She lives by the water

It was early in the morning in 2023 when the owner of the pottery studio and store I was working with at the time said to me, "There's a lady outside who wants to meet you. She said she saw your work and wants to talk to the artist."

The store had just reopened that day after being closed for a week for renovations.

So I went out to meet her. She was a middle-aged woman with cropped hair and a long summer dress, looking more like a visitor than a long-term resident. She seemed warm and friendly, her face full of smiles.

I smiled and introduced myself.

Her name was Lee. She told me she had seen my work in a magazine and later followed my Instagram account. There was a particular sculpture on my page that she especially liked. A week earlier, she had happened to pass by the store and noticed the same sculpture displayed in the window. She said she wanted to collect it.

At that time, I was showcasing the Flower Picker series at the newly renovated store. The sculpture she mentioned, Ocean Runs Dry, was part of the exhibition.

I said to her, "The sculpture is inside with the others. Would you like to see them?"

"Yes," she replied. "I'd love to know the stories behind the works."

So I gave her a little tour. I told her the story behind each sculpture, how the Flower Picker series revolved around grief and the process of moving forward. She listened enthusiastically, and when we arrived at her favorite piece, her face lit up even more.

I explained that Ocean Runs Dry was a bit of a reflection on perspective. The figure in the sculpture resembled a little girl, caught somewhere between sadness and a smile. She carried a water vessel above her head, as if trying to collect rainwater from the sky because she thought the ocean had run dry.

I told Lee that, of course, the ocean would never run dry. The girl was caught between worrying and wondering, much like people who fear things that may never happen. The sculpture was a gentle reminder not to worry so much about the future.

Lee smiled and said, without hesitation, "I want this one."

She did not even ask about the price.

She told me that the story resonated deeply with her. Then she mentioned that she had once worked on ocean conservation initiatives. After a brief pause, she added that she was a cancer survivor. Pointing to her leg, she explained that she was using a prosthetic limb.

I was dumbfounded.

"I didn't notice at all," I told her. "You look healthy and radiant."

She smiled and continued. She said she felt a little like the sculpture herself. At times, she felt as though her ocean really was running dry, as though she might be running out of time.

I gave her a comforting smile and replied, "Just as the girl in the sculpture said, your ocean would not run dry."

As I wrapped and packed the sculpture, she told me that she was from Australia and visited Bali often. She and her husband owned a barber café business in the Seminyak area. She mentioned that she normally stayed in Sanur or Seminyak, not in Canggu where the pottery store was located, so meeting me there felt like a wonderful coincidence.

I thought to myself that it probably wasn't a coincidence at all. Perhaps it was meant to be. The little girl in the sculpture had found her pair.

At the end of our conversation, I hugged her, thanked her for adopting the work, and promised to keep in touch.

I followed her on Instagram, and we did keep in touch over the years. We occasionally commented on each other's posts or left kind messages. She usually shared moments from her everyday life—beautiful scenery, food, everyday events—while I mostly posted about my work.

Whenever she posted about people, it was rarely about herself. Instead, she would tell stories about them. She almost never posted selfies.

A few months ago, she posted one.

She looked wonderful—healthy, glowing, and happy. Her hair had grown thicker and shone a beautiful silver-white. I immediately wanted to leave a comment saying, "Wow, you look amazing!"

Then I read the caption.

It was, in fact, an announcement of her passing. The post had not been written by her, but by her family. It broke my heart.

People who collect my work often tell me how deeply it touches them and how connected they feel to it. I often hear, "I want to buy this as a gift for myself."

Sometimes I wonder if they know how grateful I am to hear that, how grateful I am to know that these little souls bring light into other people's lives.

Their stories certainly bring light into mine. The work was never really about me. It was about others, and about the stories waiting to be told.

Thank you, Lee, have a wonderful life in heaven!

 

Image & Text by Venty Vergianti