By Theresa Rézeau
The irony would be almost poetic if it were not so damaging.
As the 2026 Venice Biennale begins to unfold across months of exhibitions, national pavilions, and international attention, the conversation surrounding it is increasingly being shaped not by the artworks themselves, but by calls for protest, boycott, exclusion, and ideological confrontation. Recent reactions surrounding the Israeli Pavilion and artist Belu-Simion Fainaru reveal how rapidly the exhibition space can become absorbed into geopolitical struggle.
With reports of jury resignations, protests surrounding national pavilions, and Belu-Simion Fainaru describing forms of professional isolation, the Israeli Pavilion has become a flashpoint within a wider debate about nationalism, protest, artistic freedom, and cultural exclusion.
The language used by some activists frames participation itself as complicity. Others argue that excluding artists on the basis of nationality represents a dangerous collapse between governments, individuals, and cultural expression. Between these positions lies an increasingly fractured art world struggling to determine what cultural institutions are now meant to protect.
This is not simply a disagreement about one pavilion.
It reflects a much larger crisis surrounding the role of culture during periods of war, polarization, and moral absolutism.
For decades, biennales and museums often presented themselves as spaces of encounter, places where artistic exchange might survive even when diplomacy failed. That vision was never perfect, nor free from power or hypocrisy, but it carried an important assumption: that culture could create forms of contact across national, religious, and ideological divisions.
Today, that assumption appears deeply unstable.
The pressure placed upon institutions has intensified dramatically. Silence is interpreted politically. Participation is interpreted politically. Refusal is interpreted politically. Even the attempt to maintain complexity is often read as evasion. In such an atmosphere, curatorial decisions no longer remain curatorial for long. They become moral tests.
This is particularly visible when artists become symbolic extensions of the states from which they come.
The danger here is profound. Once artists are reduced primarily to nationality, the artwork itself risks becoming secondary to the passport attached to it. Complexity collapses. Distinctions between governments, citizens, dissidents, minorities, and individuals begin to erode beneath the force of collective accusation.
That does not mean political criticism should disappear from cultural spaces. Art has always confronted violence, empire, injustice, and historical trauma. Nor should institutions be insulated from ethical scrutiny. Many activists calling for protest do so from genuine anguish over suffering and destruction. The emotional force behind such movements cannot simply be dismissed.
At the same time, cultural institutions cannot simply retreat behind the language of neutrality when confronted with real suffering and violence. Governments should be open to criticism, and art has long served as a witness against war, oppression, and human devastation. But there is an important distinction between confronting power and collapsing individual artists into the actions of the state from which they come. The moment nationality alone becomes sufficient grounds for exclusion, culture risks reproducing the very logic of collective judgment and dehumanisation it often claims to resist.
This distinction matters because history offers many warnings about what happens when cultural participation becomes contingent upon ethnicity, nationality, or collective association. The language may change across eras, but the underlying logic can become dangerously familiar: certain people are treated not as individuals, but as embodiments of a larger political guilt.
Samuel Hirszenberg captured this tension hauntingly in Excommunicated Spinoza, where the philosopher Baruch Spinoza stands isolated after expulsion from the Jewish community of Amsterdam.
Samuel Hirszenberg (1865–1908), Excommunicated Spinoza, (1907)
Oil on canvas.
Public domain. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
The painting is not simply about religion or doctrine. It is about the loneliness produced when identity, belief, and collective fear collide. Long before contemporary cultural boycotts and ideological exclusions, Hirszenberg understood how quickly societies can transform individuals into symbols to be cast out.
Looking at Excommunicated Spinoza today, the question feels disturbingly contemporary. What happens to a culture when belonging becomes conditional upon ideological agreement? What happens when the individual disappears beneath collective accusation? Spinoza stands alone, but the deeper tragedy of the painting is not only exile. It is the silence surrounding him. The distance. The moment a human being ceases to be encountered as a person and instead becomes treated as a symbol to be condemned, feared, or removed. Hirszenberg understood that exclusion rarely begins with violence alone. Often, it begins with the conviction that certain voices no longer deserve to remain inside the room.
The contemporary art world often speaks passionately about protecting plurality, dialogue, and artistic freedom. Yet moments like this expose how fragile those commitments can become under ideological pressure. Calls to isolate or delegitimize artists based primarily on nationality raise uncomfortable questions about whether cultural institutions still believe in encounter as a principle, or only when that encounter feels politically safe.
The crisis is not simply about whether politics belongs inside art. Politics has always been there. The deeper question is whether cultural spaces can still hold human complexity without collapsing into ideological sorting mechanisms where every artist becomes reducible to allegiance, identity, or statehood.
The greatest works of art rarely emerge from purity. They emerge from contradiction, grief, exile, memory, terror, longing, and fractured humanity. Guernica was not powerful because it simplified suffering into tribal certainty. Käthe Kollwitz did not memorialize grief through slogans. Shirin Neshat confronts power, exile, gender, and violence while preserving ambiguity inside the image itself.
Art matters precisely because it resists the temptation to flatten human beings into symbols.
That resistance feels increasingly fragile.
The contemporary cultural sphere is becoming shaped by an atmosphere where institutions fear backlash, artists fear misinterpretation, and audiences are encouraged to interpret every exhibition through immediate ideological alignment. Under such pressure, the exhibition space risks transforming from a place of encounter into a battlefield of permanent moral positioning.
Perhaps that is why the current tensions surrounding Venice feel larger than Venice itself.
They reveal a world losing confidence in the possibility that people who profoundly disagree might still occupy the same cultural space without demanding erasure from one another.
Recovering the Biennale's original spirit would not require depoliticized art, nor the absence of moral disagreement. It would require preserving the possibility that cultural spaces can still contain tension, ambiguity, grief, and profound political conflict without demanding erasure. Art's unique power has never been consensus. It has been the ability to encounter another human being before reducing them to ideology alone.
The Biennale was once imagined as a meeting point between nations through culture. Increasingly, it risks becoming a mirror of the fractures nations themselves can no longer contain.
The deeper danger is not disagreement itself, but the slow erosion of the ability to encounter one another as human beings before ideology intervenes.
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