BY Lisa Lindblad
May 31, 2011
In 1992 I packed up my family, rented a house in Sanur, and spent the summer discovering Bali. So enchanted were we that we returned the following Christmas and then, again, for the summer of ’93. I joined Linda Garland’s Environmental Bamboo Foundation as treasurer and sank emotional roots into the island’s terraced landscape. The island and its people are as generous as they are beautiful and, even though I have not spent serious time there in the last years, it is one of those places that evokes in me the familiarity of home.
A show of Balinese art has opened in San Francisco’s Asian Art Museum and Holland Cotter, whose reviews I always savor, digs deep while he describes the art work. His contribution, in my view, is to balance Bali’s romance with its reality, something that is rarely approached in writing or film (see Eat Love Pray, as an example). The point is that Bali is complex enough – even strong enough – to support the counterpoint.
In my home’s most sacred room I have objects collected from around the world. They speak of place and time and friendships. Like all art, they are the connecting point between me and my memories.