MY FAVOURITE VINCENT

The Blossoming Almond Branch is an oil painting on canvas that Van Gogh painted in Saint-Rémy in 1880 shortly before taking his own life. He painted it on the occasion of the birth of his nephew Vincent Willem, son of his beloved brother Theo. Inside, he chose to represent, as a symbol of nascent life, a freshly blossomed almond tree. Almond blossoms are the first to bloom with the beginning of spring, sometimes even anticipating it by blooming in late winter, and therefore become the symbol of life and the hope it brings with it. Nevertheless, since they tend to fade after a short time they also represent fragility, delicacy. So much, in short, in a single painting, in a simple branch. All this to say that this is one of the Van Gogh paintings that I love most. There is nothing that strikes me more than beauty, pure charm, that what is fragile unconsciously possesses.

WHAT IS USELESS IN YOUR LIFE?

If we took one of these paintings to a gallery today, it would be considered amateur painting. Because other types of paintings are in fashion, often digital, that everyone wants in their living room. Modern art is now considered useless junk. When I go to exhibitions, here for example the Biennale, there are always very few people. Today, more than ever, people judge art as a superfluous thing, which one can do very well without. And I say this as an artist. Talking to so many people, how much they feel that I am an artist, everyone becomes "what a beautiful thing". But if you ask them how many artists' paintings they have bought in their entire life, they say "I'm sorry, nobody". If I ask why they tell me they had more needed things and they used their money for other things. This is really disheartening for an artist but in reality this happens.The painting I put here in this post is a PAUL KLEE's artwork. Would you who look at it think it's worth millions? Yet Christies of London sold a Klee for:

Hammer price: $ 6,767,549 (Christie's, London, United Kingdom, 21/06/2011)
Maybe you found a Klee work in your attic and you think it's the artistic task of some nerdy kid. Because for many people artists waste time, starve and produce useless things. Not all think this thought but most. Even if an artist is quoted a lot of money, he remains one who produced useless things.
"Art is completely useless"

What do you think about it?

This sentence was written by Oscar Wilde, more than a century ago in the preface of his famous short story "The Portrait of Dorian Gray".
In particular Wilde said:

"We can forgive a man for having done something useful if he does not admire it. The only excuse for doing something useless is to admire it intensely. All art is seless."

Beauty for millions of people is a beautiful woman, a beautiful man, an actress, a Greek statue. How much art do you have in your home? How much art would you like?
Why does an artist keep creating? If there is any artist among you and he wants to answer, he can give his idea here. If there is someone who paints as a hobby, you can tell here why they do it and what emotions they feel.

ART FOR HEART SELF

Today anxiety was destroying the walls of my heart. it crushed veins, arteries, nerves, and not even a movie could help me. Yet it was Vermeer. So I was taken by the painful creative fury, shaken like a tree by the wind and since I didn't have the canvas to paint, I took a curtain and cried colors over it. And did I feel good afterwards? no not at all. I've been worse. Because this will be yet another painting that will end up in the attic or burned in the barbecue. There is no hope.

CAMILLE CLAUDEL

CAMILLE CLAUDEL is a french female sculptress. She lives her life in an extraordinary and contradictory context in Belle Époque France where the realization of female identity was still very difficult. Despite the various obstacles, the sculptress managed to establish herself by carving out an unprecedented and not small space for action in art - there are over fifty works that document the entire span of her production - despite the existential junctions that strongly influenced her: the problematic relationship with the family, the strong bond with his brother Paul, who converted will become an exponent of the uncompromising Catholicism of the French society of the times, the love and hate story with the sculptor Rodin and finally the mental illness, the twist in itself - as in the statue of the cover image - and internment in an asylum.

