The 61st Venice Biennale: Moral Anxieties in a Minor Key

Pussy-Riot-storms-the-Venice-Biennale-forum-1096883877.jpg, default, Pussy Riot szturmuje 61. Biennale Sztuki w Wenecji, protestując przed Pawilonem Moskiewskim, Wenecja, 6 maja 2026 roku, fot. Mirco Toniolo / Agf / Zum

#photography & visual arts

This year’s edition of the Venice Biennale is taking place despite the fact that its curator died a year before its opening, and its jury chose to resign rather than awarding prizes. Instead of a grand opening, there was a strike, with the doors to some of the pavilions closed in protest, and a surprisingly large demonstration – for a tourist city – on Via Garibaldi.

The Venice Biennale was talked about a lot, even before its opening. And the discourse stepped out of the purely artistic realm and entered into moral and geopolitical issues, such as the participation of Russia and Israel, the morality of the event’s organisers and the ethics of participation in international cultural life in general.

The 61st edition would make for good fodder for a film in the spirit of moral anxiety cinema. The art world has been handed an ethical challenge to tackle. For those who weren’t planning to go to Venice, the solution seemed simple: they could post on social media that they had always secretly despised the event, and now that it had discredited itself politically and ultimately gone morally bankrupt, they would simply boycott it.

But what of art world insiders – those who had come for the industry preview days preceding the exhibition’s opening to the ‘general public’? They had a tougher nut to crack. How should they approach the event? Critic Karol Sienkiewicz, for example, urged people to ‘take part, but not enjoy it’ – that is, not to organise lavish parties, not to go to parties in the palazzi, not to drink Aperol. One could also use the Biennale as a platform for protest: after all, it’s a stage that offers the opportunity to take a political stance on any issue of one’s choosing.

The Biennale – comprising over a hundred presentations across national pavilions and a vast, global main exhibition – is a model of the contemporary world, miniaturised to the scale of Venice, which can be explored on foot from end to end in a matter of hours. Everything is out in plain sight here: political violence and the violence of money, tensions between MAGA and liberal democracy, between the Global South and the postcolonial North, between people experiencing moral unease and imperialism, which now has many faces. The Russian, Israeli or American examples are merely the most striking manifestations of this problem. The Venice event is corrupt, but voices of dissent and criticism are also heard there. In going, I had no moral illusions about it; in any case, they were no greater than those I had about the world of which it is a model – and a mirror. I was rather curious to see what reflection of that world it would reveal.

An epitaph for the curator

'Anatomy of the Magnolia Tree for Koyo Kouoh & Toni Morrison by Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons at the 'In Minor Keys' exhibition at the Central Pavilion in the Giardini, during the 61st Venice Biennale, 2026, photo: Simone Padovani / Getty Images

Enormous ceramic magnolias are growing in the Biennale’s Giardini Central Pavilion – so big, it’s as if they came from a prehistoric era when dragonflies were the size of geese. In front of them hangs a panoramic double portrait, as wide as a cinema screen: a piece by the Cuban-born American artist María Magdalena Campos-Pons.

The piece features Toni Morrison, who passed away in 2019 and was the first Black woman to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, and Koyo Kouoh, the curator of this year’s Biennale. The opening of the main exhibition took place exactly on the first anniversary of her untimely death. At the time, Kouoh had been working on the exhibition’s concept for several months. The exhibition we see today was realised on the basis of her notes and sketches by La squadra di Koyo Kouoh, Koyo Kouoh’s team, as the quintet of her assistants and collaborators called themselves. This committee comprised Gabe Beckhurst Feijoo, Marie Hélène Pereira, Rasha Salti, Siddhartha Mitter and Rory Tsapayi.

Kouoh was born in Cameroon, raised in Switzerland, began her curatorial career in Senegal, and in recent years served as artistic director of Zeitz MOCAA in Cape Town, the largest museum of contemporary art on the African continent. For years she has featured on lists of the most influential figures in the art world; a multilingual figure operating on a global scale, she was undoubtedly one of the most distinctive curators to emerge from Africa.

