“After New York, Aruba,” says a subway ad whose video shows waves breaking gently on the rocks of a tropical island. My first instinct is to look up where Aruba is.
Right, of course. It’s a small Caribbean island only 18 miles north of Venezuela, and it is said to be part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, home of the original Prince of Orange.
At the office, we’ve been discussing whether it’s time to retire the phrase “Golden Age” for the bloodiest heights of Dutch colonialism. One country’s golden age is another’s inferno. The Netherlands glowed brightest with gold that was never theirs.
Our own King of Orange has another island on his mind. It’s in the Persian Gulf and rests on a sea of black gold. He assumed the Iran war would be a quick in-and-out like Venezuela, but instead got his fat ass stuck in a narrow strait. He is still trying to checkmate the Iranians. Someone should remind him that the term comes from the Farsi words Shah Mat, meaning: the king is dead.
Back at work, I publish an interview Chris Kraus conducted with artists Shirley Tse and Dana Berman Duff. They’ve installed a show filled with moons, though it is really about us. People like to say Kraus represents the peak of “90s cool.” I once handed her book I Love Dick to a girl in the hope that she would love me. She read it and decided I was a dick. She married me anyway.
I still have warm memories of Venice in May. Nothing compares with beginning the day with a couple of espressos and a sweet lemon soda topped with a slice of actual lemon. Yesterday I was telling someone how I teared up several times during this biennale when I was confronted with the force and beauty of solidarity. I would not mind returning for another round of the show. If you ask me, there is no better time to visit the biennale than in the fall.
And after Venice, Aruba.
—Hakim Bishara, editor-in-chief
