Venice is one of those cities that carries a persistent, almost stoic demeanor through its tight streets and winding waterways. A well-maintained patina of history, inseparable from the very ground on which the city is built. And thus, naturally, one grapples with these layered pasts amid the explosion of contemporary art during the Biennale.
This year, there has already been much to discuss in the lead-up to the preview and public opening. From the untimely passing of its director, Koyo Kouoh, to the cancellation of the South African Pavilion, the sudden death of Henrike Naumann, who had been nominated to co-represent the German Pavilion, to the recent collective resignation of the international jury – events have unfolded rapidly. In Minor Keys was intended to focus on quieter frequencies, away from noise and spectacle. Yet, as circumstances would have it, the noise has already been considerable.
At the same time, everything continues. We are here, coming from all corners of the world, adding a touch of art-world glamour to the tourist-heavy maze, alongside the Venetian tradition of bàcari on nearly every corner – perfect for a quick espresso, a sandwich, or a glass of wine, all within that effortlessly stylish, laid-back atmosphere.
The Biennale, which began with largely Eurocentric representations, has grown over the decades to include around 100 official national pavilions this year – mainly located in the Giardini and the Arsenale, but also spread across the city. Beyond these, there are countless exhibitions, institutions, gatherings, talks, and other happenings throughout Venice.
Speaking to long-time participants of the Venice Biennale, one point is repeated quite often – the sheer number of shows, especially those backed by major institutions and galleries, has escalated. In a city in which spatiality is itself a form of occupation and performance, the question becomes: what is the core of the Biennale now? Are we talking about art or systems? Someone said, they make up to eighty percent of their yearly budget in the preview week, meeting with patrons, presenting their artists and upcoming projects, all in merely four days. People make career-changing connections here, and amongst the hustle, we celebrate the soul of this world – art.
And since we are all slightly insane for trying to see it all while surviving on pizza and espressi (with the obligatory Bellini at Harry’s Bar, of course), here are a few snapshots of exhibitions in and around the 61st Venice Biennale.
Monday.
5 Works by Lydia Ourahmane, a solo exhibition at the Nicoletta Fiorucci Foundation, curated by Polly Staple, is a compelling example of engaging with the realities of a space – especially a city like Venice. The artist’s material conversation is subtle at first, almost philosophical on its surface, yet deeply poignant in addressing the difficulties Venice is facing. The large wooden pier installed amidst marble flooring gestures towards the access and power dynamics of space; the cast of what appears to be an angelic sculpture embeds itself, inverted, into the wall; a room filled with what seem to be hotel laundry roll containers suggests another inversion – that of mass-economy residue.
Yields of Fray by Leo Frontini, curated by Amah-Rose Abrams at Spazio Arte Contemporanea, feels so fitting to the Venetian aesthetic that it seems almost an extension of the city’s color palette and delicate craftsmanship, ubiquitous in nearly every building. Only upon closer inspection does its contemporaneity – and its partly unsettling visual language – begin to emerge. Intriguing and so refined, it is at times difficult to reconcile with a 26-year-old artist. “There is a kind of modern fairytale noir played out here, a darkness that underpins the caprice of creating these works, conceived in the unconscious mind. Through painting, drawing, and sculpture, we see life through the eyes of the artist, as though the work translates a feeling or event that defies language,” says Abrams.
Tuesday.
It started bright and early, and, before coffee, I stepped into the Ateneo Veneto of Sciences, Literature and Arts – one of the oldest cultural institutions still active today. After wildly different uses over the centuries, from a space providing spiritual support to those sentenced to death by hanging to its current role as host of The Phantom Combatants by Natasha Tontey, commissioned by LAS Art Foundation and Amos Rex, the building holds a dense and layered history. Stepping into this ancient space, now dipped in red, the busts and wall frescoes take on a striking, almost brutal hue – again a moment of occupying history-inscribed structures. The video installation is similarly intense – grotesque, funny, and strange. The clash is particularly tangible and, to be honest, fun. The work is a piece of speculative fiction based on the Minahasan female rebel soldier Len Karamoy, who fought in the Permesta movement against the centralized rule of the Indonesian government from 1957 to 1961. The artist describes it as a “glamorous disturbance”, which feels entirely apt.
