An island nation of just 12,000 people. The smallest country represented at the Venice Biennale this year. A place where the highest peak is just a couple of dozen metres above sea level. A country that is doing its utmost to use any and every international forum to draw attention and seek help to counteract the very real prospect of it vanishing under water in the face of global warming and rising sea levels.
This is Tuvalu's second outing at the Biennale. Their first outing was memorable. This time around, Taiwanese artist, Vincent J. Huang (yes, he's back again) is more subtle with Crossing The Tide, but the urgency of the issue at stake remains. While last time around Huang required user participation, this time around he's trying a softer approach. The installation beautifully calling to mind the blue waters of the Pacific, and leaving visitors to contemplate the environment. The adoption of the Daoist principles of Zhuangzi's ancient text that noted that there was no separation between man and nature. But an odd decision has been made by the curatorial board. While it's admirable that the pavilion has adopted a paper free policy, encouraging visitors instead to visit the website, the lack of any immediate didactic information in the room, that could otherwise steer the mostly European audiences towards the goals and aims of this largely unknown country, is a lost opportunity. Perhaps the curators can find some way of incorporating some textual information before the peak summer run. That said, despite the urgency of the environmental situation, the deceptively tranquil environment offers a refuge from neighbouring pavilions. Geysers occasionally erupt with a low whirring gush, blowing steam from the walls, misting up the environment and playing with the preconceived ideas of island paradises. This is one of Venice's most effective presentations this year. If anyone is an authority on the environmental challenges posed by global warming, then it's Tuvalu. In many ways one could say that they have more authority on the issue than a landlocked nation like Switzerland who have approached the theme in a similar way this year. That said, it's nice to know that this crucial aspect of our future is being addressed by more than one artist and national board, particularly under the light of All The World's Futures. Definitely one of my six picks at Arsenale.
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UNLESS you’ve got the ability to control father time, you’ve got a bit of a battle on your hands at the Venice Biennale. This year’s edition, the 56th, runs through to November 22, 2015.
GETTING TO AND/FROM THE BIENNALE If you’ve been there before you probably know the drill and should skip down to my tips. But if you’ve never been and are going for the first time, read up on the practicals here first. You’ll need to set some good time aside, not only to see the best of the Biennale offerings, but also to move around the city and the huge Giardini and Arsenale complexes. The majority of visitors arrive via vaporetto (Venice’s water buses) and if you plan ahead you’ll probably find that you can get an express route to Giardini or Arsenale from the train station. Line 1 will take you through Venice’s Grand Canal, whereas line 5 will take you more directly to Giardinetti. Avoiding the Grand Canal on the way over can halve your travel time...save that scenic ride back for sunset. Vaporetto are notoriously expensive: €7 per ride and there are always long lines for the tickets, so pre-purchase them from the machines beforehand to save yourself the worry. TICKETS AND LAYOUT For those of you who’ve not been to the Biennale before, there are three areas of interest to you. You’ll need a ticket for Giardini, where the historic, national pavilions are located, and the same ticket will also serve you for Arsenale, the shipping yards where the remaining bulk of nations exhibit their work. In addition to these areas, the city of Venice also hosts another 30 or so collateral events around the city itself. Tickets are usually valid for up to ninety days and allow you a full day’s entrance to Giardini and a full day at Arsenale. The collateral events around the city are mostly free, and worth seeking out if you have the time, as countries like Thailand and New Zealand for example often hold their exhibits ‘off campus’. Forty eight hours in Venice will give you ample time to visit the bulk of the ticketed sites, and probably enough time to visit nearby exhibits like Macau and Hong Kong. Seventy two hours will give you the ideal amount of time to soak in Venice and navigate around its maze of canals so that you get a taste of the best of the collateral events too. But be warned. Venues are closed on Mondays, so if you’re thinking of making a long weekend out of your trip, be ready to hit the pavements on Friday morning. WHAT NOT TO MISS AT GIARDINI This year at Giardini things are a mixed bag. To get the most out of your day I’m going to recommend the pavilions that I know you’re going to get the most out of and that warrant you spending extra time in. And because I’m so damn diplomatic, I’m going to just omit the nations that I think you should steer clear of or visit briefly. Upon entering I normally make a beeline for Spain first, but this year I think you need to warm up a bit first before heading into the Spanish pavilion. Instead, first, go and see what all the fuss is about in Switzerland, where global warming gets a look in. Pamela Rosenkranz‘s Our Product installation won’t require much of your time but will likely stay with you for much of the day. I’m not often one to boycott national pavilions, despite my political beliefs. Well, OK, I boycotted the Vatican’s exhibition at Arsenale, but, despite my problems with the Russian administration, I think the complexity of that country and its rich visual arts history deserve to be respected. With that in mind, this year, the Russian pavilion has been repainted, and inside, Irina Nakhova’s The Green Pavilion revisits Russia’s avant-garde past, dividing the space into four distinct areas. The very different approaches will ensure that at least one of which will be a hit with you (or give you the great opportunity for a selfie). Is it just me or do you come from a country whose media is just embarrassingly bad too? I mean, they're always looking for a local angle on things, even if it means dredging up the past. Twenty two years later? Seriously? I'm talking to you Australia. Really, what enters into their heads? I expect more from certain journalists - I won't name names but there is something embarrassing about this. More like it's an editor who decides that this is what readers need to think and read. I hate complaining about things on Twitter but today I just had to. I'm curious to hear your thoughts. Do you have it worse than we do in Australia? If we can always count on Korea to bring their A game to the Biennale, then the one other certainty is that you can rely on Serbia to make a grand political statement. And not in a way that aims to whitewash the political reality.
