Leading up to this year’s Biennale Austria’s curator and artist were secretive about their pavillion. The collaboration this year was from artist Renate Bertlmann and curator Felicitas Thun-Hohenstein. These two have worked together multiple times in both of their careers, their feminist visions combining to create both a provocative and aesthetic exhibition. Both women were born and raised in Austria and continue to work there.
Rennate started her career during the resurgences of the women’s movement in the 70s when women were challenging the male dominated work and political force. In agreeance with this Bertlmann’s work addressed issues that women were fighting against but did so without disregarding the masculine view. She combined the two genders in provocative yet profound and important ways. Much of her work dealt with the social constraint put on both females and males. This acknowledged that the imbalance of power was (and is) unhealthy for both parties involved.
Felicitas is the curator chosen from Austria. Thun-Hohenstein has curated about 15 shows since 2008. She wears many hats including being an instructor at Institute of Art Theory and Cultural Studies at the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna, being an art historian, curator, and artist herself. Her background has also had a strong feminist view which has lead to previous collaborations with Bertlmann, including this one.
To be frank this year’s exhibition did not live up the expectation that people had assumed it would, with that said, the two did not release much to any information on the pavilion so there wasn’t much to frame viewers expectations. It was correctly assumed on my part and others that the exhibition would be based on gender stereotypes and would harken to some of Berkemann’s past work. Instead of simply references and building on her previous works the pavillion felt like a collage of past exhibition pieces. The entire inside of the pavillion is large photographs of previous works, examples of this is shown in the above photographs. The first ten minutes that I was in the pavillion I was on a hunt for something different, in hopes to find a piece original to this Biennale. I did find that, in the back of the pavillion in the court yard as a garden of roses with spears as seams. Knowing her previous work it was not a shock that such a provocative piece was present.
I was not alone in my disappointment of Austria’s pavillion. It ranked as one of the worst pavilions of the Biennale by the Guardian or was simply not mentioned in numerous other reviews. I believe this is in part because the piece created for this exhibition seemed to take a backseat to her previous works, even her handouts depicted a performance piece from earlier in her career.
I give props to Austria for allowing such progressive and provocative messages to be in conversation at their pavilion but the execution seemed to fall a little flat.
Joan Brossa, Memory of a Nightmare, 1991, Catalonian Pavilion, Fondamenta Quintavalle, Venice Biennale. Photo by Jesse Robinson. To Lose Your Head (Idols) is the Catalonian exhibition for the 2019 Venice Biennale. The project is a visual digression on the power of image—more specifically the power of monuments and statues that represent a person or idea that then can take on a life of their own in the public. In this regard, the message remains consistent with what was anticipated from the pavilion through researching the project and interestingly touches on a universal idea of monument making and the worship or destruction a monument receives during its lifespan. The visuals provided for association by Albert Garcia-Alzórriz’s accompanying film EYES/EYES/EYES/EYES eloquently speaks to this universal practice, the human need to imbue inanimate statue with “life” and then the human reaction to the life the statue takes on—hate or adoration. The film uses the iconography of idols to great advantage, incorporating shots of religious and political statue-making as well as monuments to figures in popular culture, placing the toppling of Lenin’s statue in Kiev and fans laying flowers on the headstone of John Lennon’s grave in the same discourse. The statues that surround the walkway as you enter the pavilion give a helpful, albeit abbreviated, context for the types of idols being discussed, namely that of a monument, a grave marker, and finally culminating with a simultaneously funerary and religious image: Holy Burial Procession by Salvador Martorell (pictured below).
Salvador Martorell, Holy Burial Procession, 2019, Catalonian Pavilion, Fondamenta Quintavalle, Venice Biennale. Photo by Jesse Robinson. The fact that the exhibition practices what it preaches (or at least researches) by displaying monuments and statues that existed prior to To Lose Your Heads lends an interesting archival perspective to the work as a whole, although this is not without consequence to the work’s overall appeal.
