In the first part of their sprawling assessment of the 61st Venice Biennale—which runs through November 22—Editor-at-Large Hrag Vartanian and critic Aruna D’Souza found plenty to celebrate, even mounting a provocative defense of the enduring value of national pavilions. But in this second and final installment, the gloves come entirely off.
As introduced by Editor-in-Chief Hakim Bishara, the critics are turning their critical gaze toward the exhibits that left them cold, alongside a few deeply polarizing entries that have sparked sharp disagreements between them. Brace yourself; what follows is a candid, unfiltered look at the misfires, missed opportunities, and perplexing spectacles defining the international art world’s most prestigious showcase.
Germany
The critique of the German pavilion—featuring work by Sung Tieu and Henrike Naumann under the collective title Ruin—is swift and uncompromising. Vartanian doesn’t mince words, writing that the pavilion offers "trite political commentary for people who think surface is content and navel-gazing on the parts of German history that are safe to explore while ignoring the elephant in the room that has turned the country into a bastion of intolerance and injustice."
For Vartanian, the exhibition feels painfully evasive. He draws a direct parallel to the United States pavilion, arguing that both installations share a common flaw: they ignore the stark realities of the contemporary world in favor of insular, defensive conceptual frameworks. "Just as bad as the United States pavilion for ignoring the reality of the world and hiding in the safe spaces that will give the Epstein class hard-ons," Vartanian notes dryly. He concludes his critique with a sharp jab at the commercial apparatus surrounding such high-profile art displays, adding, "I’m sure the commercial art world and its scions, not to mention its courtiers, probably love this show … okay, I’ll stop."
Saudi Arabia
Moving from Europe to the Middle East, the Saudi Arabian pavilion presents a point of sharp internal division between the two critics. The pavilion features Dana Awartani’s installation May your tears never dry, you who weep over stones, which draws upon the historic mosaic floors of West Asia, their archaeological weight, and themes of multicultural heritage and preservation.
Vartanian admits he wanted to appreciate the project, but ultimately found that it fell flat. While acknowledging that Awartani’s visual forms are often capable of generating powerful energy and provocation, he felt the execution here missed the mark. "Here they felt like a bad designer showroom rather than what they were reputedly about," Vartanian observes, pointing to the conceptual gap between the stated historical themes and the physical impression left by the installation.
D’Souza, however, takes an entirely different view, leading to a classic moment of agreeing to disagree. In a biennale season she describes as overwhelmingly hectic and aggressively overinstalled, D’Souza found the Saudi pavilion to be a rare and welcome island of contemplation. Furthermore, she argues that the core of the project transcended traditional notions of heritage preservation. To her, the work served as a proxy for making visible the ongoing violence in the broader region.
Crucially, D’Souza points to a logistical detail that elevates the project in her eyes: the vast majority of the pavilion’s funding—roughly 90 percent—went directly to the skilled artisans who crafted the tiles. For D’Souza, this economic commitment gives the project a dimension that feels quietly radical.
Qatar and Austria
The final leg of the critics’ tour brings them to the shared challenges posed by the Qatar and Austria pavilions, where scheduling hurdles, logistical bottlenecks, and conceptual eccentricities created distinct viewing experiences.
D’Souza opens the discussion by critiquing a structural flaw inherent to the biennale format itself: its heavy bias toward the VIP crowds attending opening week, often leaving the broader public—who make up the vast majority of visitors over the sprawling six-month run—as an afterthought. The new Qatar pavilion—conceived as an outdoor, open space painted in a striking red with ample room for visitors to lounge—exemplified this issue. During the preview days, when Rirkrit Tiravanija was actively cooking on-site or artists were staging live performances, the space hummed with energy. But once those ephemeral events concluded, the pavilion became largely inert, destined to remain quiet for most of the exhibition’s remaining months.
Vartanian confesses that scheduling conflicts caused him to miss the Qatar pavilion repeatedly during his visits, highlighting the logistical friction that often plagues the sprawling Venetian gardens and arsenale.
Austria presented a different kind of frustration entirely: insurmountable lines. Vartanian notes that the wait times for the Austrian pavilion were agonizing, with a friend reporting a grueling three-hour wait on a Saturday right after the press preview ended.
When they finally engaged with the work, the reactions were mixed. D’Souza adopts a humorous, self-aware stance regarding the performance-heavy spectacle inside, admitting her patience wore thin. "And as for Austria: I am not standing in line to watch … whatever that was. Too many nekkid ladies doing random things in recycled pee water for me. (Look, I know I’m coming across as a prude, but so be it.)"
Vartanian shares the frustration over the endless queues, finding the sheer spectacle exhausting—especially given that so much of the wider biennale favored quieter, more introspective artistic gestures. Yet, despite sharing reservations about the execution, Vartanian admits he found the conceptual underpinning of the Austrian presentation intriguing, even if its recurring fixation on urine and topless performers ultimately left him somewhat perplexed.
