"In Minor Keys" 61st Venice Biennale

Merde. This is the first thought that takes shape in my head once I’ve acclimatized to the mammoth undertaking that I’ve just agreed to. Koyo Kouoh may have titled her Venice Biennale “In Minor Keys” to underscore the need for communal listening, for tuning in to quiet, poetic moments that reveal themselves slowly, with time. Yet time is the very thing in shortest supply during every single Biennale pre-opening week, as queues spring up like mushrooms after the rain and the beckoning pull of a Cynar spritz is only ever two steps away. I have never experienced jealousy quite like watching other writers and editors scurrying around from the Giardini to the Arsenale and back again, trying to squeeze in an opening in a far-flung corner of Giudecca, followed by an hour- long private boat ride to an abandoned island before making it back in time for aperitivo, dinner, and at least two It Parties at night. Experience has taught me that making plans in Venice is equivalent to setting oneself up for failure, yet the first hours back in the Laguna already had me hyperventilating from my carefully cultivated lack of preparation. Call me a masochist, if you will.