Exhibition View, 2019, Catalonian Pavilion, Fondamenta Quintavalle, Venice Biennale. Photo by Jesse Robinson. Unfortunately, what should have been the strongest element of the project quickly becomes representative of its biggest problem; that element being the performance designed by Marcel Borrás entitled She appropriates in present, in which an actress performs specific moments of destruction and adoration in the lives of the various documented statues in the pavilion. While the idea of performance remains as interesting as it first appeared in researching the exhibition, much is lost in translation as the performance, an exclusive event held in front of a selected audience, is only translated to the general audience by the use of still images and the presence of props from the performance. These provided visuals on their own do very little to elaborate on the performance’s significance to the project as a whole, and the recordings of the performance in the pavilion as promised by the website are notably absent, to the exhibition’s detriment. As such, the exhibition is robbed of much of its liveliness and is merely informative in a dry, almost academic, sense rather than through its powerful imagery. Curator Pedro Azara’s contribution to the project, a long table of newspaper clippings and paragraphs of information, does not do much to dissuade the audience from thinking of the exhibition as a lecture—interesting though the lecture may be.
Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir, also known as Shoplifter, represents Iceland in the 2019 Venice Biennale with an installation of synthetic hair. For the past fifteen years she has explored the use and symbolic nature of hair with regards to its visual and artistic potential. Her body of works largely consist of sculptures, site-specific installations, and wall murals. Her large-scale site-specific installations are anchored in her fascination with pop culture and mass production, as well as craft and folk art. From a young age she was enamored by hair and how people use it to identify themselves within a group and as a platform for self-expression. She sees hair as the ultimate thread that grows from our body – an original, natural, and creative fiber.
Chromo Sapiens is located on the island of Giudecca, separate from other national pavilions, and completely worth the trip. Arnardóttir turned a warehouse space into a grotto of hair that covers every inch of wall and ceiling. The space is split into three chambers; the first space is dark and closed off, while the second opens into a cavernous space filled with bright neon colors and stalactites. The final space is filled with pastel and white hair, projecting a sense of serenity.
The organic shapes that came from covering the entire interior of the warehouse bring up issues of how we use space and how it informs our experience. The use of non-traditional materials and color change often changes our perception of space. Bright colors signify happiness and joy, where dark colors inspire feelings of sadness or unease. The chambers are designed to draws visitors from darkness to light – a journey through wonderland.
This installation breaks the instilled rule of “don’t touch the art” as visitors are encouraged to lay on the fur covered bench in the second chamber, walk into the hair covered walls, and hug the stalactites hanging from the ceiling. People are often horrified at the thought of any bodily waste, so it is remarkable how Arnardóttir creates such an interactive and welcoming space.
In addition to the element of touch, Arnardóttir included an auditory component. Music from an Icelandic metal band fills the space, but not in an expected way – the music seems to pulse and bring the space to life. Anytime the music reset and there was a moment of silence, it changed the way the space felt – the life and energy seemed to fade. The inclusion of music is very successful in creating another dimension to the work.
Arnardóttir consistently states that she wants people to have fun when experiencing her work. With the theme of the 2019 Venice Biennale being “May You Live in Interesting Times,” much of the subject matter in other pavilions focus on overtly serious or pressing political issues. By creating a space full of color and vibrancy, Arnardóttir is successful in her attempts to take the grotesque and transform it into something beautiful, engaging, and a much-needed breath of fresh air.
The 2019 Venice Biennale had the pleasure of hosting the Peruvian pavilion in its historical Arsenale. The Peruvian pavilion exhibited a single artist, Christian Bendayan, curated by Gustavo Buntinx. We will take a look at Buntinx’s background, the pavilion’s theme and Bendayan’s work, and finally the general structure of the exhibit.
