 5 minute banks, government offices, ceremonies, or shaves, no 5 minute check-ins, checkouts, showers, or shoe repairs.

When a collector tells me his other shop is just 5 minutes away, I cringe. If he says 10 minutes, I decline. When my friend, Daeng says, “we’ll stop and look for 5 minutes,” I look for a comfortable chair or something fascinating to do for a while. If it is 12:05 and the note on the front counter says, “Back in 5 minutes,” I know at some point in time that will be true. I’m just not waiting around to find out when.

Oh yes, there are also no 5 minute jumps in the pool, naps, haircuts, hand car washes, or essays (this one took more like 5 hours after rewrites and edits). While we are on the subject, there is nothing which “isn’t far,” and nothing that “won’t take long.” Except in my dreams, nothing has ever been, or ever will be “just 5 minutes.”

I believe in beauty. I believe we hunger for beauty and its effects on our hearts, minds, and souls. Any and every moment that we are touched by beauty we are refreshed, enlivened, and made whole. Whether we find beauty in nature, art, music, dance, literature, or architecture, beauty leaves us inspired, soothed and more able to be that person we want to be in the world.

Beauty is a taste of the Divine, and a reminder of why life is so worth living. I have known many magical moments when great beauty was present, like when breathing crystalline Rocky Mountain air, seeing ridge after ridge appear as I climbed, or seeing a series of dance movements that so perfectly captured and revealed the very soul of our humanity. Those are the big moments of beauty, but beauty is there to be seen anywhere, any time. Reflection of lights on wet pavement, the delight of a child chasing a butterfly, or the character lines in an old man’s face are but a few beautiful moments. It takes but a second to let beauty in and be touched by it.

When we let beauty touch us, we feed that which is good in us and allow it to grow. I believe that we must let beauty move us, fill us, close the gap between the intellect and the soul, and allow us to remember who we are. I believe we must indulge in that which is beautiful. Admire the perfection of a half opened rose on our desk, sink into a great performance, or simply take a walk in the park. Create something beautiful. Give something beautiful. Share something beautiful. The return is far greater than the effort.

This I believe…