The Biennale, which was intended to be Koyo Kouoh’s magnum opus, has turned into her epitaph. In Campos-Pons’s work, the curator and the Nobel laureate are dressed in long, priestly robes. Their meeting amidst magnolia blossoms evokes the iconography of late medieval altarpieces. In Venice, Kouoh transforms from a charismatic curator into something of a saint of the art world. In this context, critiquing the main exhibition is a delicate undertaking. One speaks well of the dead or not at all – let alone of saints. Another issue, however, is that we don’t know what this Biennale would have looked like had Koyo Kouoh been able to complete it herself.

Tumult in a minor key

The entrance to the Central Pavilion at the 61st Venice Biennale, 2026, photo: Giuseppe Cottini / Getty Images

In Minor Keys is the title of this edition of the Venice Biennale. In her curatorial manifesto, Kouoh had repeatedly drawn on musical metaphors. She wrote that her exhibition would bring ‘the songs of those who create beauty in the face of tragedy; the melodies of refugees rising from the ruins; the harmonies of those who tend to wounds and mend worlds’. She evoked the blues, call-and-response, the morna, the second line, lament, allegory, and the whisper. ‘Mellow tones reject orchestral bombast and military marches march to a steady beat’, we read in Kouoh’s text. ‘They come to life in quiet sounds, low frequencies, murmurs, in the soothing power of poetry – in portals leading to what lies elsewhere and to what is other. Mellow tones demand a kind of listening that engages the emotions and, in return, allows them to endure’.

She continued, saying that minor keys are also islands, oases, gardens, patios, dancefloors – ‘other worlds created by artists, intimate and communal universes’.

These poetic, metaphor-laden introductions can inspire one to imagine all sorts of things, but in this case I was most expecting a ‘minor-key’ presentation – intimate and subdued. Instead, In Minor Keys turned out to be a surprisingly boisterous exhibition – bursting with colour and arranged with remarkable density, particularly in its first section, shown in the Central Pavilion in the Giardini, where the viewer is overwhelmed by a profusion of works, countless images, narratives and artefacts.

Most of them are from the so-called Global South. In Venice, this is already becoming the norm. Cecilia Alemani explored this part of the world extensively four years ago, and the Brazilian Adriano Pedrosa, who curated the Biennale two years ago, focused on it entirely. His exhibition was dominated by artists from South America; Koyo Kouoh’s team shifted the focus towards Africa.

The Biennale has its own geography, and Poland doesn’t fit into its current dominant narrative. Of course, we have our national pavilion in the Giardini, and the Starak Family Foundation, representing one of Poland’s largest private collections, is presenting an exhibition of Tadeusz Kantor and Maria Jarema’s works in Venice. This year’s curator of the Albanian pavilion is in Polish: Małgorzata Ludwisiak is former director of the Centre for Contemporary Art Ujazdowski Castle, whilst the exhibition in the Estonian pavilion was prepared by Natalia Sielewicz, who works at Warsaw’s Museum of Modern Art. And that is pretty much where the Polish presence in this year’s edition ends.

In fact, virtually the entire white Euro-Atlantic world that once ruled the planet is absent from the main exhibition. The Biennale has not only its own geography but also its own identity profile; whilst many artists from the US are taking part, they represent, almost without exception, African-American and immigrant communities.

Among the 110 participants in In Minor Keys, there are certainly those who live in Europe, but – once again – the vast majority come from the Global South or have roots there. Quite simply, this is not a Biennale about the West and its Central European peripheries. We had our moment in the spotlight – which lasted practically from the start of the colonial era – now it is others’ turn to speak.

