One shouldn’t attend the Biennale expecting consistently high levels of artistic expression. Given the sheer scale of the exhibition, which spreads well beyond the official Giardini and Arsenale venues and into pretty much any semi-open building of the city, there are bound to be great shows like there will be awful ones. This year, however, my disappointment centered primarily around the curating efforts of official Biennale events - whilst the Arsenale held some hidden gems, the Giardini Central Pavilion presentation seemed completely disjointed and lacking of any exceptional pieces. Here’s my take on what to see and what you should run away from in this year’s Venice-hosted art fest.
Must see: the Arsenale
From a ‘pop’ Russian church by Irina Korina to Yee Sookung’s Translated Vase… Nine Dragons in Wonderland, via Zilia Sanchez’s oddly erotic minimalistic paintings, the Arsenale main pavilion explored themes of identity, tradition and the way in which we grapple with squaring them up against today’s reality.
Looking at Petrit Halilaj’s Do you realise there is a rainbow even if it’s night, which to me perfectly encapsulated this dichotomy of an artist exploring sexuality whilst grappling with the meaning of his roots, I got the sense of an artistic catharsis, an identity that was being renewed and reformed around its essence rather than crystallized.
The artist, building giant moths out of traditional Kosovar fabrics with his mother, bridges the gap between what was (his ethnicity), the fragility of what is (the moth figure, one of those ephemeral creatures killed by a hand or burned by a too-bright light) and the hope of what is to come: the insects, poised as if to fly off, suggest the possibility of a brighter future.
Some of the country pavilions in the adjacent buildings echoed and brought out that theme in extremely strong ways. I was particularly struck by the two artists represented in the South-African pavilion. Both exploring the issue of displaced identities, they were stark reminders of some of humanity’s largest shortcomings.
For Modisakeng, that’s the enduring legacy of black South-African slavery. Set up as a triptych of nearly-still videos, the artist presents figures on boats which look eerily like coffins. Each lying in their boats, the passengers and the single item they carry are slowly engulfed in water, then released, the ebb and flow echoing perhaps the dehumanization of slaves which reduced them to their bodies - when one dies, another might stand in his place, but the senselessness of the act will be repeated over and over again.
Breitz, focusing on our perception of suffering and the influence of mediatization on it, confronts the viewer to their feelings, showing first Julianne Moore and Alec Baldwin acting out refugees’ stories before confronting us to the victims themselves, narrating the exact same story - their own. The difference in impact is shocking: I found myself crying at the actors, and feeling sorry, though not as emotionally affected, by the real people. brietz’s message rang very clear: the media has distorted our expectations of tragedy, to the extent that we need staging to relate.
A few other amazing pavilions to visit there: the Italian pavilion, distorting your senses first via a pool hung above the entire hall, then via a Jesus-building factory where putrefying statues are built amid clinically shiny structures; the Chilean pavilion, paying tribute to the Mapuche community, and the Philippino pavilion, where Lani Maestro’s No Pain LikeThis Body echoes one of the most violently good books I’ve ever read - the eponymous work by Harold Sonny Ladoo.
Avoid: the Giardini Central Pavilion
I alluded to this at the beginning of the article, but I found no sense or reason behind the curating of the Biennale’s Central Pavilion. whilst Olafur Eliasson’s lamp-building workshop with refugees seemed meaningful, the rest of the 3,500m2 building basically consisted ina collection of senseless objects, with the notable example of John Waters’ Study Art Sign series, an Instagram-friendly collection of highly meaningless paintings.
Go back-to-back to: the Venezuelan and Russian pavilions
Whilst both represented glaringly obvious displays of political thought, they did so with varying levels of success: you should go to the Venezuelan pavilion for the hilarious exhibition intro, not so much the bland art on display.
The Russian pavilion, as always, presents a highly subtle but pressing criticism of our world. Centred this year around the question of internet censorship (an interesting angle if ever there was one), Russia presents us with a re-interpretation of Hell as a place for all those who misbehaved online - the punished are cast in stone next to their sins.
If you don’t come out thinking about how incredibly chutzpedic this is of a country accused of meddling in a bunch of elections this year, I don’t know what will.
Feel weirdly high at: the Finnish pavilion
There’s always one pavilion that looks like it was created by an artist on acid and the Biennale, and this year, the Finnish pavilion takes that prize. Enter into the consciousness of the ‘Aalton Natives’, a giant egg and a box, to hear them sing about becoming each other and more amazing things.
Book yourself in for: the German pavilion
This is one I unfortunately can’t talk about from experience - you do genuinely need to book for the Faust representation happening under peoples’ feet in the German pavilion, and of course I didn’t (#planning). From what I’ve been told though, the performance is one to behold so, you know, don’t repeat my mistakes.
Go a little bit out of the way for: the Syrian pavilion
You’ll need to go all the way to San Giorgio Maggiore to see this one, but the Syrian pavilion is a work of quiet power. In the midst of the country’s tragedy, artists pay tribute to the lost monuments and innocence of Syria - a strong message in the middle of all that art.