Adriano Pedrosa’s 60th Venice Biennale, themed Strangers Everywhere, offers a global exploration of identity, migration, and marginalised narratives. Featuring standout works like Isaac Chong Wai’s Falling Reversely, which symbolises solidarity in the midst of adversity, the exhibition prompts critical reflections on colonial legacies and contemporary crises amidst the sinking backdrop of Venice.

Pedrosa’s 60th international exhibition, Stranieri Ovunque - Strangers Everywhere, aims to present a multifaceted exposé transcending borders to provide a transnational and translational account of global disparities shaped by “identity, nationality, race, gender, sexuality, freedom, and wealth”. The exhibition offers a compelling survey of global art, with a significant emphasis on migrants, outsiders, Indigenous artists, and notably queer artists. The title, inspired by Claire Fontaine’s artwork displayed at the Arsenale’s shipyard engages playfully with the concept of “strangers everywhere” in over fifty languages, creating a textual and linguistic interplay that attempts to rewrite colonial history. This thematic framework sets the stage for an exhibition inviting visitors to explore diverse and often marginalised cultural narratives. However, whether the intent is fully realised remains open to debate.

Entering the Arsenale’s main hall, visitors encounter a visually striking large-scale installation by the Mataaho Collective from Aoteaora, New Zealand. This piece, inspired by the Māori concept of takapau (a woven mat traditionally used in ceremonies), is constructed from safety gear and buckles, symbolising the unrecognised labourers in society and paying homage to their heritage. This intricate and culturally rich installation deservedly won the Golden Lion for Best Artist in the International Exhibition and elegantly introduces the exhibition’s central themes right from the start.

However, the Nucleo Storico section, composed predominantly of paintings and works on paper feels overwhelming due to its sheer volume. Interestingly, the transnational approach to modernism in this exhibition deconstructs the traditional notion of Western modernism and its periodisation, making it highly relevant today. This is visually supported by this years’s selection at the Biennale. The exhibition is ambitious, featuring 331 artists from around the world. While this broad scope might not resonate with everyone, it offers an exciting journey of discovery through the works of diverse artists. Pedrosa faced a challenging task, following in the footsteps of Okwui Enwezor’s and Cecilia Alemani’s Biennales of 2015 and 2022, which prominently featured artists who were neither exclusively white nor male. In this edition, queerness is categorised under the theme of “foreigners,” a choice that has faced criticism. However, Pedrosa convincingly argues that queer individuals often feel like foreigners in their own environments, a perspective that resonates deeply with him as an openly queer curator.

The exhibition attempts to spotlight excluded female artists from Europe, such as Aloïse Corbaz, Anna Zemánková, and Madge Gill. While Aloïse’s Art Brut pieces, created with rudimentary materials during her time in a Swiss psychiatric hospital, and Zemánková’s lyrical herbarium are finally given recognition, these inclusions feel like obligatory nods rather than genuine acknowledgments of their contribution. The representation of artists from the Global South is more compelling. In this sense, the Biennale successfully amplifies voices of marginalised communities. Though this representation might not be particularly shocking or controversial, it includes bold choices such as the Arpilleristas (unidentified Chilean artists), whose embroidered textile works, created during Pinochet’s regime (1973-1989), highlight the ongoing struggles for institutional change in Chile. The presence of numerous textile and fibre artworks by artists like Olga de Amaral, Claudia Alarcón and Silät, Gianni Bertini, Bordadoras de Isla Negra, Susanne Wenger, and others, emphasises the significance of traditionally overlooked art forms, often associated with female artists or artistas populares.

Anna Zemánková, © La Biennale di Venezia

Personally, among the most impactful works of the Nucleo Contemporaneo are the video installations that disturb gender binaries and address colonial and decolonial narratives. Elyla’s video-performance Torita-encuetada (2023) stands out. As a Nicaraguan-born artist, Elyla creates resistance to colonial, imperial, and Western ideologies surrounding identity politics and nation-state cultural narratives. They coined the term “barro-mestiza” to challenge the traditional understanding of mestizaje during the ongoing process of decolonisation. The video-performance presents a ceremony of liberation, reinterpretation of folk traditions in a powerful evocative way.

