{"id":167647,"date":"2024-05-31T10:00:18","date_gmt":"2024-05-31T14:00:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=167647"},"modified":"2024-06-03T15:06:30","modified_gmt":"2024-06-03T19:06:30","slug":"dorm-room-art-at-the-biennale","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/05\/31\/dorm-room-art-at-the-biennale\/","title":{"rendered":"Dorm Room Art?: At the Biennale"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Walton Ford, Culpabilis<\/em>, 2024. Courtesy of the artist and Kasmin, New York. Photograph by Charlie Rubin.<\/p><\/div>\n

I touch down at Marco Polo on Wednesday afternoon, one among the many who have come for the preopening days of the Venice Biennale. The airport\u2014with its series of moving walkways shepherding passengers toward the dock\u2014will turn out to be the only place in the city where I manage not to get lost. The line for the water-bus into the city is easy to spot, and as we wait for the next boat to arrive I count fifteen Rimowas, five pairs of Tabis, and several head-to-toe outfits of Issey Miyake. The boat ride, unaccountably, takes an hour. I alternate between fending off seasickness and watching the Instagram Story of a microinfluencer who\u2019d been on my flight and is already flying down the Grand Canal in a private water taxi.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My first stop after depositing my bags and downing two espresso<\/span> is Walton Ford\u2019s <\/span>Lion of God<\/span><\/i>. The show takes up the two full stories of a church-like building in the same square as the city\u2019s opera house, which my boyfriend is telling me\u2014with the sort of walleyed zeal that suggests it\u2019s one of a handful of facts he memorized for the trip\u2014burned down in the nineties. Inside, it\u2019s surprisingly dark, the main floor cut up by temporary exhibit walls painted black, the lights so dim that the details of the building, and the historic paintings spanning the rest of the room, are almost completely obscured.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In other words, you have no choice but to turn your attention to Ford\u2019s four enormous watercolors, which, despite the best of intentions, strike me immediately as somehow “dorm room.” <\/span>Maybe it\u2019s the richness of their color set against the black of the room, but I momentarily perceive these objectively impressive works (at least on a technical level) as velvet paintings. The subject is always the same\u2014a lion with a skull in its mouth; a lion with a book in its mouth; a pentaptych of a thorn-impaled paw. Each painting seems to be a different scene from one unified narrative. It\u2019s something biblical, clearly, and the name <\/span>Jerome<\/span><\/i> pops into my head, along with the fact that Venetian iconography is clearly lion-obsessed, but I can\u2019t quite fit everything together.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Upstairs, a giant Tintoretto has been moved into the space specifically for the exhibit. It takes up the central wall, and shows Saint Jerome (I was right!) in a state of ecstasy as Mary descends from heaven. I stand before it, a sophisticated-looking group nearby. As it turns out, Ford himself is in attendance, and he strikes up a conversation with one of the women in the group. \u201cI saw you looking at this one,\u201d he says. He points out a faint, shadowed lion in the painting\u2019s bottom right corner, which I\u2019d failed to see, then gestures to\u00a0 the perimeter of the ceiling, where a few paintings have been carefully spotlit, highlighting the animals often buried in otherwise busy canvases. \u201cI thought, what if you took all the people out,\u201d Ford says, \u201cand focused on the animals?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

That night, I plan to attend a party celebrating Frank Auerbach. I receive an email in the early evening, explaining that some guests are having trouble finding the Palazzo da Mosto and reminding me that the entrance is \u201cactually down a very narrow, unmarked alleyway.\u201d I manage to stumble upon the entrance, almost by pure luck\u2014I see a propped wooden door in the distance, leaking yellow light.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In the main room, I learn that the palazzo, which has housed the same family for four generations, is also the site of the scene in <\/span>The Talented Mr. Ripley<\/span><\/i> where Matt Damon kills Philip Seymour Hoffman with an ashtray. I\u2019m not exactly surprised\u2014as anyone will tell you, Venice is a city of layers, a palimpsest. The room is lit, as far as I can tell, by rows of scented candles, the shadows they create giving everything a sort of unreal quality. I spot a few friends in line at the vodkatini bar, where overzealous guests are leaning forward and rocking the table. The bartender moves the table back and forth as a warning, sloshing a full vodkatini in the process. My friends and I watch as the crowd grows more boisterous, converging, eventually, on a vat of risotto and a tray of mini omelets that have materialized in a side room. \u201cGermany is very good this year,\u201d everyone is saying, \u201cGermany is really amazing.\u201d I wonder if Eurovision is on, or if there\u2019s some wild economic news I\u2019ve managed to avoid, before slowly gathering that this is in reference to the pavilion at the Giardini.<\/span><\/p>\n

More people show up; more food emerges. A woman in a geometric hat spills her cocktail down my dress. I search in vain for the bathroom. I search in vain for water. Another round of vodkatinis. Someone says something about Auerbach\u2019s impasto. Someone compliments my dress. I\u2019m told the pope is coming. As the party wraps up, a woman clutches my arm, a smile on her face like a full moon. \u201cIt\u2019s so perfect here,\u201d she says, gesturing widely, as though she means to encompass in the entire city. \u201cI don\u2019t think it\u2019s possible to get sick of a place like this.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The next day I head dutifully to Germany. A long line has already formed, and once inside, I\u2019m disappointed to discover there\u2019s another, longer line to enter a little house within the pavilion. This, I take it, is the heart of the exhibit, and I join the sub-line, which has managed to grow in the meantime, looping around the little house. Admittedly, <\/span>house<\/span><\/i> might be the wrong word. It\u2019s an ominous-looking, multistory curved structure, made of dark, claylike material. It\u2019s speckled with windows, though they\u2019re oddly reflective or maybe just tinted, and I can\u2019t really see inside. After twenty minutes or so it\u2019s my turn to enter the structure, and I find myself standing inside what appears to be an abandoned home. A few mute performers walk about aimlessly. A machine blows dust around. A spiral staircase leads me to the roof, where a naked man is lying corpsed against the wall. I\u2019m unsure what to make of this. Back outside, I feel covered in a film of dust. I try to google the meaning of the little house, hoping for some early review that will piece it all together, but discover only that its walls are covered in real asbestos.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s more, of course, but it feels like more of the same\u2014and maybe, I think, that\u2019s the nature of an event like the Biennale. It\u2019s surfeit; you can\u2019t help but feel overindulged. You are always doing too much, and not enough. By the end of the week I\u2019m listless and tired. On my last night in the city I\u2019m shuffling home from dinner in the rain, stalled behind an elderly tour group, when the siren signaling <\/span>acqua alta<\/span><\/i> sounds. Workers begin setting up elevated walkways, and I watch a tourist take off her running shoes and wade barefoot into shin-deep water. My phone is dead and, convinced I\u2019ve been walking in circles, I turn down a random alleyway and, for the first time in days, I am completely alone. I continue on as the siren fades into silence and then there it is: San Marco\u2019s basilica, the square completely flooded, bright and still as glass.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Camille Jacobson is <\/em>The Paris Review\u2019<\/span>s engagement editor.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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