The Ottoman Empire. Tibet. Yugoslavia. The United Arab Republic. Nation states that no longer exist but whose echoes still persist. And in the setting of the Venice Biennale, the soft power Olympiad, where the nations that still exist on the map duke it out, what do these spectral nations tell us about the fleeting nature of art and sovreignity? Ivan Grubano's United Dead Nations seems like a simple and straightforward idea for that cavernous space. Then you get to thinking, how many years did it take him to scour the globe to find original flags from the dead countries he eulogizes on the walls? The flags that are reduced to dhobi wallah rags, dipped in paint and beaten against the floor, their blood and grit left for us to walk all over before we consider which pavilion to visit next. Flags that from a distance look like collateral victims on war grounds. But our own desires will soon enough take us elsewhere...we're free to continue roaming the international playground of art, free as such to skip from country to country. But only if we can liberate ourselves from those who no longer have a nationhood to ascribe to. Those who for a variety of reasons exist now only like faint memories or in old atlases. Collectables in an age when the symbolism of art and soft power representation can be stripped at any moment of their significance, and be sent the way of obsolete and now powerless nations from history. This year at Giardini was a mixed bag for some of the regular Biennale hard hitters. I walked away with all kinds of disappointment and audible grunts after visiting the US, French and Austrian pavilions. Ditto for the Netherlands and Denmark. Thank god that there are certain nations on whom you can rely to always bring their A game. And the refreshing thing is that they are not the usual suspects. No, in fact, the countries that I think really put a lot of thought and effort into their Biennale showcases are generally punching above their weight: yes, I'm talking about you Hungary and Serbia. They totally know how to show up a super power! But if we are going to talk about consistency and staying 'on-brand', then we don't need to look any further than the Korean pavilion. They nail it. Every single time! This year, with The Ways of Folding Space & Flying, Moon Kyungwon & Jeon Joonho embark on a kind of digital archaeological quest back in time, raising questions about the relevancy of the current notion we have of art and asking what place will art hold in the future?
