The Balinese proverb L i e p-L i e p L i p i G a d a n g warns of unseen danger—a green snake with
half-closed eyes that strikes when stepped on. This phrase resonates deeply with the modern
realities of Bali, where foreign presence, wrapped in the guise of investment and development,
subtly reshapes the island’
s landscape.
On one side of the work, faceless figures in uniform from colonialism (photo taken by Olivier
Meslin), their blurred identities representing the hidden forces behind land acquisition and
economic shifts. Their presence is both rigid and ghostly, reflecting the way power operates in
the shadows—decisions made beyond the reach of those most affected.
On the other side, a snake watches over fragmented images of Balinese rituals and sacred
spaces. The land remembers. The people persist. But their space is shrinking. Rice fields become
luxury villas. Temples sit beside boutique cafés. Locals are priced out of their own homes as Bali
becomes a playground for the privileged.
Like the l i p i g a d a n g (ular hijau), this transformation was slow at first—half-hidden, half-dreamlike.
But now, the bite is felt. The cost of living soars, land is no longer owned by those who tend it, and
the soul of Bali is increasingly performed rather than lived.
I hope this work can be a warning on what happens when an island loses its land to those who
see it only as an opportunity? When culture becomes a product, and the community is displaced
for profit? In the face of this, how do we resist becoming strangers in our own home?