Hundreds of sensations, high-flying international artists, the oddball culture minister and a few screaming celebrities are stranded on a sinking island… what could go wrong?
This film debuted last week, with the opening of the Venice Biennale, now in its 60th year and the world’s longest-running, most distinguished contemporary art festival, following the excitement of a Spritz-soaked preview week, complete with fantasy art (and the obligatory nonsense). entry.
For scenery, imagine the Venice Carnival, but with hand-painted masks a facelift, fancy dress codes billionaire pinstripes and outdoor sneakers, and festivities are fad fashion parties that make Parisians look docile. It all plays out in the shadow of superyachts looming over postcard-perfect lemon sherbet Italian Gothic buildings, and on the fourth night, as vendors gather and anyone who can still gather asks “can you do it?” Do you know who I am? He’s fighting for a spot on the boat with After Party.
These art Olympiads are held every two years by the world’s nations (this year is the 85th, from Great Britain to North Macedonia) in separate pavilions with an overarching Biennial theme (‘Strangers Everywhere’ for 2024), as well as a central Curated by the São Paulo Museum of Art The exhibition is undertaken by director Adriano Pedrosa.
The pavilions are divided into two parts, east of Venice, in the Castello district – in the Arsenale, the Renaissance shipyards set up as rows of white cube-type galleries, and in the Giardini, the Napoleonic gardens, which are all the grander (if any). a striking exercise of soft power consisting of architecturally singular, free-standing buildings. The remaining few (highlights including the Ethiopian Pavilion, hosted by London gallery Saatchi Yates, and the Nigerian Pavilion, curated by London-based Aindrea Emelife) are dotted around various empty mansions and palazzos around the city, joining secondary exhibitions (the impressive Zeng Fanzhi: Near and Far/Now and Then, retrospectives for Willem de Kooning at the Gallerie dell’Accademia and Jean Cocteau in the Peggy Guggenheim Collection.
It’s all a riveting game from Tuesday, when the fizzy openings of each country’s spot are revealed (“Go through Saudi Arabia – Luxembourg has prosecco opposite Peru” read on WhatsApp) and before you can fill a Hauser & Wirth bag with press releases created the field. people tucked into tweed sat down to a Chanel dinner in honor of the French. On Wednesday, Salma Hayek wore a cobalt blue, sequined ball gown and the city was literally buzzing with gallerists and critics seeing the 2024 proposal for the first time.
Someone from the art field said to me, “If you want to keep your finger on the pulse of the world, come to the Biennial.” It was no surprise, then, that the political atmosphere was heated. The Israel/Gaza war was inevitable, most obviously in the Giardini, where the Israeli pavilion was locked and kept under the watchful eye of armed guards, some wearing combat uniforms. A poster in the window read: “The artist and curators of the Israeli pavilion will open the exhibition once a ceasefire and hostage release agreement is reached.” Whether this is enough has been a matter of fierce debate. Some participated in organized protests; many made quieter statements while wearing Keffiyeh scarves.
Considering the theme, political statements are also made in most of the pavilions; Poland doubled down on the impact of the Ukraine war, Brazil declared “you can’t breathe money” in a last-ditch attempt to stop the destruction of the Amazon, while Senegal explored the “future migration phenomenon of climate change”. While corn was the hot ticket, boasting a Thorpe Park-style queue outside, Australian artist Archie Moore took home the Golden Lion for his animated chalk family tree tracing 65,000 years of indigenous ancestors.
The depressing notions of it all were being chewed out over lobster linguines by art lovers wearing lensed sunglasses to match their Aperols, at “networking” events and smart parties thrown by a rolodex of top fashion brands amassed to fund their respective countries’ advertising. output.
Burberry took care of Britain; where artist John Akomfrah was accompanied by Bollinger and the London arts team (V&A Director, Tristram Hunt, TalkArt podcasters Russell Tovey and Robert Diament, and Deputy Mayor for Culture and Creative Industries Justine Simons). Artichokes at Harry’s Bar on Thursday night. Singaporean artist Robert Zhao Renhui, who is exploring the country’s reforestation, which includes shipping collected debris for intriguing sculptures, was supported by shoe brand Charles & Keith and arrived with a lavish VIP lunch; Tod’s, the official leather goods provider of Italy’s 1%, showed off its power with a red carpet cocktail party by the canal. Actors Adrien Brody and Hayley Atwell were there, as were the craftsmen who make classic Murano glass driving shoes.
In a quiet corner, Antique Roadshow expert Steven Moore, who has become an Instagram influencer with 382,000 followers living part-time in Venice, mused on the foibles of Venetian high society (“you have to be careful; you can get up and fall down quicker”) with Atwell. Moore, who himself shot parts of Mission Impossible 7 here, is no stranger to the city: “There are two types of Biennials; “elegant type and art form,” she said. As for the sartorial do’s and don’ts: “I saw five or six women looking very stylish in vintage lamé, which I predict will be a new evening trend. But there are too many people trying scarves; that’s already over.”
Dodge those who try to tell you they are “healing with art”, be patient with endless, incomprehensible art texts, and avoid those who shout “I can’t wait for next year’s Biennale”; the whole event culminates in a jubilant kneeling. Celebrating diversity and unlocking doors that are often closed; This is all helped, of course, by the incredible movie-set-level magnificence of Venice.
The previewers now boarded water taxis for the airport; The biennial opened to the public on Saturday and will continue until November 24. Nonnas will breathe a collective sigh of relief across the city. They’re used to tourists, not the hundred or so Rick Owens club kids packing their vaporettos in the wee hours of the morning after Rick Owens’ Wednesday night spree at Lido airport (for his wife Michèle Lamy’s 80th birthday, no less). .
However, you’ll be damned if the dirty looks from the locals can wipe the smile off anyone’s face; along with all the bright youngsters running around, many of the more weathered ones were visibly excited to the core. Venice will do this.