Show me the money

Words & images, Emma Geliot

So the Venice carpet spread before me and, refreshed from my travels, I set out to imbibe as much art as humanly possible. My task made harder by my ongoing sulk with the vaporetti drivers, who’d been on strike when I arrived, so Shanks’ Pony all the way, in new, blister-ready sandals.

The Arsenale first, starting at the far end to queue for a press pass–as the Italian press were swept in through their own special entrance–while the sun beat down on the rest of us. At least I could be grateful that my pass didn’t feature the hastily-taken pic of me with blackened red wine teeth.

Latin American countries (IILA), and I won’t be complaining about my teeth again.

Adán Vallecillo’s collection of carious teeth were extracted as part of a health programme for the impoverished natives of Western Honduras. They were presented on a tray made from the silver that’s exploitatively mined by them and this planted the first question in my mind about the cash that powers the biennale. Guatemalan Regina José Galindo, who also featured dentistry with her collection of fillings, won the Golden Lion in 2005, for the most promising artist under 30. She was so skint that she sold it to another artist, who sold it to a collector. For this biennale she’d made a replica out of bronze and, if I’ve got this right, gold from fillings. A poignant statement about colonisation and the reappropriation of things lost/stolen.

Presenting your country at Venice is a costly business. This year Northern Ireland decided they couldn’t afford to come, while Greece made a statement about their economy in their press release and Iceland’s tag was “Your Country Does(n’t) Exist.” Cheek by jowl with the IILA (Latin American countries) was the United Arab Emirates presentation. The haves and the have-nots. While looming opulently on the quayside by the Giardini entrance (to facilitate speedy art retail) was Roman Abramovich’s obscenely vast yacht, estimated to have cost around £150m– it’s one of four...

I thought about this as I choked down the Arsenale lunch-bag sandwich (€7), made largely of silica gel. The economic divide is further accentuated on the party circuit: The lavish parties in palazzi, and the warm cheap prosecco from plastic cups that runs out in the first hour. Scotland had gin, lots of gin. Wales had welsh cakes and cheese. At the one really posh party I went to there was risotto and chilled fizz in classy flutes, while Iceland went for orange Apro Spritzi in plastic. “Peanuts. There’d better be bloody peanuts!” A colleague said as we stormed the third party of the night with nothing but cheap booze in our bleeding bellies.

Perhaps this was also the biennale where it was more apparent that the parties had nothing to do with the art and more to do with fronting up. Over half of the launches I went to were miles away from the art they were celebrating – just a bunch of thirsty people elbowing their way to the bar before the drink ran out. At 2.30am I discovered that I’d crashed a party that had nothing to do with the biennale at all – ah but there was free gin.

After party