Joshua Serafin’s VOID (2022) also left a profound impression. This piece narrates the creation of a new deity, situated in a primordial space covered in dark matter. Serafin’s research focuses on pre-colonial animistic creation myths from the Philippines, predating the Spanish imposition of Catholicism. The video’s depiction of a body emerging from a dark pond, accompanied by a sci-fi soundtrack, recreates queer mythology based on a fluid, non-binary identity. This work’s deep, uncanny feeling made it especially memorable.

A highly relevant piece among the contemporary artworks is the video installation The Mapping Journey Project (2008-2011) by French-Moroccan artist Bouchra Khalili. Employing collaborative storytelling strategies, Khalili maps migration routes across the Mediterranean from North and East Africa, the Middle East, and South Asia. This participatory installation documents migrants as they mark their routes on maps and recount their stories, serving as a powerful call for the self-determination of diasporic and Indigenous communities. The prominent placement of this work underscores the urgency of current migration crises driven by climate change, wars, and economic hardships, which profoundly shape today’s world.

Bouchra Khalili, © La Biennale di Venezia

Another standout artworks is Isaac Chong Wai’s performance and video installation Falling Reversely (2021-2024). This piece features a group of dancers from the Asian diaspora embodying the experiences of various Asian migrant communities facing attacks. In compelling display of solidarity, the dancers support each other whenever someone is about to fall, creating a powerful metaphor for mutual support in the face of adversity. This extends to the overarching theme of the biennial, suggesting that humanity can support itself in times of crises, although the feasibility of this ideal remains uncertain.

Photo by Atsushi Kakefuda/ Falling Reversely (2021/2024) by Isaac Chong Wai. Courtesy of Blindspot Gallery and Zilberman.

The bitterness of the decolonial subject matter permeates many national pavilions, yet the proposed new institutional types often remain speculative. Historically, universal exhibitions and art fairs dating back to the nineteenth century have displayed African and Indigenous peoples as exotic vestiges of an underdeveloped world. This begs the question: Is the “decolonising project” truly successful? The othering of people from the Global South is still evident, and the exhibition itself does not entirely decolonise the Biennale, which is inherently rooted in colonialism and nationalism, with nearly 90 national pavilions presenting their art. However, the intent to expand the art-historical canon should not be overlooked, nor should the immense curatorial work of Pedrosa, who has discovered, rediscovered, and introduced many unknown artists, artisans, and art practitioners.

In the Giardini, animations of violence are ubiquitous, yet the Biennale fails to adequately address the urgent realities of war, violence, and the deaths of countless innocents. The Polish pavilion’s exhibition, Repeat After Me II (2022), presents video recordings of Ukrainian war witnesses. War refugees mimic the sound of firearms, inviting the audience to participate in a karaoke-like format, thus creating a war soundtrack. The Ukrainian Open Group (Yuriy Biley, Pavlo Kovach, Anton Varga) crafts a powerful participatory experience, that leaves many perplexed. In stark contrast, the Israeli pavilion, represented by Ruth Patir, has closed its doors in protest until a ceasefire is agreed upon and hostages are released—an urgent demand voiced long before the Biennale's opening. Meanwhile, Anna Jermolaewa’s Rehearsal for Swan Lake (2024) in the Austrian pavilion offers a bizarre yet poignant display, with ballet dancer Oksana Serheieva rehearsing for Swan Lake, a performance historically broadcast on a loop during Soviet political upheavals. This piece subtly calls for a regime change in Russia. Additionally, it's worth noting that Russia canceled its participation just days after invading Ukraine. The Russian pavilion is now loaned to Bolivia, coinciding with a recent lithium deal between the two nations. This side note underscores the persistent entanglement of art and politics, and the Biennale's struggle to navigate these complexities in a meaningful way.

Anna Jermolaewa, © Markus Krottendorfer and Bildrecht

One of the most startling exhibitions for me was the Thresholds show in the German pavilion. From Yael Bartana’s cinematic futurist spaceship to Ersan Mondtag’s Monument to an unknown person (2024), a theatrical dramatised performance, the German pavilion is a grand spectacle. You find yourself immersed in a different world. Mondtag has built a three-level structure with an exterior covered in Eternit, a company that employed his grandfather, who ultimately died from asbestos poisoning. The three-story building is a recreation of an old house, covered in dust and grime, where performers move slowly, ignoring the visitors, who are included in the spectacle in a very alienating way. Outside of this structure, Yael Bertana’s video Farewell (2024) showcases a round dance of women and a nearly naked man summoning an alien spaceship? The extravagance and uncanny atmosphere of the pavilion attract a lot of attention, standing out in a place overflowing with artworks - they truly put on a show.

