Pain as a Mirror at The Venice Biennale

Embroidery, Intimacy and Abandoned Children

The Finnish pavilion is a group exhibition by three artists titled The pleasures we choose. However, one of the works, How great is your darkness by Jenni-Juulia Wallinheimo-Heimonen, piqued my interest and in all honesty grabbed my attention. According to the text of the Finnish pavilion, the artist has worked purposefully in her career to point out the hate speech, stereotypes and prejudices that disabled people face in our society. 

The first thing that greets you when you walk into the pavilion is a wheelchair that hangs from the ceiling and spins in circles above the audience's heads. Some kind of lace or fringe has been attached to the wheels, and from the chair hang, among other things, a sequined rag frog and a life-size model of a human foot, which appears to be coated in bed linen, with intricate red embroidery and various pearls and beads. Under the seat of the wheelchair is a similar motif but of a hand, which gives the audience the finger when it faces them. On the wall to the right there is a textile installation that is obviously related to the chair, with various references to the human body, the health care system and disabilities, but also very nostalgic details that lie on the interesting border, which I always enjoy seeing in works of art, of being somehow commonplace but still evoke a strong feeling that they are extremely personal.

In the center of the installation is a large textile sculpture that at the same time as it is abstract gives off a vague sense of physicality. On closer inspection, it is assembled from doctors’ coats, hospital gowns and bed linens, referencing the care industry. Around it is a host of small objects, also made of various textiles, beads and embroidery, which seem to be telling you stories. They are like dreamy journal entries, as if you are getting a peek into someone's private life. Memories, feelings, thoughts. A chandelier with beaded candles and hard-boiled eggs, a small coffin with a frog on it from which dangles a teaspoon with what seems to be some kind of medicine in it, a boat floating in the air from which hang plastic pipes that turn midway into plant-like creatures from which purple vascular catheters emerge. All of these things border on being physical. They bear embroidered threads that look like veins, blood vessels and nervous systems, pearl patterns reminiscent of DNA chains, lace that evokes the thought of a labia. Hands and feet are a recurring motif hidden here and there. 

In one place there is a book with the inscription "First, do no harm" quoting the Hippocratic oath, which doctors swear when they graduate. In another corner there is a small sign that says "Ospedale dei Derelitti", which seems, after a bit of googling on my part, to refer to a church here in Venice, Santa Maria dei Derelitti, which is funnily enough only about 200 meters from our apartment, and we have sat in the square outside it many times with spritz and cicchetti. The church was built next to a 16th century hospital for disabled and chronically ill orphans. But the word 'dereletti' can also mean 'abandoned', so the inscription can also be read as "hospital of the abandoned". On the floor below the installation are two small screens which loop surreal videos with similar themes; people in doctors’ coats, women in colorful dresses in wheelchairs and carrying walkers, a guide dog, a pie buffet and potted plants. A woman lies in an electric wheelchair with the Hippocratic oath across her chest and gives the camera the finger. Wallinheimo-Heimonen manages, with this remarkably materially juicy work, to open the eyes of the viewer to the reality of people with disabilities in an incredibly intimate and beautiful way.

The Heaviness of Hesitation

The curated exhibition in the Giardini features an extremely moving work by Gabrielle Goliath titled Personal Accounts. Inside a side space covered in blue soft fabric, large screens line the walls surrounding you. Each screen features a person sitting in front of a light blue background. You can hear the people sighing, hesitating, swallowing in unison. Rubbing their hands together, fiddling with something. Trembling hands hold up a letter with information the audience cannot access. One person hums melancholic notes with tears in their eyes.

You immediately feel a profound heaviness in the space, there is a tangible sense of desperation over the work, but at the same time an underlying feeling of calmness and acceptance. A closer look at the wall text reveals that ever since 2014 Goliath has been collecting stories from marginalized people from different parts of the world. The people recount stories about the traumas they have suffered in the name of patriarchy, racism and colonialism. Then the stories themselves, the words that describe the incidents are erased, leaving nothing but the sounds that fill the pauses in between their recounts. The responses the body triggers when it is forced to relive the recalled memory. The calm you feel is perhaps based on the safe space that Goliath created for the individuals to talk about their most difficult experiences, and maybe even the relief that comes from being able to talk about it. The light blue walls and soft floor embrace the viewer and provide a strange sense of security. But the weight of the work is strong, and had me stuck sighing in unison with the piece on a light blue carpeted bench for what felt like an eternity. 