[South] Korea is one of the countries that always thoughtfully considers the themes of a biennale and carries them out to the letter. They have a way of mixing in their trademark technology in a way that almost embarrasses their Giardini neighbours, but just enough East Asian philosophy in the mix to consistently elevate the works beyond being simply technical. The title of this year's project for All The World's Futures comes from the Korean words chukjibeop and bihaengsul. Based on Taoist practice, chukjibeop means hypothetically contracting physical distances. Bihaengsul, on the other hand, refers to the supernatural ability to levitate, and travel across time and space. As such the themes, which in a way also feed into meditation practice, suggest the desire we have as people to overcome our barriers, and that can only be achieved through an eventual leap in our imaginations (and abilities). The work which is all digital, engrossed visitors, and kept them in the pavilion longer than the works in others did. People would have happily camped out or picnicked in the pavilion had they had the chance. While they sat watching the huge screens, the protagonist in the film ran like a hamster in a wheel that was like a temporal mobius strip, generating power and giving her the ability to go back in time. The motif of renaissance era figures working away as artisans was jarring and audible: the clanging of metals signalling the arrival of, the futuristic type...but wait...just who was that person from the past? The studio quality of the work was undeniable. By also being visible on the pavilion's exterior, something few other nations (aside from Norway perhaps) bothered with, the Koreans tapped into the year's obsession with borders and the idea of inclusion and exclusion. A crowd favourite for sure. Impressive and slick, and worth putting a half hour or so aside for if you have the patience and want to enjoy it to full effect. You recognise this face. You know who he was. Why? Because of his undeniable talent and prolific work ethic? Yes. Partly. But also because Salvador Dali was one of the first artists to use modern media to transcend the art scene, and become a persona with a distinct public image. He did this by navigating his way across the international media, creating not just a name for himself, but an enduring, symbolic presence. The blurring of the line between public and private. It was a blue print that super artists like Warhol would later adopt. One of the things I hated about studying art history was the preparedness with which one had to accept the dogma of art historians. There are certain belief systems in the field of art that have very clear rules to them, and not adhering to them, or supporting established theories is frowned upon. This I found ridiculous of course, as history is made by people but written by historians, and therefore subject to subjectivity and prevailing fashions and beliefs. Why the rant? Because in visiting the Spanish pavilion at the Biennale, you need to be prepared to read between the lines. Like art history, society, and in this case, European society, is dictated by a set of norms: of codes that are written and unwritten. But they can't account for everything. We as individuals can't simply be defined by definitions that are imposed upon us. We bend and break and especially for those of us on the margins of society, are capable of seeing things that the masses cannot. This is the premise for Los Sujetos (The Subjects), an ambitious collective show curated by Marti Manen. It's a show that breaks the Spanish pavilion's recent run of solo and pair shows to bring together artists from different corners of the Iberian peninsula. And where does Salvador Dali fit into this? He's the muse and ringmaster for a modern take on his influence: not so much as a Spanish art great, but more as a master of the media and public image. After all, with figures like Dali and Warhol, what they said (offstage) and did was often just as important as what they produced (on-stage). What's happening in the Spanish pavilion this year seems to be about the arbitrary boundaries that we push against suggesting that society's one size fits all approach is no longer working. In Helena Cabello and Ana Carceller's contribution The State of the Question, Dali's one time lover/cohort, Amanda Lear, is referenced, both in the showcases and a video piece where her song I'm A Mystery is performed by a group whose identities are fluid and in flux. Transgender? Gay? Different race? It doesn't matter...none of these tags can define them. Cabello and Carceller have long incorporated questions of gender into their work. But what place does this have in Venice you might ask? Well, Italy is gripped by a new wave of obsession with gender and civil unions. Just this past weekend, almost a million conservatives, convened by the Catholic church, marched through Rome in protest under the guise of "Family Day". It seems existence beyond the traditional family unit remains a no go for the right wing parts of this society. The message? Conform to the norms or remain invisible and keep you mouths shut The reality is that minorities don't need to be acknowledged. They just need to slot in to the bigger system which otherwise alienates them. But if you look carefully enough, there are instances where they make unhealthy partners. Look at the press for example. Beyond the mainstream, weeklies/monthlies like comics compete with crossword rags to remain mainstays in Italian culture. I don't know anyone here who hasn't read Dylan dog or done the puzzles in La Settimana Enigmistica. Francesc Ruiz explores the mirroring systems of the alt/mainstream press and the crack between them. Each of these media types has its own outlet and commercial system in place, and if you've visited any mainstream newsstand (Italian: edicola) in Italy, you'll have seen how much written content competes for shelf space in them. In Edicola Mundo, Ruiz creates two newsstands, each brimming with content. In the mainstream stand, Ruiz recreates blank publications and displays them in repeated patterns, our eye attracted to things that look familiar but say nothing to us. Like codes that have no meaning. Of the little text available is one which alludes to Berlusconi's infamous virility and bunga bunga parties. In the other stand, a different kind of sexuality is being peddled. That for gay men, but behind the cover of a concealing tarp, which gives its customers anonymity but further separates them from the masses. Inside, more repetition, a trademark of Ruiz''s work, but an explosion of color. More codes and hidden meanings, and references to Italy's erotic comics, but rather than unmet desire, here sexuality is amped up and ready to blow. These cultural fault lines are everywhere and have entered into our unconscious thinking.
