The South Korean Pavilion at this year's Venice Biennale has drawn mixed reactions, with Artistic Director Choi Bit-na claiming to have opened a blocked channel within the space. However, many found the exhibition perplexing and lacking engagement. The pavilion's theme, 'Liberation Space: Fortress and Nest,' left visitors with more questions than answers, and the ambition to create a 'living monument' seemed unfulfilled, leading to a sense of stagnation.
During a press conference held on May 5 in Venice, Choi emphasized the concept of 'channels.' "I pierced the body of the South Korean Pavilion with a needle. It may hurt at first, but eventually, it releases tension," she stated.
However, the exhibition failed to reflect the historical struggles and resilience of South Korea, from liberation in 1945 to the establishment of civilian government in 1993 and the rise of the people's sovereignty government in 2025. Instead, it seemed to demand patience without offering a clear narrative.
Choi focused heavily on the architecture of the pavilion itself, stating, "I started from what was originally in the pavilion, what has disappeared, and what remains." She removed walls in the second-floor space to create a passage to the roof. Yet, it is questionable how many visitors were aware that the second floor had previously been closed off, as there was little to indicate this change.
Overall, the exhibition felt insular. Choi's work, 'Meridian,' began with promise but lost momentum, while No Hye-ri's 'Bearing' presented eight stations with themes like mourning, yet their messages were unclear. Each station lacked distinct identity, and the works of Choi and No felt disconnected.
Notably, a piece titled 'The Funeral' by Han River, placed under a desk in the mourning station, hindered the viewing experience. Although it encouraged viewers to adopt a posture of mourning, it ultimately reduced the artwork to one of many scattered fragments in the exhibition.
In an era shifting from intellect to sensory experience, national pavilions that relied on instinctive engagement left a stronger impression. The Japanese Pavilion evoked love for fragile life through a doll, while the Canadian Pavilion's wet marten coat reminded viewers of ecological exclusion. The German Pavilion resembled South Korea's numerous goshiwons, and the Spanish Pavilion's countless tourist postcards hinted at collector mania. In stark contrast, the Russian Pavilion, featuring lavish flowers, DJs, and vodka, showcased the brazen frivolity of a nation embroiled in war crimes.
Choi, who has worked in Europe for 20 years, expressed her refusal to be defined as a Korean or Asian curator. Addressing a reporter's comment that the exhibition did not resonate, she responded, "Everyone I have met has been professional, but we need to observe how general audiences react."
What message did she truly want to convey? Who did she wish to communicate with in Venice? The five fellows accompanying her seemed insufficient to fill this void. An industry veteran remarked, "We need to rethink the selection process for directors. Just because someone works abroad doesn't mean they should be appointed without consideration."
The next artistic director for the South Korean Pavilion, set to present in two years, is hoped to penetrate the eyes and hearts of visitors.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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