After that, another conversation with the preservation of history – this time in the gestalt of sculpture – unfolds in one of the city’s most recognizable institutions: the Museo Correr, stretching along two sides of Piazza San Marco. Inside, almost endless rooms of the past house statues, regalia, and other anchors of human inscription. Spiral Economy – Charrière and Canova by Julian Charrière unfolds like an epistle across space, revealing a poetry of materiality, where the idealized forms of Antonio Canova converge with the artist’s geological sensibility. Here, the museum pieces are not mere backdrops but become protagonists within the installation – at times unfolding in explosive video frames, at others appearing as subtle interventions within the museum aesthetic: a vending machine offering fossilized ammonites, ancient marine beings that, over millions of years, have curled into stone.
Further on, in one of the many palazzi of the city, unassuming from the outside, a gate opens onto the group exhibition Outta Love, presented by Stallmann. An exploration of materials, stories, and ideas, it unfolds through a constellation of practices: Angela Brandys creates vivid, Renaissance-reminiscent tapestries from her wardrobe; Darren Bader finds new ways of thinking about what sculpture can be; Miko Pavlov reimagines landscape; Vivian Maier photographs herself; Daniel Spivakov paints self-portraits as mythological heroes and villains; Wolfgang Tillmans turns his lens to his windowsill; Jenny Saville scans the body; Lawrence Weiner declares, “WHOLE CLOTH STRETCHED TO THE LIMIT”; Francesca Woodman disappears within her own photographs. And then, another quiet surprise of the city – a garden appears, a moment to breathe before the art tour continues.
Wednesday.
To unpack the Venice Biennale itself would be to delve into the underbelly of a system that seems to draw from the playbook of classism – it all depends on money and position; access is gold. The rumor is – a ticket for the pre-pre-view goes for 800 EUR. Isn’t it fascinating how layered this all is? It becomes the proverbial peeling of the onion, the psychology of the international art world, of which the Venice Biennale remains, even after 131 years, the highest echelon.
One truly beautiful equalizer is that, at some point, everyone has to walk these narrow stone alleys and bridges – even a Michèle Lamy, stylish and flanked by an entourage, passing by. And it is rather fabulous when one, like me, in a city I have visited many times yet do not live in, can walk around and suddenly bump into people I haven’t seen for years, from somewhere else in the world – and we recognize each other and why we are here, in this moment. It is this shared-ness of space and proof of life that makes it quite unique. And thus even standing in line (of course not with Michèle Lamy) to get into the Giardini this morning becomes a moment of chance encounters and conversation.
And so, the Wednesday takeaway in a nutshell – previewing, standing in queues, connecting with people, and definitely not seeing much art. What I did see in the Giardini, though, was a Pussy Riot protest in front of the Russian Pavilion; Yto Barrada at the French Pavilion, with a materially soft engagement with language, systems, and the violence embedded within them; long queues at some pavilions – none at others; a rather small crowd and a strange speech in front of the US Pavilion; and a spectacle at Austria’s Pavilion, tucked away in the back part of this vast area.
Florentina Holzinger has been making – quite literally – waves for some time with her performance work, unfiltered and crude, not in terms of its production, which is meticulous, but in terms of social perception. Here, she incorporates audience participation, using visitors’ urine as part of the installation. Then, to Egypt – again a complete contrast – showing works by Armen Agop: soft stone sculptures, quiet and grounding.
It can be slightly disorienting, yet also compelling, when one considers the geographic markers embedded in brick and mortar. The oldest pavilions are Eurocentric, followed by additions over time, shaped by shifting world politics. As participation grew, the Arsenale was added in 1980 – today, 99 national pavilions take part, extending across the city, where space is naturally scarce and, once again, bound up in its own politics. And one begins to wonder – is it perhaps time to change things? Do we still need country pavilions? Is geography still the defining framework through which we understand the world? Yes, the nation-state remains a reality, unlikely to shift any time soon – especially given the still-unfolding developments around us, with ongoing and often forced renegotiations of borders, territorial sovereignty, and belonging.
