The Venice Biennale’s most exclusive and elusive show is at a women’s prison. Put on by the Vatican pavilion, the show is at Giudecca Women’s Prison; the bouncers are prison guards, and it’s hard to get an appointment. It seems that the prison, and the Vatican, care little for art world credentials—as it should be. But many visiting Venice for the opening aren’t used to hearing “no.” fifaqq
After I showed up for my appointed time slot—which I booked a week in advance, so that they could run a background check—I had to hand over my phone and my passport before stepping inside. A blue-chip dealer interrupted my security check, explaining his importance to the Italian prison guard, and trying to cut the line; naturally, he was indifferent. Then, an esteemed Italian curator chimed in to remind him that this is a real prison, and those are real police.
The artist-prankster Maurizio Cattelan, of taped-banana fame, is the headliner of this group show. On the boat ride over, I started to wonder if us viewers were going to be the butt of the joke. In a way, we were: I was making fun of myself after thinking absurd thoughts in earnest, like “what do I wear to prison?”—after all, I haven’t visited one since I was a kid. The buildup was so ridiculous that I felt like I was living in an episode of The Curse. Then again, maybe The Curse wouldn’t even go this far. fifaqq
If you’re familiar with Cattelan’s work, you might be wondering: why did the Vatican pavilion tap the guy who made a sculpture of an asteroid hitting the Pope? It’s a good question, but as far as I can tell, Cattelan isn’t pulling one over on the papacy. Instead, he painted giant feet—à la Mantegna’s Lamentation (c. 1480)—over the prison’s exterior in black-and-white, J.R.-style, for visitors and not inmates to see. This year marks the first that any pope will ever visit the Biennale; Pope Francis arrives next week.
Once we got inside, the ridiculousness faded away as two inmates gave us a moving, sincere tour of the group show installed inside. They introduced works by the likes of Corita Kent, Simone Fattal, Claire Fontaine, and Sonia Gomes, then shared personal stories, too. Of the 80 women incarcerated in this facility—a former convent, built in the 13th century—20 volunteered to become tour guides.
From the cantina, filled with prints by Corita Kent, we walked through an alleyway lined with stone slabs onto which Simone Fattal painted poems, in Italian, written by inmates. Next to the prison’s only window that does not have bars, Fattal laid out postcard versions for visitors to take home with them—we were not allowed to take photos or notes.
From there, we entered the courtyard, where we were instructed not to ask questions or interact with inmates. Some women were chatting as others worked to install a new bench. On the wall, Claire Fontaine installed a blue sign that reads SIAMO CON VOI NELLA NOTE (translation: “at night we are with you”). The phrase is taken from murals that appeared in Italian cities in the 1970s as a statement of solidarity with political prisoners. One of the guides, sharing her own experience of the work—which blasts blue light into their windows—told us that at night, she often lies awake replaying her mistakes. fifaqq
