THE DONKEY ARTIST

by Rizal Tanjung

–

He is not merely a beast of burden,
but an icon of an age that has lost its hunger for meaning.
A donkey walks across the barren plain of discourse—
his back a library shelf,
his chest a billboard of honorary titles.
He strides with the grace of resignation,
snorts in the rhythm of academia,
and every step resounds
with the brittle echo of “cum laude.”

Upon his back are bound heavy books,
their titles shining like counterfeit stars:
Ethics, Epistemology, Existentialism,
yet none illuminate the chambers of his soul.
He mistakes the weight of words for depth,
the thickness of pages for wisdom’s proof.

“I am an artist,” he says,
“a bearer of inspiration from words I never understood.”

He creates not from awareness but from quotation,
painting ignorance with pigments of theory,
composing symphonies of seminars
from the sound of his own snort.
Around him flourish gardens of recognition:
trees of certificates with signature-leaves,
fruits of literary prizes,
rotting sweetly amid applause.

The wind passes and reads his poems,
yet the donkey artist knows only
how to bow his head
to the clapping hands made of noise.

In the city of titles and symposia,
the donkey becomes a hero of discourse.
He opens an exhibition entitled “Works I Never Read,”
attended by professors of dry grass
and critics writing reviews on burlap sacks.
They debate about form and theory,
but forget that meaning has fled,
hiding itself between the straws of words.

“So modern!” says an official.
“He carries philosophy on his back!”

“More than that,” replies another,
“he carries civilization with the gait of a donkey!”

And night arrives—
gallery lights glowing like weary metaphors.
The donkey gazes at his reflection in glass,
sees a sage without a head.
He smiles faintly—
perhaps that is the face of wisdom today:
silent, yet sponsored.

Then he writes a manifesto:

“Art is a burden to be carried
until the spine breaks and meaning falls.”

The line is quoted a thousand times,
published in international journals,
read at literary congresses,
painted as murals on university walls.
Yet none know
he wrote it while chewing rotten theses
and swallowing the word empathy
without knowing its taste.

In the quieter field of politics,
the donkey appears as an orator.
He teaches kings about Plato’s aesthetics,
about morals that can be sold through tenders.
The kings applaud, saying:

“You are a learned donkey!
Your voice sounds like a book,
your mind like a stone that glitters beneath media light.”

And so the land fills with donkey artists,
teaching other donkeys
the art of speaking without content,
of thinking without risk.
They establish an academy called The Institute of the World’s Back,
where theories sprout from grass
and diplomas bloom from straw.

But one night,
beneath the honest light of the moon,
the donkey artist sits alone.
The books on his back whisper softly,
as if praying to be read,
yet he only stares into the mud
and at his own inverted shadow.

“Does art know its master?” he whispers.
“Or am I merely a foolish canvas?”

The moon answers gently,
like a voice from the crack of a broken heart:

“Donkey, bearer of theories,
art is not a burden—
it is a light unseen
because you are blinded by your own ignorance.”

Morning comes like a festival of awards.
People crowd the market of ideas,
selling quotations, buying reputations.
Amid them, the donkey artist stands proud—
his back aged, his head hollow.
He is now called maestro,
for the age has transformed
burden into achievement,
and silence into the modern mode of thought.

“Look!” cry the masses,
“the wise one passes by!”

And the echo of his steps sounds like a mechanical poem:
no meaning, only the clatter of hooves on the road of theory.

When the academic rain falls from the sky,
soaking theses, manuscripts, dissertations,
the books upon his back melt into mud.
Letters scatter, searching for meaning;
sentences scream, losing structure.
The donkey collapses
among the wet pages—
and for the first time in his long discourse,
he understands:
that art without awareness
is a desert drinking its own mirage.

Now, if you ever see someone
speaking in difficult tongues
of meanings they do not grasp,
or carrying thick books as if carrying God,
remember the story of the donkey artist—
who bore the library of the world
yet lost the window of his heart.

> For this age worships the sound of quotation
more than the truth,
and honors the donkey fluent in theory
more than the poet
who dares hunger for meaning.

West Sumatra, 2025