Hundreds of geed up, high-flying international art players, the odd culture minister and a couple of ciao-barking celebrities cram onto a sinking island… what could possibly go wrong?
That film played out last week as the Venice Biennale — now in its 60th year and the world’s longest running, most distinguished festival of contemporary art — opened following a Spritz-soaked preview week romp, complete with fantastic art (and the obligatory rubbish).
By way of scene, picture the Carnival of Venice but the hand-painted masks are facelifts, the fancy dress code is billionaire pinstripes and On trainers and festivities are f-off fashion parties that make Parisian ones look tame. It all plays out in the shadow of the super-yachts which dwarf the postcard lemon sherbet Italian Gothic buildings, and by the fourth night everything regresses into an episode of Love Island, as the dealers hook up and anyone who can still muster “do you know who I am?” is fighting for a spot on the boat with an after party.
Every two years, this art Olympics sees the world’s nations (this year 85, from Great Britain to North Macedonia) host mini-exhibitions in separate pavilions riffing on an overarching Biennale theme (‘Foreigners Everywhere’, for 2024) as well as one central exhibition which has been curated by Adriano Pedrosa, director of the São Paulo Museum of Art.
The pavilions are split in two sections of Venice’s east, Castello sector — at the Arsenale, in the Renaissance boatyards set up as white cube-type galleries in rows, and the Giardini, in Napoleon-era gardens, which is all more grand (if a striking exercise of soft power) made up of architecturally singular, standalone buildings. A remaining few (highlights which include the Ethiopian Pavilion, hosted by London gallery Saatchi Yates, and the Nigerian Pavilion, curated by the London-based Aindrea Emelife) are dotted about various empty mansions and palazzos across the city, joining collateral exhibitions (from the impressive Zeng Fanzhi: Near and Far/Now and Then to retrospectives for Willem de Kooning, at the Gallerie dell'Accademia, and Jean Cocteau, at the Peggy Guggenheim Collection).
It all made for a riveting playground as the fizzy openings of every country’s spot rolled out from Tuesday (“go through Saudi Arabia — Luxembourg have prosecco opposite Peru,” read Whatsapps) and before you could fill a Hauser & Wirth tote with press releases, people squeezed into tweed had sat for a Chanel dinner in honour of the French. By Wednesday, Salma Hayek was trotting out a cobalt blue, sequin ball gown and the city was properly frothing with galleristas and critics getting the first glimpse at the 2024 offering.
“If you want to take the pulse of the world, come to the Biennale,” one art insider told me. It was no surprise, then, that the political atmosphere was febrile. The Israel / Gaza war was inescapable, and most stark in the Giardini where the Israel pavilion has been locked and kept under the surveillance of armed guards, some in combat uniform. A poster on the window read: “the artist and curators of the Israeli pavilion will open the exhibition when a ceasefire and hostage release agreement is reached.” Whether this was enough proved a topic of fierce debate. Some joined organised protests; many made quieter statements by wearing their Keffiyeh scarves.
Given the theme, political statements are made inside a great deal of the pavilions as well; Poland doubled down on the impact of the Ukrainian war, Brazil proclaimed “you can’t breathe money” in a last ditch attempt to halt the destruction of the Amazon, while Senegal looked to “climate change’s future migratory phenomena.” Egypt was the hot ticket, boasting a Thorpe Park-style queue outside, while Australian artist Archie Moore took home the Golden Lion for his moving chalk family tree tracing 65,000 years of his indigenous ancestry.
Eviscerating opinions on all these were chewed on over lobster linguines by art folk in sunglasses with lenses that matched their Aperols, at “networking” events, and during smart parties laid out by a rolodex of top fashion brands who pile in to fund their home country’s output.
Burberry took care of Britain, whose artist John Akomfrah was joined by the London art brigade (Director of the V&A, Tristram Hunt, TalkArt podcasters Russell Tovey and Robert Diament, and Justine Simons, Deputy Mayor for Culture and the Creative Industries) for Bollinger and artichokes at Harry’s Bar on Thursday evening. Singapore’s artist Robert Zhao Renhui, who looked at the re-forestation of the country which included shipping out foraged debris for compelling sculptures, was supported by shoe label Charles & Keith and came complete with a swanky VIP luncheon; while Tod’s, official leather goods providers of Italy’s 1%, flexed their muscle with a bacchanalian, canal-side red carpet cocktail bash. Actors Adrien Brody and Hayley Atwell were there, alongside craftsmen making classic driving shoes in Murano glass.
In a quiet corner, Steven Moore, the Antique Roadshow expert turned 382K-follower Instagram sensation living part-time in Venice, mused over the foibles of Venetian high society (“you have to be careful — you can come up quick, and fall down quicker ”) with Atwell, herself no stranger to the city having filmed parts of Mission Impossible 7 here. “There’s two Biennale types — the elegant type and the art type,” Moore said. As for sartorial do’s and don’ts: “I’ve seen five or six women looking very smart in vintage lamé, which I predict as a new evening trend. But there are too many people trying neckerchiefs — that’s already over.”
Dodge those trying to tell you they feel “healed by the art”, be patient with endless, impenetrable art text and run from anyone exclaiming “I can’t wait for the Biennale next year” and the whole affair is an enthusiastic knees-up celebrating diversity and unlocking usually closed doors — all helped, of course, by Venice’s impossible, film-set levels of fabulousness.
Previewers have now boarded water taxis to the airport; the Biennale opened to the public on Saturday and will now run through to November 24. Nonnas city-wide will breathe a collective sigh of relief. They’re used to tourists, not so much the hundred-or-so Rick Owens club kids who packed out their early morning vaporetto following his rave (for his wife, Michèle Lamy’s 80th birthday, no less) at the Lido airport on Wednesday night.
You’d be damned if dirty looks from locals could wipe a smile off anyone’s face, however — all of the bright young things, as well as plenty of those more weathered, racing around were visibly excited to the marrow. Venice will do that.