Gustavo Buntinx, an art historian, curator, critic and theorist based in Lima, has merits that complemented and qualified him perfectly for the mission of introducing Bendayan’s paintings. Buntinx graduated magna cum laude from Harvard in the late 1970’s, after which he taught in various graduate and undergraduate institutions in Latin America. His best-known research deals with modern and contemporary art, exploring complex historical circumstances, as well as the relationships between art and violence, art and politics, and art and religion. Buntinx has curated numerous shows locally and internationally all over Latin America, in addition to serving for three decades as the “chauffeur” of Micromuseo (“al fondo hay sitio ”), a unique traveling museum. It was during this time, in 2007, that he first met Bendayan, featuring his work in the Micromuseo. In this chauffeur role, he worked to fill the void in Lima’s museum world by offering a museum experience that is varied, diverse and accessible. Lastly, he was also a founding member of the Civil Society Collective.
Christian Bendayan’s work explores the Amazonian lifestyle. The theme of the pavilion was “Indios Antropófagos.” The title of the exhibition, willingly encapsulated between quotation marks, cites the frequent inscription of similar phrases on early 20th century postcards with exoticised Amazonian subjects, edited or exaggerated to express a sense of otherness. Through large, colorful oil paintings—and some small collages, Bendayan considers and rebuilds the Amazon’s constructed image. Instead of perpetuating and idealizing the notion that the Amazon is purely a jungle full of exotic savages, Bendayan seeks to offer a unique perspective on the accessibility Amazonian’s individuals lives, often including LGBTQ ideas and still maintaining a strong sense of cultural pride. He shows the viewer that Peruvians are no strangers to urban growth, and that they still coexist and thrive within their tropical landscape.
Upon entering the Peruvian pavilion, the viewer is first confronted with a huge painting of Bendayan’s, and just a little further is the title, theme, exhibit statement, and curatorial statement. As a viewer, this is quite nice in contrast to some of the other pavilions in which the information is quite hard to quickly locate. Just bit further into the pavilion, there are many contextual pieces, such as old postcards, propaganda, and notes from travelers in the past demonstrating this intense exotification of the Amazonian people and their culture. Walking past this, the viewer finds themselves in an open gallery space, although instead of traditional white walls, the walls are black and the space is dimly lit, illuminating just the paintings. This was successful in staging the works, creating a kind of mysterious and jungle-esque scenario for viewing— yet shining a light on the works, and thus the contemporary life of the Amazonians.
This whole time there were no land mines by Lawrence Abu Hamdan. Location: Proposition B at Giardini
This whole time there were no land mines was one of my all time favorite works, tied with For, in your tongue, I cannot fit. Those two works both immediately captured my attention and left lasting, emotional impressions even after I had left them.
The first thing that I noticed about There were no land mines was the sound. The exhibition space already had a somber mood as the entrance into There were no land mines was surrounded by Rula Halawani’s photography of walls dividing Palestine and Isreal. As viewers enter the room, frantic yelling can be heard around the corner where There were no land mines is placed. The voiceless screaming immediately caused chills to overcome me, and I was both excited and frightened to enter the space and see where it came from. On two walls facing each other are eight monitors. Clips of the same found footage flicker in and out, creating a frenzy of sound and visual action. The plaque outside the installation situates the video, explaining that the footage was captured when Syrian Palestinians crossed the border into Israel. Four protestors were shot down, and many other protestors believed there were landmines buried at the border. This fear is clearly palpable in Abu Hamdan’s work and leaves viewers overcome with feelings of fear and helplessness, likely similar to how onlookers felt. The gripping emotional reaction that This whole time there were no land mines demands of viewers easily makes it one of the best work at the Biennale.
For, in your tongue, I cannot fit by Shilpa Gupta Location: Proposition B at Giardini
For, in your tongue, I cannot fit, was just as powerful as There were no land mines. As a stand alone artwork it works even more effectively, even. Viewers walk through a dimly lit space where rows and columns of spikes skewer pages of poetry written by imprisoned poets throughout history and to the current day. Microphones hang over head that read off their corresponding poem, and the crowd of microphones creates a chorus that repeats and reads with the single “poet”. This work is incredible to experience in person. Walking through the rows of spikes, you are careful not to disturb anything because the spears, although dull, still threaten danger. As a viewer you are cautious and uneasy the entire time. The voices are startling and foreign, they make viewers feel unsettled. Yet their strength and determination even in such a dark place feels energizing to viewers. The voices show resilience. Even without reading the artist statement, this message of power through voice and resilience even in the face of censorship and incarceration is clear to viewers.
