You’ve been following our reporting from the consequential 2026 Venice Biennale, which runs through November 22. You’ve also, I hope, read our reviews of Koyo Kouoh’s posthumous main exhibition In Minor Keys, Alma Allen’s unmemorable United States pavilion, and Gabrielle Goliath’s Elegy, shown in a church after being cancelled by the South African pavilion.
We also covered Dayanita Singh’s project at the State Archives of Venice, Arthur Jafa and Richard Prince’s uneven collaboration, and an interview with Khaled Sabsabi, whose Australian pavilion was censored under pressure from pro-Israel groups and later reinstated, among much more from the international exhibition and its collateral events. But we never got to tell you what we really thought of the national pavilions, and which ones were worth your time. As the punishing heat waves of summer begin to ease, now may be the ideal moment to visit the biennale, if you haven’t already.
Below is the first part of a conversation between Editor-at-Large Hrag Vartanian and critic Aruna D’Souza about the pavilions they liked, disliked, or still feel conflicted about. They open with a provocative defense of national pavilions. Have they suddenly become nation-state stans? Not quite — hear them out.
Prologue: In Defense of National Pavilions
Hrag Vartanian: I know it’s fashionable to criticize the national pavilion model, and some biennials have abandoned it entirely, as the São Paulo Biennial did. But what makes Venice so important and central, I think, is the tension between the main exhibition and the national pavilions. You can criticize them all you want, and we should, because the nation-state has plenty of problems, but our national identities and passports shape everything from funding to media attention.
Getting rid of them may make a number of academics and curators feel better, as though they are above the fray, but it would only conceal their privilege and avoid confronting the reality that national borders still determine so much. Just look at the Venice Biennale’s own overrepresentation of Nordic countries, fossil fuel-backed monarchies and autocratic states, and other wealthy nations that support the arts through public or private money. National pavilions also give smaller nations a chance to center their own artistic conversations. Eliminating them would likely mean countries like Timor-Leste, Cape Verde, Nauru, and others would nearly disappear within the larger exhibition, as happens at other biennials.
The impulse to do away with national pavilions is usually strongest in privileged circles, often among people with the most powerful passports, which says a great deal. This year’s boycotts made those pressure points clear, and while I thought some of the intervention was uneven — for example, I’m not sure why ANGA didn’t highlight Turkey’s role in aiding Israel’s genocide in Gaza, even though the government has been central to access to gas and other resources, while emphasizing every other country with a pavilion in the Arsenale and Giardini — it was still valuable.
Aruna D’Souza: I broadly agree with that, especially given how many countries were able to participate for the first time. Thirteen pavilions came from countries in Africa! Panama had a pavilion at a moment when Trump is threatening its sovereignty! And there are many other examples, too.
The only drawback, in my view, comes in the way these pavilions are introduced. So often the commissioner or sponsor is listed first, then the curator, and only then the exhibitor, meaning the artist. That is how the Biennale itself wants it presented, if the catalog of national participation is any guide. I deeply dislike this reduction of the artist to a bureaucratic function in service of the nation.
Ecuador
Balancing the Indigenous-led Tawna collective with artist Óscar Santillán, the Ecuadorian pavilion offered a welcome space of storytelling and reflection. The 26-minute video Llaki (2025) by Tawna was especially moving in its account of how Indigenous people with non-heteronormative sexualities are made to live under colonial structures, and how those norms shape families and relationships. Rather than dwelling on grief, it lifts us up by showing how resilient those identities can be.
Santillán’s Medula (2026) was a striking assemblage that, according to the label, included “Alien DNA,” while a nearby work incorporated a circuit board. It conveyed the same resilience and the same fearless engagement with the world and its harms. —HV
Democratic Republic of Congo
Nine artists from the DRC and its diaspora brought real fire to the country’s first-ever appearance at the biennale, under the trilingual title “Simba Moto! Seize the Fire! Saisis le Feu!” At the center of an installation designed by Johnny Leye, principal in the architectural firm Traumnovelle, stands an oval structure with ample room to sit and spend time with the art.
There we find Aimé Mpané’s Le Souffle (2026), in which three figures — a mother and two sons, made of match sticks so they resemble topographically defined shells — lie on an air mattress. They could be peacefully napping in bed, but they might also be drifting on an inflatable raft in search of newer, safer homes. Photojournalist and documentary photographer Arlette Bashizi records scenes from the eastern part of the country, including environmentally devastating mining practices.
Patrick Bongo’s sculptures, made from recycled rubber, deepen the consideration of the human and environmental toll of dirty industries. Sammy Baloji’s tapestry, Seeing Katharina (2026), explores the colonial histories that brought us to this point. Taken together, the presentation is ambitious and fierce. —AD
