Welcome to a spectacularly fraught edition of the Venice Biennale

IT WAS SUPPOSED to be a party. The trappings were all there: an open bar, resplendent pink flowers, a musician, scheduled DJ sets. And yet something was amiss—in fact, lots of somethings. In the Russian pavilion at the 61st edition of the Venice Biennale, irony was everywhere yet acknowledged nowhere.

“Why do flowers no longer smell?”, a seven-paragraph, mind-wilting description, accompanied a floral sculpture—which did, in fact, smell. A bin filled with a jumble of clothing and a sign declaring “tutto a 0€” was not intended to evoke refugees displaced by Russia’s war in Ukraine, but who could think of anything else? And then there was the spokesman wearing a black-and-white striped mask and Cheshire-cat smile, as visitors milled around uneasily. “It’s a festival,” he insisted. “It’s like Coachella, but in Venice!”

The official theme of this year’s Biennale, which opened to the public on May 9th and runs until November 22nd, is “In Minor Keys”. But the art world’s oldest and largest global gathering has opened to a loud soundtrack of discord. The festival’s decision to allow Russia to host an exhibition—after being absent from the past two instalments—set off a furore, resulting in the European Commission pulling €2m ($2.3m) of funding and several leaders boycotting the Biennale’s opening.

For the first time in its history, the prize-giving jury resigned, after announcing it would not consider countries facing war-crimes charges, namely Israel and Russia. (The threat of a lawsuit by the artist representing Israel, seeking personal damages from jury members, reportedly contributed to their decision to stand down.) With no judges to hand out the usual awards, this year visitors will be able to vote for the best artist and national pavilion, in a populist move more reminiscent of “American Idol” than high art.

The Biennale was founded in 1895 to celebrate the 25th wedding anniversary of King Umberto and his wife and to display the strength of Italy, unified only a few decades earlier. Ever since, the art world’s Olympics have reflected the wills and woes of their era.

So it goes today. “What did we expect? The world is in such a shambles, why did we think the Biennale would be any different?” wonders Massimiliano Gioni, curator of the Biennale in 2013 and now the artistic director of the New Museum in New York. This year is the most chaotic and contentious since 1968, when student protesters targeted the event, says Chelsea Haines, a historian of contemporary art.

Like many institutions besieged by politics, the Biennale’s organising body has come off as ill-equipped to manage the hard issues of free speech, propaganda and participation. This year 100 countries have pavilions showing their best artists and ideas, mostly scattered around Venice’s public gardens (Giardini) and former shipyards (Arsenale). In a compromise that has pleased no one, including the Italian government, which has been at odds with the Biennale’s leadership, Russia’s pavilion was permitted to open for previews but will remain closed for the main event.

Nearby, Israel’s permanent pavilion is shut, supposedly for construction, with police standing guard outside. Israel was instead allowed a space in the Arsenale, where it is harder to stage protests because of its narrower aisles. There, an artist has set up a pool of water with pipes dripping into it, which “invites viewers into a contemplative environment”.

Several other countries not involved in actual wars have waged very public battles with artists. Australia fired its chosen artist after concerns emerged that he had included Hizbullah’s former leader in a previous work; it reinstated him after an outcry over freedom of expression.

Meanwhile, South Africa’s culture minister tried to persuade its artist, Gabrielle Goliath, to remove a Palestinian poet from her work; she refused and was told she could no longer take part. In the end, after trying to cancel Ms Goliath, South Africa cancelled its pavilion. A nearby church offered a “radical refuge” for her show, “Elegy”. It features videos of women singing a single note on loop to honour women who have been killed. The church’s acoustics make it all the more haunting.

Elsewhere globalisation has given way to localisation. “A lot of the pavilions have become rooted in the countries themselves and are more inward-looking” this year, observes a longtime Biennale-goer. Many, such as Germany’s and South Korea’s, are focused on their own histories.

And then there’s America’s pavilion. After specifying that the exhibition needed to reflect “American values” and not touch diversity, equity or inclusion, the government did not work with the National Endowment for the Arts, the agency that typically vets proposals, for the first time “in the protocol’s history”, says Alexander Alberro, a professor of art history at Barnard and Columbia. Instead, the artist was chosen by a new non-profit, run by a woman who used to oversee a pet-food firm.

The artist chosen, Alma Allen, is a self-trained outsider to the liberal art world, which is probably to the Trump administration’s liking (though it is not exactly on brand that Mr Allen emigrated to Mexico). His energetic sculptures surely have a message, but viewers are left wondering what exactly it is (see picture above). “We’re not telling people what to think,” says Jeffrey Uslip, the American pavilion’s curator. Every sculpture is untitled. Only by the exit is there any explanatory text. Mr Uslip notes that the first sculpture you encounter at the entrance, made of Iranian travertine, might appear to some viewers like a mushroom cloud or mountain; another one looks like a whale or even a body bag. But which are they intended to be? The exhibition is “sphinx and chimera. It is a riddle,” replies Mr Uslip. Unfortunately, it is a riddle that will leave plenty of visitors stumped.

Fittingly for such supercharged times, the most popular art in Venice involves spectacle and live performance. In the lead-up to the opening, hundreds swarmed Austria’s pavilion to see “Seaworld Venice” (pictured), which features naked women. One rings a bell with her body. Another sits in a tank of water with a scuba mask, connected to portable toilets, which guests can use. A short walk away, Japan’s pavilion, focused on declining birth rates, allows visitors to participate by picking up baby dolls, carrying them around and changing their nappies.

Art featuring nudity and novelty often appeals, but even more so when it distracts from the political tension and existential angst in Venice and everywhere else. However, the best works do not divert your attention but focus it.

That is the feat of Ukraine’s excellent contribution, “Security Guarantees” (pictured top), which greets guests when they arrive in the Giardini: a hulking sculpture of an origami deer suspended from a truck. (The title refers to promises from America and others to protect Ukraine when it agreed to give up its nuclear arsenal in 1994.) The artist, Zhanna Kadyrova, removed her sculpture from Pokrovsk, close to the war’s front line, and drove it across Europe, documenting the stops along the way. Since then the city has been flattened by Russia’s bombardment.

The subject is heavy; the work is creative and even beautiful. People stop briefly to contemplate it, and then head off, presumably in the direction of Austria. ■