For, in your tongue, I cannot fit was the other best work in the Biennale because it used it’s space so powerfully and effectively. Viewers engage with the space immediately through the act of walking through the space, hearing the voices, and reading the poems. The disembodied voices, dim lighting, and spikes immediate chill viewers and evoke a strong emotional reaction. The message is delivered so clearly that the artist statement is not at all necessary to coming away from this work effected.
Island Weather by Mark Justiniani Location: Philippines National Pavilion at Arsenale
Island Weather is another top pick. The artist statement for this work feels over exaggerated, as it proclaims that the work can “propel people to action, perhaps to salvage a shipwrecked world” and can “lift up our world from the depths of apathy and despair”. Although I would say that it doesn’t do either of those, it does certainly play with concepts of space, sight, and the spectacular. The “islands” are platforms raised above the ground. Mirror illusions make the world inside them projects endlessly downwards. At first encounter, even though I saw the raised platform and reasoned that the floor had not been dug into, and couldn’t even reach as far as the illusion suggested, I was still captivated trying to make sense of it. I knew it was mirror illusions but I kept looking in and around trying to figure it out. Walking on the islands was amazing. I was able to reason that it was illusions, and I didn’t have any trouble walking around over the fake caverns. However, several peers of mine talked about how they knew it was mirrors and their bodies still moved hesitantly and locked up at times. This creates an interesting conversation about the impact of sight and sense into your body’s reaction, even despite logical reasoning. The spatial illusion created by the mirrors is fantastical and honestly just plain fun to experience. It feels like a magical event that you have been gifted with. Even though it doesn’t pull the world out of despair, it is sure to be something that will stay in your memory that you will not want to miss.
Chromo Sapiens by Hrafnhildur/Shoplifter Location: Iceland National Pavilion at Giudecca
Chromo Sapiens similarly speaks to higher concepts, but more than anything is just fun to experience. To some, the use of hair can feel disconcerting. For me, it was more tolerable because it was synthetic hair dyed into unnatural colors. It causes viewers to question if more natural colored or textured hair would have felt more unsettling, or it may have been equally acceptable.
Just like Island Weather, Chromo Sapiens was more impactful to be as an amusing, magical moment that you can’t experience anywhere else. It feels almost like you’re in a living cave. Or inside an oddly inverse animal. Or in a actualized scene from a children’s book. The imaginative explanations are endless, and it’s definitely a worthwhile visit.
Can’t Help Myself by Sun Yuan and Peng Yu Location: Proposition B at Giardini
Can’t Help Myself is much less light hearted than the last two, but equally imaginative and captivating. Can’t Help Myself features a robot that is programmed to keep a blood-like red liquid inside a certain perimeter. It is caged inside a clear box, which may serve merely to keep viewers from getting dirty, or has implications for the narrative of the work by showing a trapped status. In addition to keeping the viscous red liquid in the circle, the robot is programmed to perform life-like movements such as scratching itself. This personifies the robot, providing more empathy to its trapped state and endlessly futile mission. The lifelike actions of the robot and its struggle make viewers empathize with it, but its large scale and monumentality, as well as its inhuman character also set it apart as something untouchable, unhelpable, and dangerous if upset.
The artist statement on the wall nearby labels the red liquid as being creative inspiration, however the ambiguity of the liquid in the installation itself leaves the symbolism of the liquid open to individual interpretation. One of my peers interpreted it as showing the modern demand for neat borders, despite the messiness and mutability of them. The red liquid, then, is blood, showing the violence involved in the maintenance of arbitrary borders. No matter the interpretation, the emotive, obsessive robot of Can’t Help Myself entrances viewers and calls them to engage in the work and make their own meanings out of it.
Upon first entry, Chile’s pavilion appears to be an interactive, informative, museum-like space. Altered Views by Voluspa Jarpa aims to tackle social and political issues that plague Chilean culture. The pavilion is separated into three components, the Hegemonic Museum, the Subaltern Portraits Gallery, and the Emancipating Opera.
