Unveiling the Soul of Ubud Through Antonio Blanco’s Artistic Legacy

There’s something about getting lost in Ubud that leads to the best discoveries. I should know – my terrible sense of direction has become something of a running joke among my travel companions. But on a sweltering afternoon last May, my inability to follow Google Maps to the famous Tegallalang Rice Terrace led me down a winding road I hadn’t planned to explore, and straight to what would become the highlight of my Bali trip.

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“You look confused,” said a local man selling coconut water from a small stand. When I admitted I was hopelessly lost, he laughed and pointed up a steep hill. “Maybe you want to see Blanco Museum instead? Very special art. Very… how you say… unique.”

With sweat already soaking through my shirt and no rice terraces in sight, I figured, why not? I’d never heard of Antonio Blanco, but the way the coconut vendor raised his eyebrows when describing the art piqued my curiosity. Plus, the promise of air conditioning was too tempting to resist.

Stumbling Into Ubud’s Hidden Artistic Gem

The approach to the Blanco Renaissance Museum feels like entering another world. Leaving behind the chaotic symphony of Ubud – motorbikes beeping, street vendors calling out, the occasional monkey shrieking from a temple roof – I found myself on a quiet, tree-lined path. Incense smoke drifted through the air, mingling with the heady scent of frangipani blossoms that seemed to drop from the trees with every slight breeze.

I’ll be honest, I was skeptical at first. Ubud has no shortage of tourist attractions that promise cultural enlightenment but deliver gift shops and mediocre cafés instead. As I huffed and puffed my way up the steep path (seriously, why didn’t anyone warn me about the climb?), I was already rehearsing the polite smile I’d wear while making a quick exit.

The entrance didn’t exactly change my mind – a large, somewhat gaudy gate adorned with stone carvings and a sign proclaiming “The Fabulous Blanco” in flowing script. It felt a bit like walking into a 1970s Vegas showman’s idea of Balinese architecture. But I’d already made the climb, so in I went.

And that’s when Ubud revealed another layer of itself to me.

The museum sits perched on a ridge overlooking the Campuhan River valley, surrounded by lush gardens that seem to tumble down the hillside. The main building is a strange but captivating fusion of Balinese temple architecture and Spanish colonial flourishes – much like the man whose life and work it celebrates.

What struck me immediately wasn’t just the art (we’ll get to that), but how this place seemed to embody Ubud’s soul: beautiful but chaotic, spiritual yet sensual, foreign but somehow familiar. It was as if I’d accidentally wandered into Ubud’s subconscious, where all its contradictions made perfect sense.

Who Was Antonio Blanco? A Man of Passion and Contradiction

Before my visit, I’d never heard of Antonio Blanco. By the time I left, I couldn’t believe he wasn’t mentioned in every Bali guidebook. The museum tells his story through photographs, personal artifacts, and of course, his provocative artwork.

Born in 1911 to Spanish parents in the Philippines, Blanco studied at the National Academy of Art in New York before traveling the world. He arrived in Bali in 1952 and, like many artists before and after him, fell hopelessly in love with the island. Unlike most, though, he never left.

The story goes that he was granted land by the Balinese royal family after painting a portrait of one of the princes. He built his home and studio on this hillside, married a Balinese dancer named Ni Ronji (who became his favorite model), and spent the rest of his life creating art that blended Western techniques with Balinese themes and imagery.

What struck me most about Blanco’s story was his complete immersion in Balinese culture while never trying to hide his foreign roots. In photos displayed throughout the museum, he’s often dressed in elaborate outfits of his own design – part Spanish aristocrat, part Balinese royal, completely theatrical. He seems to have lived his life as boldly as he painted.

The “Dali of Bali” Nickname—Is It Fair?

The museum proudly displays Blanco’s nickname – “The Dali of Bali” – but after seeing his work, I’m not entirely convinced the comparison does him justice. Sure, there are similarities: the flamboyant personality, the theatrical self-presentation, the technical skill. And yes, there’s a surrealist quality to some of his work.

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But Blanco’s art feels more sensual than surreal to me. While Dali was all about dream landscapes and melting clocks, Blanco was obsessed with the female form – specifically, Balinese women. His paintings celebrate their beauty with an intensity that borders on worship.

I’m no art critic (my knowledge of art history pretty much begins and ends with a semester-long course I took to fulfill a college requirement), but Blanco’s style feels more like a fusion of European portraiture and Balinese symbolic art than surrealism. His use of color is extraordinary – vibrant reds, golds, and blues that seem to capture the intensity of tropical light.

The more I wandered through the galleries, the more I felt torn about Blanco himself. Was he a genius or just incredibly good at self-promotion? A respectful admirer of Balinese culture or someone who exoticized it for his own purposes? I still can’t decide. Maybe he was all of these things – people usually are complicated, aren’t they?

