The Risks of Exhibiting Anti-War Art at the Venice Biennale

When Russian artist and curator Katia Margolis opened the Pavilion of (Dis)Sense in Venice, security was not meant to be the exhibition’s subject. 

The project was conceived as a space for Ukrainian and Russian artists opposing war, censorship and repression. It was designed as a place where voices threatened, imprisoned or silenced could be brought into public view. Yet the circumstances surrounding the pavilion made questions of safety impossible to ignore.

The exhibition, installed in the former Church of San Leonardo, has brought together artists whose work exists under extraordinary pressure. Many of those represented have faced imprisonment, prosecution, exile or censorship for opposing Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. In this context, showing their work was not simply a cultural act; it was also an act of visibility. And visibility can carry risks.

Those risks were already present before the pavilion opened. Margolis told The Art Journal that Italian police contacted her well in advance to discuss the exhibition, how the opening night would be orchestrated and possible security concerns therein. Authorities were aware of the sensitivity of the project, particularly after the recent murder of Russian artist Robert Kuzovkov, known artistically as Semyon Skrepetsky, who had participated in anti-Russia demonstrations connected to the Venice Biennale.

Kuzovkov, an ethnic Bashkir – a member of a Turkic people indigenous to Russia – made grotesque, satirical portrayals of Russian, Belarusian and Chechen strongmen in the days leading up to his murder in Poland in June. His work challenged the Kremlin and provided a disturbing reminder that exile does not necessarily mean safety. For many artists who have left Russia, the risks associated with dissent do not simply disappear at the border. The circumstances of his death reinforced concerns surrounding a pavilion devoted to artists whose work confronts authoritarian power.

Margolis said the police response was precautionary and not based on a specific risk. “In my understanding, I don’t see any particular threat,” she told The Art Journal, “but it wasn’t going to hurt if they were there at the opening, because who knows?”

Officers visited the exhibition space before the opening and were present during the launch. The opening itself passed peacefully, but the security presence reflected the unusual nature of the pavilion. It was not merely presenting political themes; it was presenting artists whose lives have been directly shaped by political repression.

The exhibition has continued to attract visitors throughout its run, receiving around 80 people per day on average, Margolis said. Some visitors came after reading about it in local media, while others entered simply because they were interested in a contemporary space that was once a church. “Some people came there after there was some TV news about the pavilion,” she explained. “Other people just come because they see something that makes them curious.”

This accidental encounter with the pavilion is important to Margolis because the exhibition has not been confined to an artworld audience. It has become part of the daily life of Venice. It has reached people who might not otherwise seek out a politically-engaged exhibition.

Nevertheless, there have been reminders that the concerns surrounding the pavilion were not abstract. A few days after the opening, an unsettling incident occurred inside the church. A sketchbook displayed as part of the pavilion, containing drawings connected to anti-war and pro-Ukrainian artistic interventions, was found with a bent red-headed pin placed on the column where it was exhibited. Because the CCTV did not capture the relevant angle, it was impossible to determine who placed it there. The incident was reported to police, who returned to inspect the site.

Margolis described the episode as “a minor but unpleasant episode.” 

Yet within the context of the exhibition, even a small anonymous gesture acquired significance. The pavilion examines how repression works not only through imprisonment and direct violence, but also through intimidation – the creation of an atmosphere in which people begin to fear speaking, creating, or showing their work.

There were also occasional encounters with visitors who appeared to react negatively to the exhibition. Margolis recalled that some Russian visitors entered, recognised what the pavilion represented and quickly left. Others expressed dissatisfaction before departing. None of these encounters escalated into serious confrontation but they revealed the tension surrounding a project dedicated to challenging official narratives.

The security concerns surrounding the Pavilion of (Dis)Sense have become inseparable from its artistic message. The exhibition has not simply displayed works about political repression; it has presented art created under conditions of repression. Its artists are not distant observers of censorship – they are people navigating its consequences.

Margolis was careful to distinguish the pavilion from a documentation of protest alone. Many works originated from activist contexts but were developed into independent artistic projects for the exhibition. The aim has not merely been to record opposition, but to show how creativity survives when expression itself becomes dangerous.

This is why the security measures surrounding the pavilion have become part of its larger meaning. The presence of police outside the church and the anonymous act inside it reveal the same underlying reality: dissent requires protection because it remains vulnerable.