The aforementioned museum space explores six case studies of the Euro-centric, patriarchal, ‘superior’ worldview that has seemingly dominated international spaces and cultures for centuries. The six case studies include explorations into human zoos, banana republics, and cannibalism. Section Two’s portrait gallery has large-scale oil paintings of archival images, hanging so gracefully, they almost appear proud and regal. The paintings’ subjects range from intimate portraits to lifeless bodies. The pavilion’s final area is occupied by the beautiful but haunting Emancipating Opera. Musically, it is graceful and timeless but its lyrics are confrontational. The Opera, much like its parent exhibit, is blunt and abrasive in its message while remaining approachable in its execution. Altered Views is exquisitely formatted and presented. Regardless if one agrees with its politics, it is nearly impossible to exit Chile’s pavilion unfazed or not intellectually/emotionally stimulated.
Israel
“Here Anyone Can Live Free” – Aya Ben Ron’s Field Hospital X was one of the more surreal of the interactive exhibitions. The environment is eerie from the moment you enter the space: blue, white, and sterile, the pavilion has been transformed into a hospital waiting room. Phrases such as “be patient – be a patient” repeat calmly over the intercoms. Once your queue number is called, you meet some ‘nurses’ that help you select which path you will follow (“I Don’t Want to Think About It” for me, personally.) Each participant goes through the Safe-Unit Area, a confined, soundproofed, padded, decoration-less pod. In this space you are instructed, by a disembodied voice, to scream in a “self-contained shout”. After exiting this area, the final component of the experience is a video corresponding to the title you chose at the nurses’ station. There are four video options, each created by a different artist, each tackling a social or moral problem. Field Hospital X created a clean, clinical environment that primed its participants for an approved release of emotion, whether it was screaming into the void or processing a difficult topic. Aya Ben Ron’s work surpasses expectations of what modern, interactive exhibitions can be. Thought-provoking, slightly unnerving, and overall impressive, Israel’s pavilion felt less like an art gallery and more like a creative social experiment.
Italy
Neither Nor: the Challenge to the Labyrinth made great, creative use of its large pavilion space. Artists Enrico David, Chiara Fumai, and Liliana Moro created a twisting and turning maze that was challenging enough to keep engagement high but not daunting enough to cause anxiety. Like a funhouse, Neither Nor had dead ends, mirrored walls, and surprises around each corner. The three collaborative artists each contributed artworks to the labyrinth, ranging from glass-blown sculptures and acrylic on canvas to roller-skates and neon installations. Each new work you came across was different from the last, which created feelings of excitement and curiosity as you moved through the space. This pavilion felt almost like an advent calendar you could walk through and discover firsthand. Lighthearted and intriguing, Neither Nor was a joy to explore.
Indonesia
While Italy’s pavilion had a labyrinth, Indonesia’s had a game. As one enters the space, Lost Verses sparks interest. The room is riddled with rows upon rows of blue-tinted glass boxes, each containing a different object and a small engraved number on the nob of the lid. When the audience is ready to begin playing, they approach a staff member that gives them a number. After directing yourself to the box with that number, you are confronted with a question and two answer options (often theoretically or philosophical in nature). The selected answer pairs with a new number that directs you to the next box. As you move from box to box and question to question, you add up the numbers until you reach the final spot that declares your game is complete. Returning to the staff member that gave you your original number, you together tally your final score and, if high-ranking, you are placed on a scoreboard. Regardless of how highly they scored, each player that takes the time to work through Lost Verses is rewarded with a tote bag. Indonesia’s exhibition did not seem to have much word-of-mouth hype, despite being quite engaging and, simply, fun. This pavilion was creative, exciting, and rewarding to walk through and play.