The academy Camille attended was mainly dedicated to sculpture, offered women the same opportunities as men and left the pupils great flexibility in the curriculum. Shortly afterwards Camille decided to move to an atelier in Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, where in 1882 Auguste Rodin came to teach. At that time, the master had been fighting for a quarter of a century against the classicist sculpture of the time. After two years under the direction of Rodin, Camille perfectly modeled the human body especially her hands and feet, thus she became one of Rodin's assistants, preparing clay, plaster and armor or modeling the hands and feet of sculptural subjects. Their works in fact in that period are very similar, obviously Rodin used Camille's genius as it was normal at the time to use his assistants. It is also true that we have a large production of Rodin in this period, of Camille almost nothing.
Their well-known love affair, which was born working side by side, leads to fifteen years of a passionate and stormy affair, from which Camille will however emerge exhausted, defeated not only humanly but also as an artist to the point of destroying her own works. Camille ends her relationship with the sculptor after realizing that no marriage would be possible between them - Rodin will always remain attached to Rose Beuret, his constant companion for years that the sculptor will never leave. Most likely, from some sources there is also evidence of an interrupted pregnancy, it seems that this very event has seriously undermined the balance of the young woman. An unhappy love, that for Auguste Rodin, exclusive, tinged with professional jealousies and above all poisoned by the prejudices of society, by the distance and then by the abandonment of Camille by the Claudel family in solitude and in precarious economic conditions.
Camille has always shown that she has a unique talent and genius, she has absolute mastery of movement, think of one of her most famous works La Valse (1895-1905) where movement and stillness are in perfect balance. For the client, the figuration of an embrace was clear and the work even scandalized the inspector of the Ministry of Fine Arts.

Here it is a perfect whole of strength, screwed on itself, pushed by the dynamism of the male figure that wraps the female one tied and held by the dress that descends to the ground. For the artist it is an attempt to grasp life in its movement, in its transformation, in the precarious balance of a tormented bond. What matters is that over time, the artist will not want to depict a single figure, he is not satisfied with the character but wants to tell a story, a complete narrative. A talent, that of Camille, which already leads her to distinguish herself from her peers at the age of 12, took inspiration everywhere for her drawings and clay sculptures from old engravings to anatomical models using her brothers Paul and Louise as models.
Camille had a limp defect and this perhaps led her to seek perfection in art with an impulsive gesture. She was very attached to her father, who was in fact her greatest ally until his death in 1913 - once he died, perhaps the only ally in his life was interned in a mental hospital. Perhaps in Rodin he saw precisely his father, often absent for work: in the Buste de Rodin the master sculptor looks much more than his forty-four years, he looks like an old man with a thick beard, a severe but affectionate father figure.

Camille also had a close bond with her brother Paul, from an early age in fact their great imagination gave them a unique cohesion. Although after his law studies he embarked on a diplomatic career, he devoted himself to art through poetry and dramaturgy, after his conversion to Catholicism in 1886 he became one of the exponents of intransigent Catholicism, that Catholicism that felt public reproach in name of atavistic prejudices for nonconformist women like Camille. Camille's very religious middle-class family reacted to her crises by having her interned in a nursing home for the mentally ill in Montfavet, where she remained for thirty years until her death. According to a journalist of the time, Paul Théodore Vibert, Camille had been arbitrarily interned for persecution psychosis only because her family was ashamed of her and her unconventional behavior.
The story is quite well known today and the French have dedicated two films to it, one in 1988 with Isabelle Adjiani and Gérard Depardieu directed by bruno Nuytten, the other in 2013 with Isabelle Binoche and directed by Bruno Dumont. It was 1913 when her mother and brother Paul sent her to hospital. Camille died in an asylum in 1943, without ever creating works of art again. It is she herself who does not want to be given the materials for sculpting. Yet she still writes very lucid letters to her mother (who will never go to see her), to her brother, to some friends. From these letters Chiara Pasetti freely drew a play entitled Moi, contained in her book, which premiered in Genoa in September with the actress Lisa Galantini in the former asylum of Quarto. The book ends with photographs of many of his works and also some of Rodin's works.

