FEATURE Dec 2024 Venice Biennale: A Return to Art

Harpreet Kaur

In October 2024, speaker, writer and researcher Harpreet Kaur returned to Venice for the weekend to immerse herself in the Venice Biennale, and was both moved and astonished by what she saw. Here, she shares her response and reflections on two exhibitions that stood out from all the works she experienced, ‘Pierre Huyghe: Liminal’ at the Pinault Collection and ‘Thresholds’ at the German Pavilion.

On an wet and windy Friday afternoon, my first time in Venice for 20 years, I made my way to Punta della Dogana, one of two museums in Venice housing the Pinault Collection. The impressive building was restored in 2009 by  Japanese architect Tadao Ando, funded by French billionaire and art collector Francois Pinault. I was happy to make it in one piece, fearing that the fierce winds might push me into the canal. It had felt like quite an ordeal walking all the way there in the rain, but once I arrived and looked around the art works, I felt excited, revived and inspired.

Pierre Huyghe’s ‘Liminal’: An Interplay of the Human and Non-Human

‘Liminal’ by Pierre Huyghe presents new creations alongside works from the last ten years from the Pinault Collection. Presented across nine separate rooms of varying sizes and scale, the visitor walks through one by one on entering the building. Huyghe has long questioned the relation between the human and the non-human and the concept of otherness, and conceives his works as speculative fictions from which emerge other modalities of world.  His exploration resonates with philosopher David Lewis’s concept of modal realism, which posits the existence of parallel worlds as equally real as our own, offering a framework for the viewer to ground Huyghe’s artistic inquiry in alternative realities.

Huyghe transforms Punta della Dogana into a dynamic, sensitive environment, perpetually evolving. The exhibition is experienced by the visitor as a transitory state inhabited by human and non-human creatures and becomes the site of formation of subjectivities that are constantly learning, changing, and hybridizing. Huyghe invites us to follow different realities, to become strangers to ourselves, from a perspective other than human; the inhuman.

On entering the first room I am immediately nervous as it’s incredibly dark and I don’t see anyone. A few steps and I’m in a huge open space dominated by an equally huge screen, from floor to ceiling. This room feels expansive and cavernous, with a palpable sense of emptiness. A film is projected onto the screen of a naked human body with the face cut out, a dark hole where the eyes, nose and mouth would appear. It feels very apt and timely, the cold and stark nature of the shots echo the actual cold and wet weather from outside we have all escaped from whilst visiting the gallery. It experimentally explores the human condition through a simulation using digital technology.          

Different shots and angles show the bare human body from different perspectives, and it moves, changing position. The lighting, scale and boldness of the images and the ambience they are presented in create a crisp, cold, gloomy effect. The contrast with the shadowy, undefined nature of the space creates a raw, unrelenting atmosphere, cleverly heightening a sense of exposure and leaving me nowhere to hide. This piece, entitled Liminal (2024), is described as:

“…an empty vessel receiving invisible information in real time through sensors present in the physical environment, or stimuli from the outside. The human form makes subtle gestures, a language which is read by the inhuman entity. In reaction to these gestures, the inhuman entity responds by imparting different behaviours to the human form”

Human Mask: The Fragility of the Familiar

I move on to Room 2 and sit down to watch a short film entitled Human Mask made in 2014. A short film that, like a forgotten melody, stirred a sense of déjà vu. I recognise it instantly. I have seen it before, but have no idea where. It’s a treat to sit and watch it once again. I relish the cinematography, the eerie nature of the set, and the strangeness of the main character. The film is set in the no man’s land around the city of Fukushima in Japan, just after the landslide and the nuclear catastrophe of 2011. The 19-minute film shows us a monkey wearing a mask and a wig, sometimes scuttling around an empty restaurant, sometimes pausing, seemingly lost, confused, and we can only assume scared. As I watch the film my mind skips between seeing a frightened, vulnerable little girl, and then the reality that this is in fact a furry monkey, not a human being. The combination of low lighting, sound effects, close and wide-angle shots, and the peculiar being presented on the screen, makes for an ingenious and intriguing piece of art. The visual combined with the silence and ambience create an aesthetically impressive piece of film that seeks to question the ‘human’ mask we are all wearing. I find myself concerned for the abandoned little girl in this dystopian story, as it resonates with the child in all of us, bound by our human condition. A powerful, poignant and at times sombre work of art.     

Camata: The Future is Now

Stepping into Room 5 is a treat for the senses. The space is huge, a high ceiling, lots of space and bright light. The back wall has a seating area that is full of an audience when I arrive, and they are all staring at a massive screen. It’s a stark contrast from the darkness of the previous rooms. I join them and what I observe is captivating and fresh. Camata (2024) is a self-directed film edited in real time by artificial intelligence, of robotics driven by machine learning. There is no beginning or end, and sensors in the exhibition space continuously generate changes in its editing. The black robotic machines move over and around a skeleton in the Atacama Desert in Chile. It is known as the oldest and driest desert on earth, a testing ground for astronomers to study planets that exist beyond our solar system.

