How this year's Venice Biennale elevates quiet stories

HostUsually, when we think of the big world art shows in Venice, we think of massive things. Huge gold statues, flashing lights, and names that everyone already knows. It's meant to be the Olympics of the art world. But this year, the whole mood seems to have shifted. It feels much smaller, more personal, and a bit more hushed.

HostWhy is the world's biggest art stage suddenly so interested in these quiet, tucked-away stories instead of the usual loud ones?

GuestIt's a massive pivot. The man in charge this year, Adriano Pedrosa, is the first person from South America to lead the main show. And he brought a very specific idea with him. The title of the whole thing is Foreigners Everywhere. On the surface, that sounds like it might be about travel or borders, but it's really about the feeling of being an outsider. He didn't go looking for the stars of the New York or London art scenes. Instead, he went looking for people who have been working in the shadows for decades. We're talking about folk artists, people who never went to art school, and those who have been pushed to the edges because of who they're or where they come from.

HostThat sounds like a big risk for a place like Venice. I mean, people travel from all over the world and pay a lot of money to see something spectacular. Does a focus on the quiet stuff ever feel, well, a bit thin? Like it lacks the punch of a big blockbuster show?

GuestThat's the big debate right now. Some people walk through the main halls and feel like they're looking at a history book instead of a cutting-edge art show. There's a lot of older work, things from the middle of the last century that were ignored at the time. But the punch comes from the weight of those stories. When you see a wall full of paintings by artists who were never allowed into the big galleries while they were alive, it does something to you. It's not about a single flashy object. It's about the sheer volume of voices we have been ignoring. The power is in the recovery of those lost names.

HostI suppose that explains why the top prize went to Australia this year. From what I have seen, that room is the definition of quiet. It's just a big dark space with chalk drawings, right?

GuestIt is. The artist is Archie Moore, and he spent months hand-writing a family tree in white chalk on black walls. It covers the entire room, floor to ceiling. It goes back sixty-five thousand years. But then, in the middle of all those thousands of names, there are big holes. There are white gaps where names have been erased by time or by the way history was written. And in the center of the room, there are stacks of official papers about First Nations people dying in prison. There are no screens, no music, no robots. Just the sound of your own feet on the floor and the weight of all those names. It won the Golden Lion because it didn't need to shout to be the most haunting thing there.

HostIt feels like there's a push to get us out of the fancy galleries and into places that feel a bit more real, or even uncomfortable. I heard the Vatican even put their show in a prison this year. That feels like it could be a bit of a stunt. Is there actually art there, or is it just about the shock of being in a jail?

GuestIt could've been a stunt, but it ended up being one of the most talked-about parts of the whole Biennale. You have to take a boat to a women’s prison on a separate island. You have to hand over your phone and your bags. Then, the inmates themselves lead you through the show. They're the guides. You're seeing art about hope and being trapped, but you're seeing it in a place where people are actually living that out every day. One of the works is a film where the inmates act out parts of their own lives. It strips away the distance we usually have when we look at art. You can't just look and walk away. You're in their home, and you're looking them in the eye.

HostBut does this focus on the outsider and the stranger actually work when the audience is still the same elite crowd? I mean, it's still Venice. It's still expensive. Is there a tension between the quiet, humble stories and the fact that they're being sold in a city built on old money and gold?

GuestThere's a massive tension there, and the show doesn't really try to hide it. You have these very raw, honest stories about struggle being viewed by people in designer clothes holding glasses of bubbles. Some people think it's a bit hypocritical. But the argument on the other side is that these stories need to be where the power is. If you want to change what the world values, you have to put the quiet stories right in the middle of the loudest room on earth. By making the stranger the guest of honor, it forces the traditional art world to realize that they're the ones who might be out of step.

HostSo the real shift isn't just about what's on the walls, but about who we decide to listen to when the whole world is watching.

GuestThe most striking thing is that the show ends with a list of names of artists who passed away before they could ever see their work in a place like this.

HostThe city of bridges seems to be trying to find a way to connect those lost names back to the world we live in today.

GuestThe most striking thing is that the show ends with a list of names of artists who passed away before they could ever see their work in a place like this.

HostThe city of bridges seems to be trying to find a way to connect those lost names back to the world we live in today.