Cultural platforms shape global perception. They define what is considered acceptable.
Every two years, Venice opens its gardens to the world's art and, inevitably, to the world's unresolved conflicts. This year, the 61st Biennale became a mirror of a fractured international order: a jury walked away rather than adjudicate work from nations whose leaders face arrest warrants, artists marched in solidarity with Gaza, and Russia's pavilion stood sealed to the public even as champagne was poured inside. The curatorial team, carrying forward the vision of their late director Koyo Kouoh, pressed on — insisting that art, however entangled in politics, must still be made and shown.
- The jury resigned en masse before the Biennale even opened, refusing to evaluate entries from countries whose leaders face international arrest warrants — a quiet but devastating act that stripped Russia and Israel of any path to the Golden Lions.
- Russia's return after two years of exile felt triumphant inside the pavilion, with prosecco and flower sculptures, while outside the Italian government quietly locked the doors to the public, turning presence into a kind of haunting.
- Over two hundred artists, including Lubaina Himid and Alfredo Jaar, signed an open letter demanding Israel's exclusion, and sixty performers staged a slow, humming procession through the Giardini in protest on opening day.
- Iran's pavilion withdrew without explanation as a fragile US-Iran ceasefire began to unravel, adding another layer of geopolitical shadow to an event already struggling to hold art and politics apart.
- The curatorial team, grieving the death of their visionary director Koyo Kouoh, chose to proceed — acknowledging the weight of world events on their consciousness while insisting the exhibition was not a political statement.
- In the midst of the crisis, a seagull nesting near the Austrian pavilion drew the largest crowds of the day — mistaken by visitors for an artwork, and perhaps the most honest thing on view.
The 61st Venice Biennale opened on a rainy Tuesday in May with the lagoon grey and a political crisis quietly unfolding in the Giardini. The event, one of the art world's most prestigious, was supposed to be about art. Instead it became a stage for geopolitical rupture.
British artist Lubaina Himid had filled the UK pavilion with large paintings and a sound installation evoking an idealized English summer. But the real drama was elsewhere. Down the slope, the Russian delegation was celebrating a return from exile — two editions missed due to international outcry over Ukraine — with crates of prosecco and a triumphant mood. Outside, the Italian government had quietly decided the pavilion would remain closed to public visitors when the full event opened on May 9th. The flower sculptures inside would be visible only through windows: a presence without access.
Before the opening, the jury had resigned en masse, refusing to judge work from any country whose leaders face international arrest warrants — effectively excluding both Russia and Israel from contention for the Golden Lions. Ukraine's culture minister called the closure of the Russian pavilion 'a meaningful step,' but acknowledged the deeper stakes: 'Cultural platforms shape global perception. Every form of representation matters.' The problem was not solved; it was made visible and uncomfortable.
The loudest protest centered on Israel. At midday in the Giardini, sixty artists staged the Solidarity Drone Chorus — humming and walking slowly through the grounds in procession. More than two hundred artists had signed an open letter demanding the cancellation of the Israeli pavilion, which opened the same day. Iran's entry, meanwhile, withdrew without explanation as a fragile ceasefire between Tehran and Washington began to crack.
The curatorial team was working in the shadow of loss. Koyo Kouoh, the Cameroonian-Swiss arts leader who had shaped the exhibition's vision, died in May 2025. Her appointed curators carried her plans forward. Curator Rasha Salti, who has family in Beirut, was candid: 'It's not an exhibition that is a commentary on geopolitics. But our principles, what the world conflicts have done to our consciousness, is tangible in the exhibition.'
Amid the tension, a seagull nesting near the Austrian pavilion drew the largest crowds of the day. Staff had fenced it in with wooden barriers. Visitors mistook it for an artwork. In a Biennale consumed by questions of whose voices get amplified and who belongs, the bird became the most popular thing on view.
The 61st Venice Biennale opened on a grey Tuesday in May with rain falling across the lagoon and something closer to a political crisis unfolding in the gardens. The event, one of the art world's most prestigious gatherings, was supposed to be about art. Instead, it became a stage for geopolitical rupture—jury members walking away, artists marching in protest, and the Russian pavilion locked to the public even as techno music and prosecco flowed inside.
The British artist Lubaina Himid, known for decades of work interrogating her country's colonial legacies, had filled the UK pavilion with large paintings and a sound installation evoking an idealized English summer. But the real drama was elsewhere. Down the slope, the Russian delegation was celebrating what amounted to a return from exile. After sitting out the previous two editions of the Biennale because of international outcry over the war in Ukraine, Russia had managed to secure a place at Europe's most visible art event. The pavilion was stocked with crates of prosecco. The mood inside was triumphant. Outside, the rain fell on Venice's spring.
