The advent of the fifty-fifth Biennale di Venezia, at the end of May, coincided with a week of unseasonably cold, wet weather. Gondolas stayed at their moorings under tight-fitting waterproof covers. Tents appeared where outdoor receptions were scheduled. Acqua alta, rare in late spring but an intermittent phenomenon this year, made half of Piazza San Marco inaccessible for several hours one evening. (Idiot tourists waded barefoot into the highly questionable water and snapped cell phone pictures.) Yet nothing daunted the art writers, curators, collectors, artists, and general art-world types who routinely accompany the start of the Biennale. The hardcore, easily recognizable by shoes designed for long walks and hours of standing, were armed, as well, with umbrellas and rain hats, as they strode purposefully from the vaporetto to the national pavilions in the Giardini, or hiked from there to the Arsenale, once the shipyards for Venice’s legendary navy, now the site of the Biennale’s thematic exhibitions—this year, Il Palazzo Enciclopedico (The Encyclopedic Palace)—and miscellaneous installations by countries without pavilions.
I was one of the hardcore, rubber soles, umbrella, and all, in Venice less in pursuit of the spectacles at the Giardini and the Arsenale than to see an Anthony Caro retrospective at the Museo Correr, an official Biennale exhibition at an off-site location. Still, I saw enough of the various “official” exhibits to share the general view that this year’s incarnation of the controversial extravaganza, directed by Massimiliano Gioni, was more thoughtful and, often, more satisfying