What we observe appears to be a ritual performed by the machines, an endless funeral rite or examination of what remains of the human, who was once a young man. We are presented with a range of wide and close-angle shots making this live film visually compelling. I feel exhilarated by the quality and images presented, and simultaneously fearful at what appears to be a transactional operation between different realities; a bodyless entity and a lifeless human body. Is this a glimpse into the future of the machines overpowering us, or protecting and serving us? The use of digital technology and artificial intelligence in Camata enables Huyghe to create a one-time only live piece of art that places the audience in front of something extraordinary, real, now and of the future. It offers a glimpse of an alternative world where humans have been dislodged from their privileged place, forcing us to question consciousness and  our role within a rapidly evolving technological landscape. Are we losing our humanity in the wake of artificial intelligence, or is this a new phase of coexistence, where our identity is redefined by the machines we’ve created?"

On entering the room, I did not know whether or not this was a pre-recorded piece of film and I did not contemplate this. I did feel present and awe-struck with the visual quality, images and scenes. I am left excited by the possibilities artificial intelligence can inspire and offer artists in their creations and want to see more work incorporating this.

An Intriguing Silence in Offspring

In Room 7 I am in the dark again, but this space is much smaller, and focussed on a sensor based, self-generative system for sound and light. Not easy to describe, Offspring (2018) includes a sort of lighting rig with a range of colours, all emitting what appears to be smoke, that has no odour and puffs away giving the lights an opportunity to be seen and brought to life. Not visible right away, I eventually notice a person wearing a golden mask sitting cross legged amongst the action, dressed in black, so blending in with the room. At first, I’m not sure if it’s a real person but they move and I am pleasantly surprised. There is a soft energy in the room, I don’t want to leave just yet. The person stands up and sits in a different space.

I watch for a while, then decide to sit diagonally across from them, mirroring their posture. I become a part of the piece, the theatre, the art. At least I am telling myself that. I can’t see their face or expression behind the helmet like futuristic golden shield, but in my own way I feel that I am connecting with this other human, in solidarity, and blurring the boundary between the subject and the audience. Are they tired, bored, frustrated, relaxed, happy, sad? After some time, I leave and feel grateful for a life affirming experience at the Punta della Dogana.

‘Thresholds’ at the German Pavilion: Experiencing the ‘In-Between’

The following day the rain has subsided, and I go to the Giardini della Biennale, to explore work in the different pavilions hosted by several countries. The Australian entry is the winning country for 2024 and has a long queue of people outside, curious to see something special in the space. But the prize from my perspective would have gone to Germany. As soon as I enter my senses are completely mesmerised by the first room I encounter. The exhibition is entitled ‘Thresholds’, and presents the work of six artists. As the programme explains:

‘For many people around the world, living in the threshold between nationalities and affiliations is a traumatic and violent experience. Our exhibition aims to generate, from this experience, a position of insight and to transcend these borders for a moment. From the threshold, more becomes visible, perceptions and images are superimposed on one another… Thresholds are not meant to stay. They are transitional spaces. For us, the pavilion should serve as this kind of space, a space in which visitors are on the move, a space in which there is no arriving.’

This is not apparent to me right away when I step into Light to the Nations (2023) by Yael Bartana. I walk into a dark room inhabited by a futuristic spaceship, straight out of a sci fi movie. Parts of the model are lit brightly in yellow, and a blue and white light passes through the rest of the ship and moving propellers to create a cinematic effect, with shadows and lines dominating the space, hypnotising the audience. Up until now I’ve dragged myself from one pavilion to the next, quite tired from lots of walking and seeing a lot of work. But the loud sound, deep bass and vocals accompanying this piece have taken me to a place I have never been, hadn’t planned to go, and am glad to have discovered. Without even diving into the artist’s vision and intentions I am captivated and in love with this piece for the effect it has on my senses. It’s quite simply unique, stylish, futuristic and bold.

Bartana’s work as an artist has been exhibited worldwide and includes films, installations, photographs, staged performances, and public monuments. She investigates subjects like national identity, trauma, and displacement, often through ceremonies, memorials, public rituals, and collective gatherings. In this piece she asks, is abandoning the earth the ultimate consequence of the failure of humanity as a collective? Her spaceship is a narrative of the possibilities of what a future might have been like if the impulse of healing instead of destruction had determined our actions:

‘It seems almost impossible at the moment to defend the threshold’s position as one that makes something like hope possible, without sliding into negligent naivety. Nevertheless, we defiantly assert this word. Hope lies in movement in the threshold, in the refusal to accept arrival as a benchmark.’

Reflecting on ‘Foreigners Everywhere’

And so, we continue to move between the interiors of each pavilion and the artworks they encompass, and externally, from one pavilion to the next. I speak to a few people during my visit, from different countries and nations. It’s obvious that the majority of the audience to the Biennale are white, I am not sure what proportion are Italian, and the majority of the people of colour I see are working in the cafés or as cleaning staff. So those of us privileged and free move between the work and the pavilions.   

The theme for the 2024 Biennale is Foreigners Everywhere. There is something ironic and unsettling for me about the title, and the work brought together during these times of crisis, inequality, war and distress in many cities and nations across the world. Indeed, has there ever been a time where peace has potentially been more attainable? Whilst I have been a strong advocate for cultural value for many years, my pessimism has returned as inequality continues to rise and I see a certain middle to upper class, especially in England, dominating spaces and positions of power in the arts sector, whether they are black, brown or white. That is the case for the little Island I live on, and in other countries in varying degrees. How bourgeoise, and here I find myself wrestling with my multiple identities, as we are not fixed beings with fixed labels. I walk around the galleries and wonder if everyone else there feels like a foreigner as I do. Maybe it’s the whole point?