Myths, ancestors & crafts

'A Kiss on the Eyes' by Nilbara Güreşa at the Turskich Pavilion at the Arsenale at the 61st Venice Biennale, 2026, photo: Massimiliano Donati / Getty Images

Kouoh’s team, much like Adriano Pedrosa two years ago, gives pride of place to works created by human hands – paintings, textiles, ceramics, sculptures, embroidery and needlework. At times, the exhibition makes you feel as though the digital revolution never happened – indeed, as though there had never even been an industrial one.

This ostentatious analogue nature and the craftsmanship of In Minor Keys constitutes a critique of the paradigm of technological progress. Within the exhibition’s discourse, this is equated with the colonial violence of European modernity, to which both the Global South and the natural world have fallen victim over centuries.

‘...capital and empire maligned local, Indigenous and terrestrial knowledges as chimeric, and dismissed co-constitutive artistic practices as artisanal, intended for decoration or devotional rituals’, wrote Kouoh, ‘The “civilising mission” flattens all with condescending contempt, and in the contemporary era entire societies and ecologies are regarded as collateral damage in the headstrong pursuit of growth supported by ruthlessness and greed’.

The curator emphasised that her exhibition was not intended as a “litany of commentaries on world events”. Instead, it offered a connection to what is “visual, sensory, affective and subjective”, and invited visitors to “wonder, meditate, dream, celebrate, reflect and share a communal experience in spaces where time is neither the property of corporations nor held hostage to relentlessly increasing productivity”.

Kouoh emphasised that the exhibition was created as a ‘litany of commentary on world events, nor an inattention or escape from compounding and continuous intersecting crises. Rather, it proposes a radical reconnection with art’s natural habitat and role in society: that is the emotional, the visual, the sensory, the affective, the subjective’. She invited everyone to ‘marvel, meditate, dream, revel, reflect, and commune in realms where time is not corporate property nor at the mercy of relentlessly accelerated productivity’.

The time for true art

As I walked through the exhibition, I found myself debating whether I had the nerve to lose myself in wonder, daydreams and meditation, when the spectre of World War III looms: AI is turning into a tool of surveillance, and the heads of Big Tech are publishing fascist-leaning manifestos whose tone echoes the rhetoric of many political leaders. In In Minor Keys, it’s difficult to find a picture of a reality marked by these threats; in any case, it’s not immediately apparent.

It is overshadowed by metaphors and symbols drawn from cultures marginalised by colonial discourse, a host of mythological figures and fantastical creatures depicted in paintings and sculptures, and references to ancestral traditions and wisdom.

Without discounting this wisdom, I couldn’t shake the feeling of doubt as to whether the stories of those ancestors really do hold the answers to today’s challenges. I also found it hard to shake the thought that if, in In Minor Keys, white Europeans had been cast in the leading roles instead of artists from the Global South, the exhibition would have fulfilled many right-wing notions of what ‘real art’ should look like.

No more conceptual antics, art journalism, iconoclastic provocations, obscene jokes or anti-art. Instead, there is respect for technique, craftsmanship, traditional methods and traditional values, a reverence for ancestors, an interest in history and a wealth of spirituality. Is this not a genuine conservative shift?

Trolls vs. an origami deer

'The Origami Deer' by Zhanna Kadyrova at the 61st Venice Biennale, 2026, photo: Simone Padovani / Getty Images

Against the backdrop of the minor-key melody playing at the Biennale’s main exhibition, few of the conflicts tearing the modern world apart manage to break through. It is, however, a completely different story when it comes to the national pavilions – here, it’s no longer possible to sweep antagonisms under the carpet.

As I arrived by vaporetto at the Giardini, I saw Pussy Riot activists wearing pink balaclavas on the quay; they had just finished protesting outside the Russian pavilion. Meanwhile, the first work I come across in the Giardini is a lorry with a crane, from which the ‘Origami Deer’ hangs – a work by Ukrainian artist, Zhanna Kadyrova. Until last summer, the sculpture had stood in a public space in Pokrovsk in the Donbas; it was evacuated along with all the residents when the Russians began to approach the city. Then it began – like millions of Ukrainians – a life of exile.