Philippines
Island Weather by Mark Justiniani is a relatively straightforward exhibit concept. The space is dim, cold, and there are three “island” platforms scattered throughout the room. Relaxing rain sounds play in the distance, creating a calm and almost sleepy environment. As you ascend the step stool to the platforms, the experience begins to change. With each step across the glass island, it feels as though the ground is going to fall out from under you. With a trick of mirrors, the platform seems to be eternally descending, twisting into a difference vortex of space. Even to the sober eye, walking on the glass surface can be dizzying. One of the more hyped and talked-about pavilions, Justiniani’s Island Weather was mind-blowing in experience, though not too complex in execution. Seemingly every person that visited was awestruck by how startling, entrancing, and magical this pavilion was.
Throughout the 2019 Venice Biennale, death and violence are almost inescapable. The prompt “May You Live in Interesting Times” was taken by many artists as an invitation to contribute to a larger conversation surrounding injustices of the world while others stand idly by. Two works by artist duo, Sun Yuan and Peng Yu, Dear and I Just Can’t Help Myself, both successfully continue this theme of violence.
Dear, situated in the middle of the Arsenaleshowcases a white silicon chair, imitating that of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C., with a thin black hose springing from the center of the seat. At first, the chair seems serene, however, the violently scratched plexiglass cage surrounding it suggests something quite different. Suddenly a strong burst of pressurized air brings to life the hose which loudly thrashes causing more scratches to the plexiglass. This work contributes to the conversation of violence while those in the seat of power sit by, seemingly unphased.
I Just Can’t Help Myself consumed almost an entire room in the main pavilion of the Giardini. Also surrounded by plexiglass, a giant mechanical arm with a squeegee-like broom on its end is surrounded by an ever-spreading pool of blood-like liquid which the machine calmly mops around its base. Once the machine has succeeded in controlling the liquid it bursts forth in a series of surprisingly human movements splattering the walls portraying an extreme sense of agony. Although the work is said by the artists to call forth ideas of the ever-elusive nature of art, I was unable to feel as though I was watching anything other than a mother screaming in sorrow as blood spilled from a child in her arms, who then suddenly, as if in denial, goes back to slowly mopping the continuously growing pool of blood.
For the 2019 Venice Biennale, artist collective Isuma represented Canada in their national pavilion. Isuma is known internationally for films and interactive digital projects that bring Inuit culture to Canadian and international audiences. Isuma strives to preserve and protect indigenous life and communities in their work, both locally in Inuit towns like Igloolik and abroad.
The main feature at the Biennale was the debut of the feature-length film One Day in the Life of Noah Piugattuk, shown on multiple screens and with subtitles in multiple languages. It revolves around one day in 1961 when the community was told to relocate. Because the film was over an hour long, it was hard for viewers such as myself to stay for the full duration. But this doesn’t stop viewers from being able to find meaning in it. The scene I saw involved a white man telling an older Inuit man, assumingly Noah Piugattuk, that he needed to leave his ancestral land so that he could take his kids to school, as was mandated by Canadian law. The white man didn’t threaten aggression or violence, and even said many times that he wanted to help. However he was painfully unaware of his colonial, Western perspective that Inuit children needed Western education and that not providing them with it was morally and legally wrong. Furthermore, this scene showed that even though the white man seemed sympathetic to the Inuit man, he ultimately still wanted him to leave his land, due to an earnest belief proposed by the Canadian colonial agenda that Western culture will improve indigenous lives.
These themes of of colonialism, indigenous perseverance, and governmental paternalism are still relevant in Canadian life today, as Isuma made clear with the other works in the pavillion. A screen on the far back wall cycled through several of their older videos, one being My Father’s Land. My Father’s Land was made in 2012-2014 in response to the proposed Baffin Island shipping route, which would disrupt Baffin Island wildlife and nearby Inuit communities. The film explores the impact the project would have through recordings of town halls. This video again shows the impact the Canadian government and colonialism have on Inuit people, showing the continuation of problems faced in the historical film Noah Piugattuk. For visitors that do not make this connection themselves, a plaque placed between the film screening and the screen on the back wall connects the two clearly by stating that the Baffinland project comes 58 years after Piugattuk’s forced removal. The plaque also asks if the government has informed the communities well enough to be able to proceed with the project legally. This alludes to the legal semantics used in Piugattuk’s removal, almost offering the question of whether governments formed on colonial principles can truly act in indigenous people’s best interest over their own? Will today’s Canadian government find a way to justify their actions through their own laws, like they did nearly 60 years ago?
