The Venice Biennale and diversity
After coming back from the Venice Biennale 2024, where I participated in a discussion round about skin and meaning, I sat down with Tomáš Novák to discuss some of my insights from the exhibitions. Below, you will find a part of that podcast, as well as a somewhat polished transcription.
I recently returned from the Venice Biennale, and it was one of the most powerful artistic experiences I’ve had in years. The theme, Foreigners Everywhere, focused on the global south and delved into critical issues such as post-colonial identity, migration, environmental crises, and socio-political struggles. The Biennale sought to amplify marginalized voices and challenge the prevailing narratives of the global art world, an approach aligned with Gayatri Spivak’s notion of the “subaltern,” emphasizing the importance of giving voice to those historically silenced.
As an immigrant and an artist deeply invested in deconstructing and reconstructing both individual and collective identity through my work, I felt a profound connection to the Biennale’s themes. The issues being addressed by many of the artists mirrored my own concerns, and their aesthetic languages often felt familiar to my practice. The sense of otherness, so palpable in many of the works, resonated with me on a deeply personal level, reminding me of Edward Said’s concept of Orientalism, where identity is constructed through a lens of otherness, and the “foreigner” is seen as the ultimate outsider. But with a refreshing twist, making both the foreigner and the “local” into “others”.
For two days, I wandered through the two main venues of the festival, feeling both amazed and overwhelmed by the sheer scale and depth of what I was experiencing. But by the end of the second day, though, I began to feel an underlying discomfort that had quietly simmered beneath my initial excitement. At first, it seemed like a vague sense of alienation, which I dismissed as fatigue—after all, I had consumed more art in two days than I had in months prior to coming to Venice.
But it was more than just tiredness. Although I felt seen and welcomed, there was an unspoken subtext to that welcome, something I hadn’t initially recognized. I was reminded of Michel Foucault’s analysis of power and discourse, in which even seemingly inclusive spaces are shaped by underlying power dynamics that subtly control what can be expressed and by whom.
A conversation with a colleague, a quintessential poster boy for the old white male demographic, brought this to the forefront. He asked, “If there are so many great artists in the Global South, why haven’t I ever heard of a Biennale there?” My first impulse was to brush it off, but the question lingered, and I found it worth contemplating. His question, albeit clumsily phrased, wasn’t irrelevant, even if just as an exercise to dismantle old white manhood.
The works showcased at the Biennale, many of which were selected by Brazilian curator Adriano Pedrosa to broaden the Western art canon, were exquisite. Some didn’t speak to me personally, but all were undeniably good art. However, I noticed a certain monotony—not necessarily in form, but in content. While thematic coherence is crucial to any exhibition, the Biennale, which aspired to promote diversity, seemed to have replaced one narrow narrative with another. The art, as powerful as it was, often felt confined within a competition to portray the most intense form of oppression. This competition for victimhood echoed Renata Salecl’s analysis in The Tyranny of Choice, where the idea of “choosing” oppression can create a hierarchy of suffering in the discourse around identity politics.
For example, in the US Pavilion, Jeffrey Gibson explored the intersection of Indigenous identity and LGBTQ+ history. The French Pavilion featured Julien Creuzet’s work, which reflected on Martinique’s colonial history while also addressing the ecological impacts of colonialism. The Danish Pavilion showcased Inuuteq Storch’s photographs of Greenland, delving into the ongoing effects of Danish colonialism. Meanwhile, the Dutch Pavilion, curated by Hicham Khalidi, presented the Congolese collective Cercle d’Art des Travailleurs de Plantation Congolaise (CATPC), who confronted the legacy of Congolese plantations and examined the complex relationship between Western museums and the art they hold.
My issue isn’t with these voices being heard—quite the opposite. My concern is that the art world, like academia, increasingly seems to operate within a framework where the focus on oppression becomes a competitive tool. Judith Butler has warned against reducing identity politics to mere performativity, where identity becomes commodified as something to be displayed rather than explored for its true complexities. It feels as though both artists and scholars are vying for attention by showcasing their oppression, playing into the so-called “oppression Olympics.”
And let’s be clear: I could easily participate in this competition. More than that: I am. I am pretty successfully participating in this competition. I’ve been a migrant four times, I’m Jewish, I was once a political prisoner, and I am a foreigner—both in my country and within my social class. I can and do fit into this narrative effortlessly. But doing so means aligning myself with a specific political agenda, which inevitably narrows the scope of my creative freedom. If I must highlight my disadvantages, my oppression, and my lack of privilege in order to be heard, seen, or exhibited, then my art will, by default, center on these aspects of my identity. This dilemma recalls Slavoj Žižek’s critique of contemporary politics, where expressing oppression risks becoming a way to fit into a pre-approved narrative rather than a genuine critique of power.
And the same goes for everyone else.
What we end up with is a uniform, one-dimensional narrative—a box that everyone is forced to squeeze into. Ironically, this is done in the name of diversity.
I would love to find a way to open the discourse without simultaneously closing it. I long for true artistic freedom, not only for the queer, Indigenous, disabled, non-binary artist but also for the old white man. More importantly, though, I want a discourse that encourages the queer, Indigenous, disabled, non-binary artist to explore themes beyond the intersection of those identities, rather than digging deeper and deeper into their own oppression points. That would be a discourse allowing for genuine diversity and freedom of expression in the most fundamental sense. It would open the door to art that isn’t subconsciously bound to a specific political agenda or restricted by the confines of dominant discourse, which currently demands a particular narrative. This vision aligns with bell hooks’ argument for an inclusive feminism that allows for more than just identity-based expression but creates space for critical engagement with a wide array of experiences and topics.
In such a world, I could continue working on the same themes that occupy me now, but without feeling the pressure of letting dominant public discourse reframe and redefine my ideas and feelings, simply because they appear similar in form but are miles apart in content.
Unfortunately, I fear we are moving further away from that kind of freedom. Instead of opening new avenues for exploration, our identities are more and more becoming channels for specific ideologies, shaping our thoughts and creations according to the dominant structures of the moment.
I hope I’m wrong.