In the winter, the deer made it to Białystok, where it was on display at Khadyrova’s exhibition Awulsja. In Venice, it is on display in the Giardini gardens, as it would not have fit into the Ukrainian pavilion, which is less of an exhibition hall and more of a small antechamber carved out by the Biennale for our neighbours within the Arsenale complex.

Unlike Ukraine, Russia has its own multi-storey building. There have not been any exhibitions held there for the last two editions. The Russians’ return to Venice this year is a manoeuvre in the hybrid war they are waging against the democratic world. Stirring up negative emotions and destabilising Western institutions are the basic elements of the tactics employed on this front.

To leave no doubt that this was a provocation, the daughters of prominent figures from the upper echelons of Putin’s establishment were commissioned to prepare the Russian pavilion – the father of one curator is Nikolai Volobuev, a retired FSB general and a big shot in the arms industry. The father of the other is none other than Sergey Lavrov, the Federation’s infamous foreign minister.

The Russians achieved their goal insofar as, in the weeks leading up to the Biennale, the event was discussed mainly in the context of the controversy surrounding the Russian pavilion. During the industry preview, the presence of Putin’s supporters attracted less attention. Admittedly, the lawn in front of the pavilion was the scene of constant protests; the one organised by Pussy Riot activists was spectacular, whilst subsequent ones were more modest, often of an individual nature. The Russians’ security was guarded by carabinieri in full riot gear, but although they camped out from morning to night in front of the entrance to the Putin exhibition, they did not have much to do.

There were some passers-by who would give the pavilion middle finger or spit. There were also those who peered inside; word had it that whilst there wasn’t much to see inside, dance music played all day long and free alcohol flowed non-stop. Some were tempted by the refreshments, but generally the art world didn’t bother with Russian trolling during the preview – there was too much to see, they were too busy networking or queuing for the Austrian pavilion.

Florentina Holzinger’s apocalyptic, performance-based exhibition on display there is the highlight of this year’s Biennale; it was the most talked-about exhibition and the one people had waited the longest to see. Waiting three or four hours to get into a single pavilion is a long time when there are over a hundred to see.

Mixing up the Biennale & Eurovision

Pussy Riot storms the 61st Venice Biennale and protests in front of the Russian Pavilion, 6th May 2026, photo: Mirco Toniolo / Agf / Zuma Press / Forum

While I didn’t go into the Russian pavilion, I did see the Israeli exhibition. That country’s participation – along with Russia’s return – was a bone of contention between Pietro Buttafuoco, president of the organising foundation La Biennale di Venezia, and the jury members selected by Koyo Kouoh, who were tasked with choosing the winners of the Golden Lions. The jury resigned in protest against the participation of countries whose leaders are being prosecuted by the International Criminal Court on charges of crimes against humanity; such charges hang over both Putin and Benjamin Netanyahu.

Buttafuoco responded to this blow by handing the decision on the awards over to the public. The results of the public vote are due to be announced towards the end of the Biennale, in November. However, it seems that the Golden Lions awarded in this way will carry no prestige whatsoever. More pavilions, as well as individual artists taking part in the main exhibition, are stating that they do not wish to be included in the vote.

The Venice Biennale is not Eurovision. It seems that Pietrangelo Buttafuoco does not quite grasp the difference. All in all, this is hardly surprising – he’s not a figure from the art world; before he became head of the Biennale, nobody in the international art world had even heard of him. He hails from the neo-fascist movement and is closely associated – both ideologically and socially – with Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni’s circles. He was appointed by Gennaro Sangiuliano, the culture minister in her government. Privately, the two men have been friends for years. Incidentally, appointing Buttafuoco in Venice was one of Sangiuliano’s last decisions; shortly afterwards, a sex scandal came to light, forcing the politician to resign.

