They're drinking vodka while soaked in the blood of Ukrainian children
At the Venice Biennale, long regarded as a mirror of civilization's highest aspirations, Russia's return to the world stage of art has forced a reckoning with a question as old as culture itself: whether beauty can be separated from the hands that wield it. Activists, diplomats, and artists converged on the lagoon city in May 2026 to contest not merely a pavilion, but the meaning of inclusion when one nation's soldiers are killing another nation's poets. The controversy, touching Russia and Israel alike, reveals how art fairs have become arenas of soft power — and how the world's institutions struggle to hold ethical lines when politics and aesthetics collide.
- Pussy Riot and Femen stormed the Russian pavilion with smoke flares and chants, insisting that cultural diplomacy for an aggressor nation is itself an act of war.
- The European Commission threatened to pull €2 million in funding while Italy's culture minister boycotted the opening, exposing a fracture between Brussels and Rome that no amount of curatorial language could paper over.
- The Biennale's own international jury resigned en masse after referencing ICC-wanted leaders, and protesters blanketed the Israeli pavilion in leaflets, turning the entire fair into a contested geopolitical theater.
- Russia's pavilion — defended by a president who once praised Putin and dismissed critics as intolerant — will close after opening week, its recorded performances left to drift as sound into the Venetian air.
- Against all of this, a concrete origami deer evacuated from the front lines of Donbas hangs at the fair's entrance, asking visitors whether they can comprehend what it means for a city, and a culture, to simply cease to exist.
The Venice Biennale's decision to readmit Russia for the first time since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine ignited immediate confrontation. Pussy Riot and Femen activists descended on the Russian pavilion in fluorescent pink balaclavas, setting off smoke flares and carrying placards that accused the fair of providing cover for a nation at war. Their protest framed Russia's cultural participation not as artistic exchange but as hybrid warfare — a soft-power operation running parallel to military aggression.
The backlash reached institutional levels quickly. The European Commission condemned the decision and threatened to withdraw €2 million in funding, while Italy's culture minister announced she would not attend the opening. Yet Italy's deputy prime minister, Matteo Salvini, refused to join the boycott, insisting no pavilion should be excluded — a position that deepened tensions between Rome and Brussels. The Biennale's president, Pietrangelo Buttafuoco, a right-wing figure with a history of admiring remarks about Putin, largely avoided the press before finally accusing critics of building a 'laboratory of intolerance' and leaving without taking questions.
The controversy did not stop at Russia's doors. The entire international jury resigned after referencing ICC-wanted leaders in a statement widely understood to implicate both Russia and Israel. Protesters separately targeted the Israeli pavilion, and Israel's foreign ministry pushed back against what it called political manipulation of the event. The fair, often described as the Olympics of the art world, found itself transformed into a stage for geopolitical confrontation.
Russia's pavilion — featuring an upside-down tree and sound installations, overseen by a commissioner whose father holds a senior role at sanctioned weapons manufacturer Rostec — will close after the opening week. Whether the closure reflects protest pressure or the weight of sanctions remains ambiguous. Meanwhile, at the fair's main entrance, a concrete origami deer hangs suspended from a crane. The work of Ukrainian artist Zhanna Kadyrova, it was first installed in Pokrovsk in eastern Donbas when Russian forces were forty kilometers away. As occupation drew closer, Kadyrova evacuated her own sculpture to safety — a journey that mirrors the displacement of millions of Ukrainians.
Posters across Venice advertise an 'Invisible Pavilion' of Ukrainian artists, each stamped with the word 'Cancelled' and the reason: the author was killed by Russia. Among them is writer Volodymyr Vakulenko, shot dead when troops occupied his village. Kadyrova's question, posed quietly from her Kyiv studio, hangs over the entire event: how much of a culture, how many of its works and its people, has this war already erased?
The gardens of the Venice Biennale erupted into confrontation this week when activists in fluorescent pink balaclavas stormed through the grounds to protest Russia's return to the prestigious arts fair. Pussy Riot, the Russian punk protest group, joined forces with Femen, a Ukrainian activist collective, to stage a dramatic demonstration outside the Russian national pavilion—the first time Moscow has participated in the biennial exhibition since launching its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. As security guards rushed to seal the glass doors, the protesters ignited smoke flares and chanted accusations: "Russia kills! Biennale exhibits!" One placard cut to the heart of their argument: "Curated by Putin, dead bodies included."
The decision to readmit Russia has fractured the art world and exposed deep rifts among European institutions. The European Commission has formally condemned the move and threatened to withdraw €2 million in funding, arguing that providing such a prominent platform to an aggressor nation violates the ethical standards attached to its grant. Italy's culture minister has announced she will not attend the opening on Saturday. Yet Italy's deputy Prime Minister Matteo Salvini, who famously wore a Putin T-shirt to Red Square in 2014, refuses to join the boycott, insisting that no pavilion should be excluded from the fair. The tension between Brussels and Rome over this decision has left observers in the European capital unimpressed with Italy's stance.