Then came the jury's decision. Before the opening, the selection panel announced it would resign en masse rather than judge work from any country whose leaders faced international arrest warrants. The move was surgical in its effect: it would exclude both Russia and Israel from consideration for the Biennale's most prestigious prizes, the Golden Lions. The Italian ministry of culture, caught between principle and protocol, made a compromise. The Russian pavilion would remain closed to public visitors when the full event opened on May 9th. The work inside—flower sculptures—would be visible only through the windows. A symbolic presence without the substance of access.
Ukraine's culture minister, Tetyana Berezhna, called the closure "a meaningful step," but her language revealed the deeper anxiety. "Cultural platforms shape global perception," she told the Guardian. "They define what is considered acceptable and whose voices are amplified. In this context, every form of representation matters." The problem was not solved; it was merely managed, made visible, made uncomfortable.
The geopolitical fractures ran deeper than Russia. Iran's entry withdrew without explanation as a fragile ceasefire between the United States and Iran began to crack. But the loudest protest centered on Israel. At midday in the Giardini—the Napoleon-era garden where national pavilions cluster—about sixty artists from the In Minor Keys exhibition staged what they called the Solidarity Drone Chorus, humming a song and walking slowly through the grounds in procession. More than two hundred artists, including Himid and the Chilean-American photographer Alfredo Jaar, had signed an open letter demanding the cancellation of the Israeli pavilion, which opened that same Tuesday.
The curatorial team steering the Biennale this year was working in the shadow of absence. Koyo Kouoh, the Cameroonian-Swiss arts leader who had shaped the exhibition's vision, died in May 2025. Her appointed curators—Marie Hélène Pereira, Rasha Salti, Gabe Beckhurst Feijoo, Rory Tsapayi, and Siddhartha Mitter—had carried forward her plans. When asked about the jury's resignation, Mitter said the team "100% respect" the decision but would not say whether they agreed with it. Salti, who has family in Beirut, was more direct: "It's not an exhibition that is a commentary on world affairs or geopolitics," she said. "But I think our principles, where we come from, what the world conflicts have done to our consciousness, is tangible and is manifested in the exhibition." She noted that the rise of right-wing politics had made everyone "hyper-sensitive."
Amid the tension, there were moments of unexpected relief. The Austrian pavilion drew crowds to watch the choreographer Florentina Holzinger suspended inside a bell, using her body to ring it in five-minute intervals. Inside were chambers of water—a jet ski accelerating, an artist submerged in a tank of purified urine, another tank staging an explosive sewage spill. But the real crowd-pleaser was simpler: a seagull that had nested on the ground near the Austrian pavilion. Staff had fenced it in with wooden barriers. Visitors mistook the bird for an artwork. In a Biennale consumed by questions of representation, inclusion, and whose voices get amplified, a nesting seagull became the most popular thing on view.
Citações Notáveis
Cultural platforms shape global perception. They define what is considered acceptable and whose voices are amplified.— Tetyana Berezhna, Ukrainian culture minister
It's not an exhibition that is a commentary on world affairs or geopolitics. But I think our principles, where we come from, what the world conflicts have done to our consciousness, is tangible and is manifested in the exhibition.— Rasha Salti, member of curatorial team
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does it matter that the jury resigned? Couldn't the Biennale just have gone on without them?
The jury selects the Golden Lions—the prizes that define which artists and which visions the art world considers most important. When the jury walks away, they're saying the event's legitimacy is compromised. They're making the contradiction visible.
But Russia and Israel still showed up. Did the jury's resignation actually change anything?
It changed what happened inside the space. The Russian pavilion is closed to the public—you can only see it through windows. That's not nothing. It's a form of quarantine. It says: you're here, but not fully here.
The Ukrainian culture minister called it "meaningful" but seemed worried about "symbolic presence." What's the difference?
Meaningful is about the gesture—we tried to do something. But symbolic presence is the deeper problem. Russia is still at the Biennale. It's still being represented. The world still sees it there, even if the doors are locked.
Over two hundred artists signed a letter against Israel. Why didn't that stop the pavilion from opening?
Because the Biennale's organizers decided the exhibition would proceed. The curators said it's not a commentary on geopolitics. But the artists disagreed—they said that by including Israel, the Biennale was making a geopolitical statement whether it admitted it or not.
What about the seagull? That seems almost absurd.
It is absurd. And maybe that's the point. While everyone was arguing about representation and arrest warrants and whose voices matter, a bird built a nest and became the most popular thing at the event. Sometimes the art world's seriousness about itself is its own kind of performance.