From finestresullarte.info
The Venice Biennale reveals all the cracks and contradictions of the present: geopolitics, the market, activism and art coexist in an increasingly unstable balance. And meanwhile, it is vital that the voice of dissent explodes in its most creative forms. A report by Luca Bochicchio from the 61st Biennale.
The West’s priorities vis-à-vis Russia are clear: whether it is gas or vodka tonic, such as the one served from the morning of the first day in the rediscovered national pavilion, we are always open to dialogue, as long as there is ice. The fact that, when we don’t know how to end the journey in the large rooms assigned to the artists, we throw in a DJ set and strobe lights is not new this year, nor is it a prerogative of the flimsy Russian exhibition (so much for Culture).
With its baby dolls, Japan unleashed a kind of widespread performance, whereby every infant in its mother’s arms during preview days was given a strange look. As happens every day in our cities, for that matter. Gotcha Ei Arakawa Nash! The rickety stroller purchased at the flea market for our five-year-old daughter, although out of size by now, still saved us in the long marathon of the openings, but it was also mistaken for one of those parked at the conclusion of the Japanese pavilion, and we had to stand up for our rights to get it back. And still, I am struck by the dexterity with which a five-year-old woman can at first glance judge and discern the good from the shoddy, the weak from the strong; I am talking about works of art but also about disco music: it’s not like she danced to everything, she did.
If one really wanted to draw geopolitical conclusions from national participations, the current conjuncture and challenge between empires could not appear more clear and didactic: to the identity formalism (?) of the U.S., China responds with the vastness of “everything,” literally: the fantastic sculpture and 3D gaming, the ancient calligraphy and the robot that paints it, the traditional prints and the miniature diorama, in a labyrinth that converges on the very tall column in light design, etc. etc. Okay. By this metric, Italy’s flowery and intimate melancholy is also consistent with the historical moment.
India reconstructs four architectural environments with poetry, grandeur, and natural materials, and the guy overseeing welcomes us with a proud and very chill air-“welcome to our home”-before slinging out into the sun to devour a poke.
Willem Dafoe leaves with an expression that says it all, while a long-time Italian critic sensibly accuses the blow of a rather gratuitous “Fuck Duchamp,” which we all noticed at the beginning of the exhibition in the Central Pavilion. And from comments about “when African art was valid because it really inspired Picasso and the Surrealists” (again?), or about “why do we have to come all the way here to see certain things” (we’ve been hearing this whispered refrain in the halls since at least 2015), to “sorry to say it but if Sandretto and Pinault weren’t here, you wouldn’t see contemporary art in Venice,” we’re at their versus ours. Let us make peace with ourselves (and the world).
When the pro-Pal march hasn’t started yet, and the security service is at rest in front of the Israeli pavilion (this year, more consistent with national policy, moved location to the Arsenal), I walk in and think that Belu-Simion Fainaru has paid homage to Gino De Dominicis, and that someone else like me will be secretly scrutinizing the circles in the water to catch that square variable, unlikely but not impossible. Yes, I believe.
My daughter loved the sand of Oman. Thank you Biennial and Globalism: let’s keep our straits and minds open, mind you.
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