Nadya Tolokonnikova of Pussy Riot framed the controversy in terms that extend far beyond aesthetics. She described Russia's cultural reinstatement as part of a broader hybrid warfare strategy—one that operates through art and language alongside tanks and drones. "They're drinking vodka and champagne in their pavilion, soaked in the blood of Ukrainian children," she told reporters, characterizing the Biennale's decision as opening doors to a nation actively engaged in conquest. The pavilion itself contains an upside-down tree and experimental sound performances, with Anastasia Karneeva, the Russian commissioner, dismissing questions about the appropriateness of Russia's presence. Karneeva, whose father holds a senior position at Rostec, Russia's state weapons manufacturer and a sanctioned entity, declined further discussion.
The turmoil extends beyond Russia's participation. Last week, the entire international jury resigned after issuing a statement that referenced countries with leaders wanted by the International Criminal Court for suspected war crimes—a reference understood to mean Russia and Israel. On Wednesday, a separate group of protesters descended on the Israeli pavilion, carpeting the floor outside with rain-soaked leaflets denouncing a "Genocide Pavilion." Israel's foreign ministry has previously criticized what it calls a "political jury" for turning the Biennale into a venue for anti-Israeli indoctrination. The event's president, Pietrangelo Buttafuoco, a right-wing former journalist who has spoken admiringly of Putin in the past, has largely avoided the press. When he finally broke his silence, he accused critics of creating a "laboratory of intolerance" and framed calls to exclude Russia and Israel as censorship. He departed the press conference before taking questions.
Butafuoco's defense of inclusion rings hollow against the posters now plastered across Venice. They advertise an "Invisible Pavilion" featuring Ukrainian artists and writers—including Volodymyr Vakulenko, who was shot dead when Russian troops occupied his village. Each poster bears the same stamp: "Cancelled. Because the author was killed by Russia." The Biennale, often called the Olympics of the art world, functions as a showcase for soft power, particularly for authoritarian regimes. In 2022, Russian curators withdrew in protest of the invasion. Two years later, the pavilion was loaned to Bolivia. Now Russia has reclaimed its space.
Yet Russia's return is only partial. After this week's pre-opening events, the pavilion will close—whether due to the protests or the weight of international sanctions remains unclear. The recorded performances will be screened outside, their sound drifting down the path toward Ukraine's own contribution to the fair. There, suspended by thick straps from a crane at the main entrance, hangs a concrete origami deer—the work of Ukrainian artist Zhanna Kadyrova. The sculpture was first installed in Pokrovsk in the eastern Donbas when Russian forces were nearly 40 kilometers away. By 2024, as occupation threatened, Kadyrova evacuated her own creation to safety. "We have a destroyed city that does not exist now," she said in her Kyiv studio. "I hope this message is clear and people who visit Biennale can understand it." The deer has become a symbol of displacement, sharing the fate of millions of Ukrainians forced from their homes. Kadyrova's question lingers: how many other artworks, how much other heritage, was lost to this war?
Citas Notables
It's not just tanks and drones, murder and rape in Ukraine. It's also culture, art, language—it's the way Russia tries to conquer the West and you guys just opened the doors to them.— Nadya Tolokonnikova, Pussy Riot
We have a destroyed city that does not exist now. I hope this message is clear and people who visit Biennale can understand it.— Zhanna Kadyrova, Ukrainian artist
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does it matter that Russia shows up at an art fair, especially now?
Because the Biennale isn't just a gallery. It's one of the world's most prestigious platforms for soft power—a way for countries, especially authoritarian ones, to reshape their image on the global stage. Russia gets to say: we're cultured, we're part of the world, ignore what's happening in Ukraine.
But isn't art supposed to be separate from politics?
That's what the Biennale's president argued. But art doesn't exist in a vacuum. When a country is actively invading another, and you give it a pavilion with champagne and performances, you're making a political statement whether you intend to or not. The activists are saying: you can't pretend this is neutral.
What about the jury resigning? That seems like a bigger problem.
It is. The jury issued a statement referencing ICC war crimes indictments—meaning Russia and Israel. Rather than engage with that, they quit. It suggests the whole institution is fracturing under the weight of these questions.
And the Ukrainian artist with the deer—is that a direct response to Russia being there?
Not exactly a response, but a counterpoint. Her work was created in a city that's now destroyed and occupied. By bringing it to Venice, she's saying: this is what's actually happening while you're celebrating culture in pavilions.
Do you think Russia will actually stay closed during the public opening?
Unclear. It could be the protests, or it could be sanctions making it impossible to operate. Either way, the recordings will play outside. The message gets out anyway.
What does this say about Europe right now?
That we're deeply divided on how to respond to Russia. Italy won't boycott. The EU threatens to pull funding. Everyone's trying to figure out what responsibility looks like when art and war collide.