Self Portrait as a Weapon in the Fight for the Right to Exist

In one of the side rooms of the Giardini exhibition, there is an open door that leads out into a small courtyard. The garden has benches, a small man-made pond and walls covered in vegetation. In the deepest corner of the garden stands a human-sized bronze statue on a pedestal with the inscription WOMAN. The woman stands up straight, her head held high. She has long, wavy hair and long, sharp fingernails. She is naked and has both breasts and a penis. The face of the statue has been smeared with make-up and red glossy lipstick. Down her cheek is a trace of a glitter laced tear. The title of the work is quite long; A sculpture for trans women. A sculpture for the Non-Binary Femmes. A sculpture for the Two-Spirit People. I am a woman. I don't care what you think. (Transphobia is everywhere and everyone is susceptible to enacting it at any moment) (Unlearn the transphobia brewing within) I am a Trans Woman. I am a Two-Spirit Person. I am a Woman. This is for my sisters and siblings everywhere. History erased many of us but we are still here. I will fight for our rights until the day I die. Exile me and I'll keep fighting. 

Jade Guanaro Kuriki-Olivo, also known as Puppies Puppies, created the piece by casting an exact replica of herself in bronze. Using her own body, she forces the audience to confront their own prejudices against her society and existence. Therefore, it can be assumed that the work is extremely vulnerable and personal for her, but the title of the work also showcases her admiring and strong spirit.

Frida and Diego and Frida and I

This year's 60th international exhibition at the Venice Biennial is divided into two periods, Nucleo Contemporaneo and Nucleo Storico. Nucleo Contemporaneo features works by contemporary artists, while Nucleo Storico focuses on works from the 20th century by artists from South America, Africa, the Middle East and Asia. Deep inside the joint exhibition at the Giardini is a hall marked Nucleo Storico - Portraits. The walls are covered with paintings, along with several drawings, from floor to ceiling. The space also contains several figurative sculptures. The room features works by 112 different artists from the years 1915-1990. 

A familiar face calls out to me from the crowd. On one of the walls is a small Frida Kahlo piece, Diego y yo, or Diego and I. It’s a self-portrait, she gazes with anguished eyes out of the frame, meeting the viewer's eyes. On her forehead lies a bust of Diego Rivera, her husband, with a third eye on his forehead, which, unlike Frida's eyes, look out into the abyss. Rivera's placement on Frida's forehead can be assumed to represent her condition during the creation of the work; she could not stop thinking about him. On her cheeks are three tears, mirroring his three eyes. His third eye indicates her high opinion of him, that he has a deeper understanding than she does, that he knows something we don't. Her own hair circles her neck, perhaps symbolizing her suffocating mental state. Next to Frida's piece, a huge cubist piece by Rivera has been placed. But her work is so full of emotion that the energy of this small work overflows the entire space. Floods it with the sadness in her eyes, which follow you around the room.

I have always, like perhaps most people, been a big fan of Frida. Her use of the self portrait as an outlet for emotional turmoil and as a mirror to understand herself has always spoken to me. Even more importantly, over time her work has become a tool for others to mirror their own pain in hers. I look into her eyes and I see both of us. I clearly see her feelings and experiences, but I also see my own.

In Conclusion

I could talk about a lot of other works that moved me in this year's show. Of course, there are easier bits to be swallowed in between the heavier ones, but the theme of the exhibition inevitably draws out the injustice and unfair distribution of power in the world through the ages, as well as now. Individuals, groups and even whole nations that have had to fight for their right to exist are offered a voice, with exceptions nonetheless. Given the current state of the world, this definitely creates tension and the need for further conversation.

This is the second article about the Venice Biennale where the main themes and ideas are explored, as well as the national pavilions, the uncertainty of current events and the main exhibition, Foreigners Everywhere which is curated by Adriano Pedrosa.

Newly graduated artists from Iceland University of the Arts and art theorists from The University of Iceland, interns situated in Venice, are currently working on articles and reports of key ideas and themes of current exhibitions of La Biennale. 

Herdís Hlíf Þorvaldsdóttir, also known as Herdill, is a Reykjavík based visual artist born in 1999. She mainly works in classic figurative, renaissance-esque oil painting. Herdill completed her BA degree in fine arts at the Icelandic University of the Arts (IUA) in the spring of 2023. She has also studied at Akureyri School of Visual Arts and Accademia di Belle Arti di Brera in Milano.