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 that forces you to pause and reflect. Personally, I think this is where its genius lies. In a world drowning in noise, it dares to ask a simple yet radical question: Who gets to live with nature, who gets to protect it, and who is shut out from it?
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the installation, Entre chien et loup by Abbas Akhavan, transforms the pavilion into a living, breathing ecosystem. The humidity, the mist, the above-ground pond with its murky water and lily pads—it’s not just art; it’s a climate system. But here’s the kicker: it’s not just about recreating nature. It’s about interrogating our relationship with it. The Victoria water lilies at the center aren’t just plants; they’re symbols of empire, colonization, and the commodification of the natural world.
From my perspective, the lilies are the stars of this show, but not for the reasons you might think. Named after Queen Victoria during an era of imperial ambition, these flowers carry the weight of history. What many people don’t realize is that their genus is over 100 million years old—a reminder that empires come and go, but nature endures. Akhavan uses this to highlight how imperial powers have collected, renamed, and controlled nature, turning it into a luxury accessible only to the wealthy. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about plants; it’s about who gets to own the earth itself.
One thing that immediately stands out is the installation’s title, Entre chien et loup—“between dog and wolf.” It’s a metaphor for twilight, that ambiguous moment when light fades and distinctions blur. What this really suggests is the difficulty of separating protectors from predators, especially when power shifts. In a world where conservation efforts often feel like exclusive clubs for the elite, this metaphor hits hard. It raises a deeper question: Are we protecting nature, or are we just rebranding our dominance over it?
A detail that I find especially interesting is the journey of the lilies themselves. Taken from South America, renamed after a British monarch, cultivated in European botanical gardens, and now displayed in Venice—their story is a microcosm of global power dynamics. It’s a reminder that even acts of conservation can be tools of control. As Akhavan puts it, the world has been mapped and plotted as a garden for the rich, leaving the rest of us on the outside looking in.
But here’s where it gets even more intriguing: the lilies will grow and bloom during the Biennale, transforming the pavilion into a living display. This isn’t just art; it’s a performance of time, change, and resilience. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it contrasts with the fast-paced, attention-hungry nature of the Biennale itself. In a place where visitors decide in seconds whether to stay or move on, Akhavan’s installation demands patience—a rare commodity in today’s world.
In my opinion, this is where the piece’s impact lies. It’s not loud, it’s not flashy, but it’s deeply thoughtful. It challenges us to slow down, to question, to reflect. In a Biennale dominated by geopolitical noise, Canada’s pavilion is a quiet oasis of resistance. It doesn’t offer easy answers, but it forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about power, access, and our place in the natural world.
What this really suggests is that art doesn’t always need to shout to be heard. Sometimes, the most powerful statements are the ones that whisper, inviting us to listen closely. And in a world as chaotic as ours, that might just be the most radical act of all.