The Egyptian pavilion also impressed me with its theatricality. Wael Shawky’s Drama 1882 offers a reimagined version of historical moment in Egypt: the nationalist Urabi Revolution of 1882, which resulted in British occupation until 1956. Shawky tackles the issues of colonial legacy and nationalism, presenting them in a compelling dramatised musical performance. This innovative approach engages audiences, and brings historic events to life in a thought-provoking manner.

Archie Moore’s Kith and kin exhibition in the Australian pavilion was another moving experience. As a First Nations artist, Moore created a genealogical chart - a white chalk on black walls tracing his ancestry back over 65,000 years to Indigenous ancestors, including those common to all humans. His work reflects on Indigenous kinship, identity, issues of surveillance and incarceration faced by First Nations peoples in Australia. He also addresses themes of colonialism and language revival, offering a poignant exploration of heritage and identity.

The Japanese pavilion presents Yuko Mohri’s Compose exhibition, which fills the space with sound, light, movement, and smell. Kinetic sculptures created by household goods generate sounds and light be inserting electrodes into fruits, converting their moisture into electric signals. The pitch and intensity of these signals change as the fruit decompose. The inventive use of everyday materials, inspired by the resourceful creativity of Tokyo metro workers combating water leaks, is transposed to Venice - city slowly sinking - to showcase human ingenuity in the face of global crises.

However, conspicuously absent is an exploration of the growing influence of the internet on the art world, a crucial platform for migrants to connect globally and amplify their voices. WangShui’s Lipid Muse stands out as a notable exception, addressing this theme within the Biennale. Surprisingly, artificial intelligence (AI), a technology profoundly reshaping contemporary society, is scarcely represented at the event. Matthew Attard’s solo exhibition I Will Follow the Ship in the Pavilion of Malta and Pierre Huyghe’s Liminal exhibition at Punta della Dogana emerge as rare instances where AI is explored within the artistic context of the Biennale.

Another notable absence throughout the entire Biennale was the authentic voice of Eastern Europe. The pavilion that embraces its post-socialist identity most fully was Serbia’s Exposition Coloniale. Here, artist Aleksandar Denić and curator Ksenija Samardžija evoke the colonial era, creating a social memorabilia that resonates with anyone familiar with Eastern European realities. In contrast, the Romanian pavilion features Şerban Savu’s What Work Is, with fresco-like paintings inspired by Socialist realism, depicting scenes of leisure rather than labour, reflecting on shifting societal narratives. The Czechoslovak pavilion features Eva Koťátková’s Lenka, a giraffe transported from Kenya to Prague’s zoo, where it only survived two years in captivity. The story of Lenka is interpreted not only by the author, but by children and educators as well, and it is a participatory artwork enjoyed especially by younger audiences.

The 60th Biennale, under the theme of “Otherness” navigates a complex terrain or artistic representation and global discourse. While it touches upon critical global issues like the Palestinian genocide and the war in Ukraine, its engagement often feels indirect and metaphorical rather than explicit. This approach critiques not only the societal “Other,” but also the art world itself, questioning its own elite structures and market dynamics. This year’s La Biennale once again highlights the fragility of the art world and its dependence on its patrons. It also brings forth the perennial question: Is it worth bringing more waste and crowds to the slowly drowning city of La Serenissima, especially in the face of an ecological crisis, to host these grant exposés on global catastrophes? This remains an unresolved issue, yet the art world will undoubtedly reconvene in Venice in two years’ time continuing the ongoing debate.

Reflections from La Biennale’s Sinking Ship

©New Translation 2022
ISSN 2729-7888

hello@vunu.sk

Reflections from La Biennale’s Sinking Ship

Povzdychnutie Rachel Whiteread (Poznámka pod čiarou k SNG)

©New Translation 2022ISSN 2729-7888

hello@vunu.sk

©New Translation 2022
ISSN 2729-7888