Isuma’s work in the Canada Pavilion brings a unique perspective to the Western-dominated Biennale, both increasing awareness of Inuit life and struggles, as well as asking larger questions about colonialism and its modern effects. Aligning with the theme of this year’s biennial, Isuma shows the way Inuit people in Canada have lived through and continue to live in interesting times.
This year marks the first in which Ghana has had a national pavilion at the Venice Biennale. Six artists of various generations and backgrounds that work in different mediums were included in the exhibit which was located in the Arsenale. The artists were an even split of men and women, and residents of Ghana and the diaspora. The pavilion situates itself in a post-colonial dialogue from the outset. The exhibit is titled “Ghana Freedom” from an E.T. Mensah song that was released on the eve of Ghana’s independence from Britain. The curator of the pavilion, Nana Oforiatta Ayim, has spoken about how, through the pavilion, they were exploring where they are situated in the world and where they as a nation might go moving forward out of the current post-colonial.
A major part of the pavilion was the architecture. David Adjaye designed it to reference traditional earthen houses and it is built from soil that was brought from Ghana. It also has a very organic flow to the space as all of the walls are curved. These moved the viewers through the space while also delineating the various artists’ work. The original sketch that Adjaye released prior to the opening was used as a logo for the pavilion and appeared on the postcards and other materials on site.
The pavilion provides a more full sensory experience through the incorporation of not only the soil, but the fish tails that were incorporated into Ibrahim Mahama’s “A Straight Line Through the Carcass of History 1649” which stretches across the entrance. The choice to open with this piece was striking as it set the tone for the rest of the work. The ideas of industry and its advances worked well to establish the themes of the pavilion. The exhibition is bookended with another large piece on the exit side that is titled “Earth Shedding Its Skin” by El Anatsui. It is made up of flattened yellow bottle caps. The effect of bookending the space with these two pieces is reinforced not only by the scale but also the method of procuring materials. Both work with the refuse of industry.
Lynette Yiadom-Boakye had some of her paintings on display. She tends to finish her fictional scenes in a single day so as to capture the moment in which it was produced. Felicia Abban was the only one in the show whose work was not made specifically for the exhibition. She is the first female professional photographer in Ghana, and has since retired from making new work.
The two video artists in the group, John Akomfrah and Selasi Awusi Sosu. These also represent an interesting pairing as Akomfrah is a highly exhibited artist and Sosu has never participated in a major international exhibition. This echoes the idea of looking to the past while also trying to find what the future holds. As a whole, the exhibition addressed ideas of identity within the world as well as the ways that industry impacts the environment and people.
The Russian Pavilion was much more ominous and foreboding than expected. However, I believe it was a really nice reflection of traditional Dutch technique and narrative content. The exhibition was installed on two levels, the upper being more focused on traditional sculptural form and videography. It is evident, upon entering the space, that it was curated so that the light harkened to that in Dutch Painting. There are elements of intense light, contrasted by utter darkness, both of which were organized in a way to accentuate and dramatize the sculpted figures. This can also be said about the style in which the figures were sculpted, which is reminiscent of the open and painterly techniques used by many Dutch artists, Rembrandt being one.
The nature of this exhibition was also very disorienting. While upstairs, alongside the noises made by the videos, there was an overwhelming presence of orchestral music. This element created an eerie mood, entwining high society music with haunting visual display. As we travelled downstairs it became even more hectic, with a lot of red light, movement, and sound. I feel as though this could reference the life lead by the Prodigal Son: hectic and even a bit erotic. The entire downstairs installation was dizzying, yet extremely intriguing. The constant movement of plywood figures and framed images (often reminiscent of 17th century Dutch paintings) accentuated this bewildering atmosphere. I don’t doubt for a second that if one gave entirely into vice, such as the Prodigal Son, they would experience their surroundings in this way. I think this exhibition was clever and surprisingly dark, which actually made it a much more exciting experience.
Venice Biennale 