The Quiet Rebellion of Canada’s Venice Biennale Pavilion: A Commentary on Nature, Power, and Exclusion
There’s something profoundly unsettling about Canada’s entry at this year’s Venice Biennale. Amidst the chaos of wars, migration crises, and climate anxiety, the pavilion doesn’t scream for attention. Instead, it whispers—a quiet rebellion against the noise. Personally, I think this is what makes it so powerful. In a world where art often feels like a competition for the loudest statement, Abbas Akhavan’s Entre chien et loup invites us to pause, to reflect, and to question.
A Living Ecosystem, Not a Showcase
One thing that immediately stands out is the pavilion’s transformation into a living climate system. The humidity, the mist, the above-ground pond—it’s not just an installation; it’s an experience. What many people don’t realize is how this subverts the traditional role of a national pavilion. Instead of showcasing Canada’s artistic prowess, it challenges the very idea of national identity in an era of global ecological crisis. If you take a step back and think about it, this is a bold statement. It’s as if Canada is saying, ‘We’re not here to boast; we’re here to provoke thought.’
The Victoria Water Lily: A Symbol of Colonial Legacy
At the heart of the installation is the Victoria water lily, a plant with a story older than empires. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Akhavan uses it to unravel the tangled histories of colonialism, science, and conservation. The lily, named after Queen Victoria, is a relic of imperial ambition—a time when nature was collected, renamed, and displayed as trophies. But here’s the kicker: the plant itself is 100 million years old. Empire, as Akhavan notes, is just a blip in its existence.
From my perspective, this is where the installation truly shines. It’s not just about the lily; it’s about what the lily represents. It’s a record of movement, possession, and control. Taken from South America, cultivated in European gardens, and now displayed in Venice, the lily embodies the global power dynamics that shape our relationship with nature. What this really suggests is that even conservation—often seen as a noble act—can be a tool of exclusion. Who gets to protect nature? Who gets to enjoy it? These are questions that linger long after you leave the pavilion.
Twilight as a Metaphor for Power
The title, Entre chien et loup, refers to twilight—that moment when light fades and distinctions blur. It’s a metaphor that resonates deeply in today’s world. When power shifts, who are the protectors, and who are the predators? In my opinion, this is the most thought-provoking aspect of the installation. It’s not just about nature; it’s about the systems of power that dictate who gets to live with it and who gets shut out.
What many people don’t realize is how this metaphor extends beyond the pavilion. In a Biennale dominated by geopolitical noise, Canada’s entry feels like a shepherd trying to distinguish a guard dog from a wolf in the fading light. It’s a call to question our assumptions, to recognize the ambiguity in our roles as stewards of the planet.
The Subdued Impact: A Risk Worth Taking
Here’s where things get interesting. The installation is subdued, almost elusive. In a Biennale where visitors decide in seconds whether to stay or move on, Entre chien et loup demands patience. Personally, I think this is both its strength and its weakness. On one hand, it risks being overlooked in a sea of louder, more attention-grabbing works. On the other hand, it challenges the very culture of the Biennale—a culture that often prioritizes spectacle over substance.
If you take a step back and think about it, this is a radical act. It’s a rejection of the three-second judgment that Jean-François Bélisle, the National Gallery of Canada’s director, mentions. It’s a reminder that art doesn’t always need to shout to be heard. Sometimes, a whisper can be more powerful.
Broader Implications: Art as a Mirror to Society
What this installation really suggests is that art can—and should—be more than a reflection of our times. It can be a mirror that forces us to confront uncomfortable truths. The environmental thread, often drowned out by geopolitical noise, is front and center here. But it’s not just about climate change; it’s about the systems of power and exclusion that underpin it.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the lily’s life cycle mirrors the installation itself. The flower opens, traps a beetle, changes color and shape, and then releases it. It’s almost theatrical—a metaphor for the cycles of possession and release that define our relationship with nature.
Final Thoughts: A Quiet Revolution
In the end, Canada’s pavilion feels like a quiet revolution. It doesn’t offer easy answers, but it asks the right questions. Who gets to live with nature? Who gets to protect it? And who is shut out? These are questions that resonate far beyond the walls of the pavilion.
From my perspective, this is what makes Entre chien et loup so important. It’s not just an art installation; it’s a call to action. It’s a reminder that in a world of chaos, sometimes the most powerful statements are the quietest ones. And that, in itself, is revolutionary.