At the Arsenale, apart from China and Italy, which have self-contained spaces, one moves from country to country through the long halls of the former shipyard. Many large-scale, immersive installations dominate – darkened rooms, fabric, tapestries, rubble, glass, and clay. Scale feels important, perhaps guided by the height of the halls, yet there is undeniably a maximalist tendency this year. Equally striking is the relative absence of the human figure.
And then, after a kind of retinal overstimulation – the density of artworks, people, and ideas, ready to be unpacked – it feels like everything, everywhere, all at once. With both mind and heart full, it is time to step back into the city and seek out quieter projects, to breathe. Oikeiōsis by Pavlina Vagioni offers such a moment. Located just by the Arsenale entrance, it creates a pause, as the artist puts it: “The world is loud with reasons to turn away from one another. I wanted to make a quiet work – not a protest, but a space where strangers can sit together and remember that this, too, is real. In a Biennale composed in minor keys, this is the frequency I wanted to tune to – not a sound, but what the sound reveals.”
Thursday.
The second day of the pre-opening feels more intentional – still large crowds moving through, but a somewhat less driven atmosphere than the first rush of excitement. So, the Thursday takeaway in a nutshell – performance rules, the fact of the female body, and a persistent feeling of: are we in the era of the subtle weird?
In the Japanese Pavilion, one can borrow a baby doll in Ei Arakawa-Nash’s installation – quirky, cute, and a bit strange. One might be missing the point that it is actually about a serious topic. As a symbol of all precious life, it might very well be a good reminder of a shared responsibility. In contrast, the German Pavilion feels like a color palette of New Objectivity, showing the late Henrike Naumann and Sung Tieu. The cut-in-half chairs on the high ceiling – the repetitiveness of their quiet hovering – have a substantial effect, for which Naumann’s works are known, alongside the more subtle and philosophical works by Tieu.
Going to the Belgian Pavilion with Miet Warlop, it has been transformed into what looks like a workshop of words and possible meanings. Performers activate the installation through physical and sculptural rituals, referring to the turbulent time in which they keep moving forward, doing anything to avoid a standstill. Intense and powerful, I do wonder how long these performances will continue throughout the Biennale’s run until 22 November – and how these spaces function without them being performed.
And of course, the archive images and postcards with which the Spanish Pavilion is wallpapered are probably the most immediate – and yet extremely engaging – moment of human history, borders, and ideas of the world. The Brazilian Pavilion, located just over the bridge in the back section of Giardini, shows works by Adriana Varejo and Rosana Paulino. Here, materiality speaks loudly, where surfaces are cut open to reveal the inner workings of a system, violent and generous.
The main exhibition, from which this Biennale takes its title In Minor Keys, is divided between the two spaces – Giardini and Arsenale – framing this year within the curatorial concept by the late Koyo Kouoh. With 111 artists and collectives shown, it is, in comparison to earlier iterations, rather small. In Minor Keys does not ask big questions; it reaffirms certainties of humanness. It is as if your mother tells you something unbelievable that, in your gut, you know is true, but the world says otherwise. Yet you unequivocally believe your mother’s words because she is also the authority. In that way, this exhibition speaks about facts of life we are all aware of – whether consciously or not – but for which we have lost focus or a sense of basic trust. With this, Kouoh reminds us.
What is quite noticeable is the diverse materiality and scale of the works – from whimsical to classically framed, ancient to contemporary – and the female body, which is predominant within the main exhibition as well as the country pavilions. Often sensual to sexual, self-owning, and again that persisting fact of life – its connotation is neither forced nor judgmental; it is not protesting nor hiding – it is the undeniable embodiment. It feels like a liberation of the female body we have yet to see in the world. In Minor Keys really strikes a tone that is deep, heavy, and reverberating with beautiful certainty.
And again, after another overload of things seen, heard, and thought, I am going to a quieter space: Elegy by Gabrielle Goliath. It was meant to be part of the South African Pavilion, which was cancelled by the culture minister after the appointment for its representation was announced. After a legal battle was lost, the artist shows the multi-channel video in the church Chiesa di Sant’Antonin. Even though it came as a shock that South Africa would not be partaking in this year’s Biennale, for Goliath’s work there is a silver lining – the venue is just perfect. Elegy is a long-term commemorative performance in which each iteration gathers a group of seven female vocal performers who collectively enact a ritual of mourning, sustaining a single haunting tone over the course of an hour.