Stepping Into the Blanco Renaissance Museum—A Feast for the Senses

If Blanco was excessive in life, his museum certainly continues the tradition. The building itself is a riot of ornate details – intricate woodcarvings, stained glass, mosaic tiles, and gold leaf accents everywhere you look. It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does, creating an atmosphere that feels like stepping into someone’s flamboyant dream.

The main galleries display hundreds of Blanco’s works, primarily portraits and figurative paintings of Balinese women. Many are nude or semi-nude, adorned with flowers, birds, or traditional ceremonial elements. The style is distinctive – realistic yet stylized, with an almost luminous quality to the skin tones and a meticulous attention to detail in the rendering of fabric, jewelry, and natural elements.

What I found most captivating were his eyes – not Blanco’s own, but the eyes he painted. In almost every portrait, the women’s eyes are large, expressive, and intensely alive. They follow you around the room, sometimes seeming to judge, sometimes to invite, sometimes to challenge. It creates an uncanny feeling of connection across time and culture.

“His models were always more than just beautiful women to him,” explained a soft-spoken guide who noticed me lingering in front of a particularly striking portrait. “They were goddesses, the physical manifestation of the divine feminine. That’s why the eyes are so important – they’re the window to the spirit.”

I nodded as if I understood completely, though I was mainly thinking how much the guide’s explanation sounded like something Blanco himself might have said to justify his obvious fascination with female beauty. But there was no denying the power of the work.

The most moving part of the museum for me was Blanco’s preserved studio on the upper floor. Unlike the carefully curated galleries below, this space feels frozen in time – as if the artist just stepped out for a moment and might return any second to continue working on the unfinished canvas still sitting on the easel.

Paintbrushes stand in jars, palettes are crusted with decades-old paint, and sketches are pinned haphazardly to the walls. The room smells of oil paint and turpentine, even all these years after his death in 1999. Sunlight streams through large windows that frame the same lush valley view that inspired him daily. I felt a strange intimacy standing there, as if I’d accidentally walked into someone’s private sanctuary.

The Gardens and Aviary—A Surprising Bonus

When I needed a break from the intensity of the artwork (there’s only so much sensuality one can absorb in an afternoon), I wandered out into the museum’s gardens, which turned out to be an unexpected highlight.

The grounds cascade down the hillside in a series of terraces, filled with tropical flowers, stone sculptures, and winding paths. Blanco apparently had a thing for exotic birds (they appear in many of his paintings), and the tradition continues with an aviary that houses peacocks, parrots, and other colorful species.

I probably spent more time watching a particularly chatty cockatoo than studying some of the paintings, if I’m being totally honest. Something about its preening and showing off reminded me of the artist himself, based on the photographs I’d seen. The bird seemed to know it too, tilting its head and fixing me with one beady eye whenever I laughed.

The gardens offer stunning views of the river valley below and, on clear days, the distant volcanoes that dominate Bali’s landscape. It’s easy to see why Blanco chose this spot for his home and studio – the natural beauty alone would inspire anyone to create.

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The Controversy of Blanco’s Work—Beauty or Exploitation?

I’d be doing a disservice if I didn’t address the elephant in the room – the potentially problematic nature of Blanco’s work. As I moved through the galleries, I found myself increasingly conflicted about his depictions of Balinese women.

On one hand, there’s undeniable beauty and technical skill in his paintings. The women are portrayed with dignity and often seem to possess an inner power that transcends their physical beauty. Blanco clearly admired his subjects and spent countless hours perfecting each portrait.

On the other hand, I couldn’t help but see them through a contemporary lens that questions the ethics of a Western male artist building his career on paintings of exotic, often nude, women from a culture not his own. There’s an unmistakable male gaze at work here, and a fetishization of “the exotic” that made me uncomfortable at times.

What makes this especially tricky is that Blanco wasn’t just passing through – he married a Balinese woman, raised a family here, and became part of the community. Does that give him more right to depict the culture? I’m not sure. The fact that his work is celebrated in Bali suggests many locals don’t find it exploitative, but then again, the museum is run by his family.

What bothered me most was that the museum itself doesn’t really acknowledge this tension. There’s no contextual information about the cultural exchange at play, no recognition that viewers might have complex reactions to the work. It felt like a missed opportunity for a deeper conversation about art, culture, and representation.

I found myself wishing I could ask other visitors what they thought, especially Balinese women. What do they see when they look at these paintings? Do they feel honored or objectified? Both? Neither?

I still don’t have a clear answer about how I feel. The paintings are undeniably beautiful and created with obvious reverence, but they also reflect a perspective and power dynamic that feels outdated. Maybe art doesn’t need to be morally uncomplicated to be valuable. What do you think?

Why Blanco’s Legacy Matters to Ubud Today

Whatever your take on Blanco’s art itself, his influence on Ubud’s identity as an artistic haven is undeniable. Along with a handful of other foreign artists who settled here in the mid-20th century, he helped transform Ubud from a quiet spiritual center to the cultural heart of Bali.