With Dali and Warhol, we never got the satisfaction of knowing when the show started and where the show ended. We've come into a phase of our being where our obsession with celebrity has led to us creating celebrities of our own, letting their reality shows into our lounge rooms. We watch as participants run through semi scripted activities for the camera and endure the endless replays of seemingly pivotal moments. More than glittering success, pop culture loves a spectacular fall from grace. We waited with baited breath for it to happen with Michael Jackson, were resigned to it eventually happening to Whitney, but still bear the traces of our shock when Britney went postal. The menacing nature of on stage and off stage worlds seems to pique the interest of Pepo Salazar, an artist and writer who works across a variety of mediums who contributes two seemingly intertwined installation pieces to Los Sujetos. At face value it's cheeky and irreverent. But look closer and you'll see that Salazar is actually motivated by the chaos that is brewing between [on] stage and off stage worlds. The ripple effect caused by the sheer anarchy of the breakdown of a popular figure. In this case think glass cases of cheetos, mirrors, shaved heads and wigs strewn about, while in the partner piece abandoned microphones are mechanically dragged around in circles, creating disc shapes on an industrial floor. And Dali? He's taken his bow but is still at the centre of it all. His own interviews with the press playing away on the video screens, in the centre of the pavilion. The ringmaster, in historical footage of him courting celebrity, but at the same time, risking the creation of a ripple in the grander order of things by blurring the lines...and allowing us to reconsider his influence beyond the usual art historical prism. I'm on Twitter these days and you can find me @DDVinyltiger.
Following the latest turn of events for TayTay (Taylor Swift) who in casting the spotlight on Apple's rights and royalties may have unwittingly exposed herself to someone else who had the balls to stand up and be counted. Turns out Cinderella wasn't about pumpkins, but rather, apple(s). It's not an issue of copyright that is at stake as Taylor's management will have you believe, but rather the direct livelihood of photographers who shoot concerts and public appearances. From my own limited experience back in the day, I can tell you it's a dog's life that is no where near as lucrative as you might think, and even less so if the alleged contract in dispute is real. Start here. One of the reasons I love international affairs like the Biennale is because it gives me the chance to 'discover' talents that my geographical location(s) might otherwise deny me. Case in point: Adrian Ghenie. He's a Romanian born, Berlin based artist, and one of the founders of the Paintbrush Factory in Cluj. Interesting choice of name given that much of Ghenie's own spectacular painterly effect is achieved not with a paintbrush, but with a palette knife and stencils. Beyond the central group pavilions there is not a lot of painting on offer at this year's biennale. Perhaps it's just not in vogue these days. To compete in these kinds of arenas artists need to be less conventional and more willing to embrace contemporary media. Then of course many curators feel that Giardini and Arsinale's huge exhibition spaces in particular demand something three dimensional in order to combat the cavernous spaces. But, with Darwin's Room, Ghenie, with curator Mihai Pop's help, unexpectedly overcomes the high ceilings of Romania's pavilion through the dual subtlety and force of Ghenie's work and the strong premise of his idea. Like other artists at the biennale, Ghenie looks back to look forward, wading through the loaded nature of our history and at the evolution, not so much of the species, but rather, of ideas. What ideas live on at the expense of others? Who are they propagated by and how do they flourish? Like Fiona Hall in the Australian pavilion, Ghenie offers up small and large scale works that are nuanced and that will have you marveling at the textures he's been able to achieve without sacrificing the overall effect. At times his painting seems as if it has been screen printed, but then, sudden unexpected areas of texture appear, lending height and depth to the works and placing an obstacle between subject and viewer. After all, this is a show about the subconscious nature of people, not cold, hard fact, and therefore, there is baggage that comes with. The running theme of Charles Darwin portraits, some of which are part self portraits juxtaposed on top, line the walls alongside (self) portraits of van Gogh and Duchamp and of Lenin and Hitler, each obscured by Ghenie's layering technique. Ghenie's canvases are chunky counterpoints to the deceptively flat and straightforward propaganda images of some of these figures that fill the collective consciousness. Iconic images that all but airbrushed away their subjects' imperfections and sinister sides to allow us to neatly nestle them into our memories. Elsewhere Ghenie incorporates motifs from the natural world, in part to honour his muse, and in part to represent our more primal fears and nature as people. These motifs draw us in, but not by way of curiosity. They are uncomfortable and jarring scenarios that drag us in despite ourselves. Ghenie seems to be suggesting that we are still more like our ancestral kin than the technologically savvy, evolved versions of our ancestors that we claim to be. Darwin's Room is a rare breed of conceptual art being paired successfully with flawless technique. Props too to he exhibition catalogue and Mihai Pop's curation. Just a classy effort all around. You know we're in a sorry state when humour is the victim at the Biennale.