LOVING AN ARTIST

Loved only by those who had brought me into the world, I was a winged-hearted creature. A free creature, who would never have sacrificed the wings of freedom to a stupid and obsolete feeling commonly called love. Armed only with myself, in the evening, I spread my wings above the world and let myself be caressed by the wind, with my soul naked and free of inhibitions. The warm currents squeezed me and the taste of the lack of ties satisfied me; nothing in the world could ever upset my balance. Nothing, I was sure, for nothing, in my eyes, shone more than freedom. They are artists, for me, those who know how to create a unique world in which to take refuge. You, for me, were an artist. And as such, I envied you when, from the bedroom window, I saw the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen take shape on previously white canvases. Then you smiled at me, sent me a kiss and went back to painting. If it was just a joke, or if you really wanted to give me kisses, I don’t know, but the way you looked at me, the curious eyes with which you looked at my tousled hair and my oversized jacket, made me fall back lightly my wings, before spreading them in all their glory and straightening my head. No one would ever overwhelm me, not you, with your gemstone gaze, not anyone else. I was not like you. I was not beautiful, or clear, and I did not look perfect even with the face dirty with acrylic color and the hair gathered in a messy way. I’ve never been like you. I, I told myself, was free. Free from all ties and free from everything that could have binded me to the world. And my greatest wealth was freedom. Of this I am sure. I lived like this, as it happened. I lived for the day, detaching myself more and more from the earthly world and taking refuge in the warmth of my parents’ hugs. Their chests were warm and full of life. Full of love for me, but that love, perhaps, was not enough. That love, perhaps, did not have the color of your paintings and did not represent sunrises and sunsets. That love, I discovered, was not yours. It was inviolate, unconditional, but it did not come from the chest of the only person who, with his paintings and his smile, was able to take my breath away and make me angry. When I realized I loved you, I cried. I cried like I had never done before. One evening when it was raining I went out, on tiptoe I reached towards the sky; towards freedom, but this was so far away. I closed my eyes, as the rain soaked my clothes and weighed me down, I promised myself that feeling would not touch me. His chains would not have destroyed my wrists. I think I’ve never been good at keeping my promises, nor at winning wars. And so, crying, my feet touched the ground and for you, for your paintings and your sunsets, I tasted your lips stained with tempera, drowning in your presence and in your breath, clinging to my shoulders with all of myself. If you had left me, I would have died. I also gave up my only affections; those parents who, when they learned that I loved a girl, closed the door in my face and never reopened it are still just a memory. “Don’t you want to play with me today?” The wind asks me. But my wings are closed now, I hold your hand. That’s okay, you know? Sleep, sleep a little longer, my love. When you wake up, I will still be here. If, however, you find only this letter, look at the sun. Rising, it brings you a message: “She loves you,” he says “More than freedom?” “Yes, more than freedom.”

INTO THE DARK SIDE

Its dark side always stands out. For Amleta it is a constant struggle. It sinks and resurfaces. You continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. Submerged by torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. A black blood flows in his veins, he tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from every vein, from every cell of mine. But it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it takes over and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail: it rides on the lost hours of its inhuman time and gets lost in the shadows that are drawn in its secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, that of her grandmother, and says her name is Hamlet. That child was her, at the age of eight, when she was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. Soon Hamlet appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed her steps. She had never felt so happy as her first time in the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? There you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to her in the wind among the cypresses and only she could hear them. The candles fascinated her, if she wanted to take them home, her mother scolded her, you can’t steal from the dead! He told her. She was upset, for her those were the flames of their vanished hearts and she wanted to keep them safe in her home. Then, when she was finally big, she bought as many as she wanted and her room glowed with flames. Those red flames were so happy for her! People did not understand the beauty of light, they believed them candles of the dead and that’s it. She misses the cemeteries. It has been a long time since he went and nowhere has he found that silence again. Perhaps one day not too far away, when this struggle of yours will also end, she too will be able to rest there and be only a stone angel.
I have lived half my life years now. I have traveled the world. Saw many good and bad things. Experienced with good and bad people. I was abused at 4 years old. But I was saved by art. I loved it very much. People and animals. So much so that I was able to save a lot of people except myself. I have always done everything following my heart but my heart has taken me to a country where I am dying out. I am dependent on vital drugs for me and I cannot marry from this damn nation. I hate being here. I hate my beating heart. I see too many people just looking for money. That’s why I’m alone here. Many have used and exploited me. But I said enough. I have given too much of myself. The world will perish and there is no Gandalf to screen Evil. No brave group to take out the orcs. We human beings are finished now. Machines own people. When I talk about real life and not virtual, they laugh in my face. All. It is normal for them to be on the web 24 hours a day. They consider me strange to me because I prefer to go out and live outside and not inside a screen. But unfortunately there are few left without cell in hand. We are just white flies. The trouble is this. See how life goes. You see that working does not bring happiness. Not even love gives happiness. Neither are friendships. And neither does the money. So what’s the use of all this play? Adaptation to society. From an early age they tell us that we are here and we must do as they tell us to do. And we all to obey. Whoever escapes is lost. Lost or free? Boh. Freedom always has a price. But in the meantime we are in a cage like lions and have to be content with this stupid survival? I am tired.
I’m remembering myself. I’m remembering who I am. Jasmine scent. Sometimes the neigh of a horse woke me up in the morning. The open cracks let the sun’s rays pass through and that dust looked like magic dust in the air. The voices of the neighbors, the morning television, the news. The heat already after the early hours of dawn. The scorching heat. The life that melted inside the water bottles. Ice cubes on your fingers. On the deck chair reading a book, chasing away ruinous flies. Then the dives in the sea, every day, every summer month, every year in the villa by the sea. I hated that season. I hated the heat and mosquitoes. In my literary solitude I felt detached from life outside. I didn’t know what human comedy was still like. I didn’t know sex and I didn’t even know love. Me on the deckchair, with my Flaubert and Miss Felicita and her parrot. My elementary teacher loved me. He gave me that book because I was good. I was always studying and always finishing my homework. I drew a lot. Notebooks full of drawings. Trees, flowers, animals, …. masks. That book stole my soul. That book stole my life: “A simple heart” was entitled. I didn’t even know who this Flaubert was. I also really liked the illustrations of that girl who lived alone with that bird. That girl who then died with a smile in her mouth. The smell of jasmine mixed with the scent of fried fish. The smell of jasmine that filled the summer nights. The sweat of being able to touch my pain made word. The pain that made me alone. I spoke English, nobody understood it. It was not modern English. It was the language of another life of mine. I’m remembering myself. About that little girl sitting in the deck chair. How I read that book without knowing who Flaubert was. I was only 11 years old and I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know what life was. The pages were full of illustrations. Such beautiful designs!