The La Biennale di Venezia Foundation organises not only an international art exhibition, but also exhibitions of architecture and dance, and, last but not least, the famous Venice Film Festival. It’s one of the largest cultural institutions in Italy. Buttafuoco does not have any experience in running such an organisation, but his heart is in the right place. His appointment to Venice was a political decision – part of the Meloni government’s operation to replace the liberal elites of the cultural world with people linked to the Fratelli d’Italia movement.

Black milk or bloviating

'Black Milk' by Belu-Simiona Fainaru during the 61st Venice Biennale, 2026, photo: Simone Padovani / Getty Images

Following Buttafuoco’s appointment, the far right triumphed, celebrating the capture of yet another bastion of liberal democracy. The new president of the Biennale not only agreed to Russia’s return, but, as it turned out, actively helped to facilitate it. And, of course, he did not oppose Israel’s participation; within the alt-right, of which he is a spokesperson, a soft spot for fascist leaders such as Putin or Netanyahu is a common affliction.

The Israelis, like Russia, are returning to the Biennale after a hiatus; two years ago they set up an exhibition in their pavilion, but ultimately decided not to open it for fear of protests. The pavilion itself remains closed this year as well; the windows have been covered with black plastic sheeting, as if under renovation, and a note printed on an office printer hangs on the door stating that the exhibition has been moved to the Arsenale complex.

It is easier to keep an eye on it there. There is little space in front of the exhibition entrance, there is nowhere to stage a demonstration, and instead, there is a contingent of heavily armed carabinieri stationed there. In general, the omnipresence of uniformed officers was a striking feature of the backdrop to this Biennale, which was taking place in a tense atmosphere.

Buttafuoco was forced to cancel the Biennale’s official opening ceremony, which was supposed to be the culmination of the industry preview. Meanwhile, the artistic community, which was provoked by Israel’s participation even more than by Russia’s return, called a strike – some of the pavilions took part; Palestinian flags appeared on the doors of exhibition halls closed to the public, and instead of the Biennale’s opening, a demonstration condemning Israel and imperialism took place.

The turnout was impressive, far greater than at the anti-Putin protests – partly because the pro-Palestinian demonstration was held on Via Garibaldi, a public space accessible to everyone, not just those with industry accreditation.

But what exactly was on display at the Israeli exhibition? The demonstrators were, in essence, indifferent to this; they would have protested regardless of what the Israelis had shown. Nevertheless, the exhibition itself could be seen as adding fuel to the already burning anger towards the Israeli government – or rather not fuel, but black milk.

Conservative sculptor Belu-Simion Fainaru constructed a rectangular pool filled with black water; droplets fall into it from a sprinkler system positioned above the pool, creating a hypnotic rhythm – both visual and auditory.

The curatorial text refers us to the Talmudic traditions of Venice, to Kabbalah, and also to the image of ‘black milk’ from Paul Celan’s Death Fugue – and encourages reflection on the banks of the black pool. Given the current political climate, this proposal is so detached from reality and so inappropriate that it is hard to say whether it provokes more embarrassment or outrage.

American emptiness

Buttafuoco’s words are equally embarrassing, justifying Russia’s presence by citing a desire to make the Biennale a space free from political censorship – an agora where no one is silenced and everyone has the right to speak their mind.

Meanwhile, at the Giardini, the Russian exhibition is curated by prominent figures of a regime that sends its citizens to penal colonies for dissenting comments on social media; moreover, the concept of artistic freedom of expression in Russia does not exist.

The President of the Biennale is, however, quite right when he speaks of double standards. For if we demand Russia’s exclusion, why not discuss, for example, the participation of the US, which continues its aggression against Iran?

The American exhibition, however, is incredible. Called Helter Skelter, it’s a truly epic artistic narrative woven by two masters, Richard Prince and Arthur Jafa. Their view of America is critical, but it’s the kind of criticism that stems from love, even if it’s difficult and painful. The exhibition takes place at the Fondazione Prada – it is actually a Biennale side event and one that is not to be missed. The official representative of the USA is Alma Allen, a self-taught sculptor from Utah.