This year, very few countries or artists have put forward something that will bring a smile to your face, and you will have to seek them out. If you've a perverted sense of humour like I do, then Sarah Lucas' work (British Pavilion), in spite of its socio-political themes will make you think and laugh, as will Spain's take on what we've been reduced to in contemporary culture (more soon on that one). Even the awkward clutter of Canada's BGL Collective will feel like temporary respite. But beyond that, the Biennale hasn't been as political of late as it is this year. European nations in particular seem to have a lot on their conscience this year, meaning many of them aren't in the mood to play. There's a lot of soul searching going on, and even before the events of 2011, Japan was already in a contemplative and questioning mood. This year's Japanese offering, Chiharu Shiota's The Key In The Hand, is positively dripping in retrospection, but, it's shaping up to be one of the year's biggest hits with visitors. Why? Because it achieves its aims with the kind of wistful romanticism that you find on the canals of Venice but that is otherwise completely lacking at the Biennale. Shiota presents a large scale and painstakingly detailed installation alongside some endearing videos in the outdoor pilotis. In the installation, two wooden boats are placed like catchments for a deluge of keys hanging from an intricate maze of red yarn that is suspended from the ceiling. Each string bears a key, a memory that can be contained and locked away for safe keeping in times of uncertainty. Outside, the video monitors present children who recall their own memories to the camera: they playfully and resolutely share their memories of event before and after their own births, a touching and poignant means of pointing to the questionable accuracy of memory. But in our current political climate, the installation as a whole also works on another level beyond the protective warmth of memory. Globally we find ourselves at a time when boats have a renewed political and intercultural significance, and where Shiota's keys could just as easily be the keys to unlocking and forging new realities and memories. This dual sense of hope has not been lost on visitors such as myself, who are already enamored of the work's intricate but straightforward, formal beauty. Whatever your interpretation, The Key In The Hand, is a welcome respite from the storm of discontent which seems to be brewing all around it, and for me at least, the standout at Giardini for emotional punch. Okwui Enwezor, the Curator of the 56th Venice Biennale, has resisted setting a single, overarching theme for All The World's Futures. Instead, he has set three overlaying filters, which at the core of their general nature ask artists to respond to the competing state and appearance of things in today's world.
Some artists and pavilions have explicitly tried to interpret these themes: but even the most cursory look around this year's Biennale will reveal that artists (and nations by proxy) are more interested in addressing their own thoughts on immigration, borders and global finance and worrying about how it fits into the scheme of things later. In recent years, the Biennale ran the risk of becoming a kind of living cable TV network. Country after country seemed to be trying to outdo one another with multimedia installations that were individually amazing, but collectively exhausting. So much digital content eventually renders viewers passive. This year, perhaps given the global economy, the digital side of things takes a bit of a back seat in favour of objects. In the newly redeveloped Australian pavilion (Australia was the last country to be offered a permanent Giardini pavilion back in the eighties), Fiona Hall taps into the art world's obsession with repurposed objects. It's an approach taken in numerous other pavilions (Israel and Canada spring to mind), but unlike them, Hall actually reshapes and rebirths the objects: nests made from shredded currency and paper: cuckoo, mantle and grandfather clocks whose surfaces she repaints with messages and a color scheme that calls to mind native Aboriginal art, with a trove of recurring keepsakes from the Pacific and beyond housed in a dark and overpowering (post) colonial wunderkammern show case which encircles much of the pavilion. The dark and dim nature of the installation only occasionally makes concessions to light and color: white skulls on jars, colorful Pacific islands currencies lining the walls like butterflies in a museum display...the sense is that Hall's vision of the world is multi-layered but suspended somewhere in the mistakes we as people have made since the annuls of time in the pursuit of land and money. This is less of a stance on the world's future than a reflection of the obstacles we face before getting there. The world won't get to the future until it gets through the cycle of purging and violence that awaits it. The hanging, disfigured bodies in the center piece Kuka Iritija (Animals from Another Time) (2014), made of remnants of military uniforms in collaboration with the Tjanpi Desert Weavers, a collective of Aboriginal women artists known for their works of fiber art, acts to redress the damage made historically and internationally in the name of borders and the pursuit of resources. Hall's exhibition is exhaustive: there's a lot to see and take in, and her surfaces range from minute to bold, robust objects. It's a comprehensive show and, for the uninitiated almost like a retrospective due to the number of works on show. But Wrong Way Time is a thoughtful response to the sweeping themes of this year's biennale. You just need some time out on the new pavilion decking afterwards to process it. |
Dave
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Dave Di Vito is a writer, teacher and former curator.He's also the author of the Vinyl Tiger series and Replace The Sky.
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