Venice Biennale 2022

“The Milk of Dreams” Review and Travelogue – Day 0

In a world that looks more and more like a dystopian future many of us naively thought impossible, this collective sigh of global contemporary art at the 59th Annual International Art Exhibition in Venice retreats into the fanciful, the terrifying, the profane, and the absurd, as art is wont to do in times of upheaval. In a way, the last Biennale, titled “May you Live in Interesting Times” foretold the global pandemic, the dramatic rise in wealth inequality, the precarious nature of, well nature, and the collapse of the post-Cold War economic and security order. Makes me wish the last Biennale was titled “Everyone gets a million dollars and the ice caps stop melting.” But I digress. 

This was my third trip to Venice in the last seven years. I usually default to calling the Biennale “the Olympics of Art” because I think it helps to instantly frame its particulars for people not in the art world, but I know I’m not the first to make that connection. I had known about the Biennale anecdotally for quite some time before attending, or even before the thought of working with art ever crossed my mind. Back in high school, an upperclassman named Andy Monk was, unbeknownst to him, my sort of gay role model. He was out, and artsy, and for a confused emo kid like me, my personal avatar of queer visibility. He was all I could not and dared not be in ninth grade. I followed Andy to Oberlin, and even as a prospective student, marveled at his life where he made out with boys, had a funky dorm room, and talked casually about going to “la Biennale” as if it were a trip to the grocery store. Suffice to say, he also spoke fluent Italian. To Andy I am forever indebted, in giving me the palimpsest upon which I would model my adult identity.

Andy… talked casually about going to ‘la Biennale’ as if it were a trip to the grocery store

The first time I came to the Biennale was in 2017. I was at the tail end of my internship at the Pérez Art Museum Miami. I was embarking on what was a scary but necessary career change. After seven years in the public school classroom, I realized that the rising tide of fascism in Florida would eventually catch up with me. Call it dumb luck, but I somehow managed to land a museum job at PAMM, a place that in many ways was my refuge since the day it opened its doors. Honestly, it was a combination of luck and hard work. In any event, I figured that this international exhibition would only be to my benefit moving forward in my new career, and thus a form of professional development. At the conclusion of that first trip in 2017, I vowed to myself to always attend the Biennale if it was within my means, because that trip was so eye-opening. Since then I returned in 2019 with my now husband, and after living through a global pandemic that arguably still hasn’t ended, and working my way up from intern, I finally returned for opening week in April 2022. 

La Biennale’s 59th Annual International Art Exhibition is titled “the Milk of Dreams,” or “Il Latte Dei Sogni” in Italian. The only phrase I ever really mastered in Italian thanks to a very feeble essay at parlando Italiano with DuoLinguo was “Sono un bicchiere di latte.” While proclaiming “one is a glass of milk” is practically useless, I at least knew one of the words of this intriguing title, the solipsistic orders screeched by Starbucks Baristas be damned.

Curated by Cecilia Alemani, chief curator of the the High Line (ever the huge fan) in New York and curator of the 2017 Italian pavilion (I was not a fan), “the Milk of Dreams” throws us into the deep end of the ocean that is the surreal. The thing with this dive is that there’s no oxygen tank, no life raft, not even a pool floaty for that matter. If you make peace with the never ending expanse, the exhaustion of staying afloat, and the inevitable crushing depths, the reward is a sort of blissful delirium. 

One thing I’m reminded of by the title of this year’s Biennale is the Hindu creation myth. Please excuse the gaps in my knowledge, as it has been at this point decades since I cracked open the Bhagavad Gita, any of the Vedas, Upanishads, or let alone a single Sutra. The story is about the churning of the ocean of milk. Before anything, there was an endless white sea and Vishnu the creator took the form of a massive turtle. The other gods, the Devas, laying their strife aside with the “bad guys,” the Asuras, wrap Nagaraja, a divine multi-headed serpent around an inverted mountain. The mountain is balanced summit-side down, on top of the God-turned-turtle’s shell, like a large stone-hewn funnel. The two sides tug at both ends of the snake, rolling the mountain back and forth like a dreidel, round and round, upon this sea of endless milk.

From the churning of the milk into froth, cream, and butter, sprung all sorts of treasures, both terrible and great. Other gods, gems, holy items, even the moon and the heavenly nectar of immortality spring forth from this collective effort. Similarly, the title of this Biennale begs the question, is contemporary art the froth? Are artists and their art the things wondrous and terrible that spring forth from the grindings of global constructs, both real and imaginary? Who are the Devas? Who are the Asuras? I think this fever dream was partly due to my being jet-lagged after a long flight across the Atlantic and an even longer layover in Madrid.

If you make peace with the never ending expanse, the exhaustion of staying afloat, and the inevitable crushing depths, the reward is a sort of blissful delirium. 

Suffice to say, “the Milk of Dreams” was more like soma for my dreams. A fleeting, addictive high par excellence that ultimately leaves you wanting more, and diminished, all at the same time.

I intend to present my trip across my three days during the opening weekend, starting Saturday April 23rd and ending Monday April 25th. Each day will offer images as well as thoughts on the art, artists, national pavilions, etc. I do wish to critically engage the Biennale as a whole, as well as offer some practical suggestions to would-be pilgrims making their way to the the Most Serene Republic.