During Trump’s previous term, his administration showed no interest in selecting delegates for Venice, but it has now turned its attention to the event. Last year, rumours circulated that the exhibition in the pavilion would be curated by Curtis Yarvin – a far-right blogger, conspiracy theorist and advocate of monarchy as a remedy for America’s problems. Perhaps it’s a pity that he wasn’t ultimately chosen; with him on board, it might have been strange, but at least it would have been interesting.

I’ve attended the Biennale regularly since the beginning of the 2000s and have yet to see the American pavilion so thoroughly ignored by the public – Allen’s organic, abstract sculptures didn’t really interest anyone. The reviews were also disastrous – a recurring theme was that the US artist’s works would’ve been perfectly suited to decorate an elegant hotel lobby. Gold-polished bronze is among the materials used by the artist – it’s hard not to think that works using this technique would fit in perfectly in Trump Tower.

The first to throw a stone

For me, one of the best commentaries on the emotional and ethical state of this Biennale — but also of its audience — is Dries Verhoeven’s The Fortress, presented at Netherlands’ Pavilion. It can only be entered at specific times of day and by a limited number of visitors. The interior turns out to be empty – apart from a dozen or so seats and catalogues of every edition of the Venice Biennale since the late 19th century. The books are locked in Plexiglas boxes and scattered across the floor. We find places to sit, most of us sit on the bare floor, leaning against the bare walls. We wait.

The Dutch Pavilion is the work of Gerrit Rietveld, a modernist gem with glass walls – architecture open to the world. As I sit there, an electronic, armoured steel shutters begin to descend over those glass walls; the welcoming interior slowly transforms into a claustrophobic bunker. And then a girl, whom I had taken as an audience member, stands up and starts to scream – in a terrible, hellish voice. The technique she uses is the growl, a distinctive, demonic-sounding vocalisation employed by death metal musicians.

At first it’s hard to make out what she’s saying, but it soon becomes clear that there’s a message hidden in those guttural shouts. The girl wanders amongst the transfixed audience, shouting the words right in their faces. She alternates between repeating the words ‘rage’ and ‘engage’. Meanwhile, the darkness in the pavilion thickens. By the end, you can’t see anything at all. In the darkness, only a rasping voice can be heard saying: ‘You don’t have to hate yourselves! After all, you’re doing your best! Love yourselves! Have fun! Have fun!’.

The performance ends, the blinds are raised, and sunlight floods back into the pavilion that moments ago was a fortress. The girl who was screaming demonically looks quite ordinary again.

We set out to see the rest of the Biennale – because, what else is there left to do, but try not to hate ourselves too much and have some fun.

No one has seriously discussed the exclusion of the US from the Biennale, just as no one has debated the inclusion of China, Saudi Arabia and so many other countries that are at odds with human rights, democracy or freedom of speech, yet regularly exhibit in Venice.

In any case, if participation in this event were conditional on a country meeting certain ethical criteria, it’s likely only Iceland would remain at the Biennale. Perhaps the Finns might also be allowed to participate.

The Biennale was conceived as an arena for flexing cultural muscles. Today, however, the image of the world reflected in this global mirror is a landscape of multidimensional crisis, multiplying conflicts and threats. Against the backdrop of such a landscape, there is no point in flexing one’s muscles, there’s nothing to boast about – and perhaps the Biennale would best fulfil its purpose as a space for collectively experiencing our fears, reflecting on our guilty consciences, hypocrisy and entanglement in mechanisms whose workings exacerbate the disturbing state of global affairs.

Have fun

'The Fortress' by Dries Verhoeven, Dutch Pavilion, 2026, during the 61st Venice Biannle, 2026, photo: Willem Popelier

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