After visiting the museum, I started noticing Blanco’s influence everywhere in Ubud. The fusion of traditional Balinese and Western artistic styles that he pioneered has become part of the town’s visual language. Local artists still reference his techniques, and his bold use of color seems to have seeped into everything from street murals to textile designs in the market.

What struck me most was how Blanco’s presence helped create a template for what Ubud would become – a place where cultures blend and transform each other, where tradition and innovation coexist, sometimes uneasily but always vibrantly.

I found myself wondering what Blanco would make of Ubud today. Would he be thrilled to see how it’s become a magnet for artists, writers, and creative spirits from around the world? Or would he be dismayed by the commercialization – the yoga studios offering “authentic Balinese healing,” the vegan cafés serving avocado toast, the digital nomads hunched over laptops in air-conditioned coffee shops?

I suspect he’d have complicated feelings, just as I do. There’s something magical about how Ubud continues to inspire creativity, but also something a bit sad about how packaged and Instagram-ready some of that creativity has become.

The morning after my museum visit, I was sitting in a café when I overheard an American woman telling her friend she was taking a painting workshop with “Blanco’s grandson.” The legacy continues, it seems, though I wonder how it evolves with each generation. Does the grandson paint Balinese women too? Or has he found his own obsessions to explore?

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Planning Your Visit—Tips From Someone Who Wish They’d Known

If you’re heading to Ubud and want to experience the Blanco Renaissance Museum for yourself (which I highly recommend, regardless of my mixed feelings about some aspects), here are a few things I wish I’d known beforehand:

The museum is located about 2 kilometers north of central Ubud in the Campuhan area. You can walk there in about 25 minutes from the main market, but be prepared for a steep climb at the end – I was embarrassingly out of breath by the time I reached the entrance. If you’re not up for the walk, any taxi or ride-share can take you there for around 50,000 IDR (about $3.50 USD).

Admission was 100,000 IDR (roughly $7 USD) when I visited, which felt reasonable given the size of the collection and grounds. They accept cash only, so come prepared. The museum is open daily from 9am to 5pm, though in typical Bali fashion, these hours seemed more like loose suggestions than strict rules.

I’d recommend visiting in the morning if possible. The light is beautiful, it’s less crowded, and you’ll avoid the worst of the day’s heat. I went around 2pm and was sweating profusely throughout my visit, despite the fans strategically placed around the galleries.

Don’t make my mistake of counting on the museum café for lunch. It’s overpriced and underwhelming – I paid nearly $10 for a mediocre sandwich and a small bottle of water. I should’ve packed a snack or eaten at one of the many great warungs (local restaurants) in Ubud before heading over.

Plan to spend at least 1-2 hours exploring the museum and gardens. If you’re an art lover or photographer, you might want even longer. The bird aviary alone is worth 20 minutes of your time, especially if you’re traveling with kids who might get bored looking at paintings.

After your visit, consider walking down to the Campuhan Ridge Walk, which is nearby and offers stunning views of the surrounding valleys. It’s a popular sunset spot, though be warned that everyone else in Ubud has the same idea, so it gets crowded in the late afternoon.

One last tip: the gift shop actually has some interesting items, including prints of Blanco’s work that make unique souvenirs. I bought a small print that now hangs in my bathroom – it felt too risqué for my living room, but makes me smile every morning when I’m brushing my teeth, remembering that unexpected afternoon in Ubud.

Finding My Own Ubud Through Blanco’s Eyes

As I made my way back down the hill from the museum, sticky with sweat but somehow refreshed in spirit, I realized that getting lost had given me exactly what I needed – a glimpse of Ubud beyond the yoga studios and smoothie bowls that dominate the center of town.

Blanco’s Ubud was sensual, colorful, and unabashedly excessive. It embraced beauty without apology. It fused cultures and traditions to create something entirely new. And while I still have questions about his perspective and privilege, I can’t deny that his passion for this place was genuine and transformative.

The next day, I finally made it to those famous rice terraces I’d been trying to find when I got lost. They were stunning, of course – all geometric precision and shimmering green – but somehow they felt less revealing of Ubud’s character than Blanco’s riot of color and contradiction.

I left the museum feeling both enchanted and unsettled, which is perhaps the most honest way to experience a place as complex as Bali. The island doesn’t offer easy answers or simple narratives, and neither did Blanco’s art. Maybe that’s why it’s stayed with me so vividly, long after other memories of my trip have faded.

I’m still not sure where I’d hang one of his more provocative paintings if I bought one (my mom visits too often for that kind of display in my living room), but I’m grateful for the window his work provided into Ubud’s artistic soul. Sometimes getting lost is the only way to find what you didn’t know you were looking for.

About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.