BELLA KOTAK PORTRAITS

Bella Kotak is a fine art, fashion and portrait photographer. In her works the beauty and fantasy of worlds inspired by fairy tales are inhabited by strong and charismatic women and reveals to the observer the beauty and poetry of the environments, depriving them of the banality in which everyday life has placed them.
Photography changed her life when she grabbed a camera and started a Flickr project. Since then she has been drawn to this medium which translates thoughts and imagination into a tangible form.

Describe her current style as “floral”. “Flowers are always present in my work, even at the beginning when I was attracted to them without realizing it”. “Now, however, in my work everything revolves around flowers, fairytale atmospheres and spring”.
Inspired by fairy tales, nature and strong feminine characters, Bella’s images lift the veil of the past and remind us that there is magic in the most ordinary spaces. The portraits of women express Bella’s passions through photography: floral and fairy-tale subjects that become images capable of taking the observer into another dimension.
Bella has always loved reading many books and this is what fueled her imagination. She likes to create new worlds, new visions that she manages to make real through photography. Many of her photos are set outdoors because Bella loves nature and natural light very much. Shooting outdoors makes her feel much freer and more creative and allows her to capture an energy that cannot be captured if you shoot indoors with artificial light.
For Bella, both in photography and in life, it is important to approach things with a mind free from prejudice and false beliefs. For her it is necessary to recreate life as it was seen as a child, unaware of one’s limits and what was real or not. In his photos he tries to recreate a world where everything is possible and where innocence is the predominant element. Bella does not set limits to her photographic style, she still considers herself a young photographer who still has a lot to learn and for this reason she never stops lessons in new things. Only through experience will his creative eyes develop and create ever new things.
The thing that Bella loves most about photography is the ability to capture moments and create images that are able to impress the viewer. For her it is very important that her photos tell something about her and in fact she always tries to create images that are the sum of what she feels and her thoughts at that precise moment.

BODIES ART

I think the best compliment a girl can get is “you are smart”. In a world where people are pushed not to think with the brain anymore and where the most important thing is the physical aspect, finding someone who knows how to use the brain is wonderful and believe me, rare beauties like these there are few and above all few people are able to appreciate them. They are all good at opening their legs, but not all are able to use their brains.
Beauty is volatile: today you may like one thing, tomorrow you will see something else and you can fall in love with it, and so on. Beauty will get out of hand sooner or later, but your “inner being” no, it will accompany you until death, for better or for worse. Not having faith in the physical appearance because it is worse than having faith in others.
The way we dress (clothing, accessories, make-up) is an extension of our inner world. Tastes are momentary, they reflect moods. It would be appropriate to follow instinct rather than fashion, to show not only our outward appearance but also a piece of soul. It would be important not to conform to common uses. The body is the canvas, we often don’t choose it (if we want to be healthy). One thing is certain: the work we create, decorating and re-decorating ourselves, is unique and harmonious, a fusion of shapes and colors, perfect in its entirety. Deforming our body, against nature, smears the work because it reflects the inner malaise. It is not the detail that has a certain effect. It is the completeness of the body, with its movements, with its clothes, with its colors and with its shapes, to create a “figure”. We are art, and we are artists. Not everyone knows how to appreciate a high quality work; not for this we must stop being creative, not for this we must surrender to create what the applicant wants. A high quality work is a work made with the soul, which ignores the tastes of the beholder. What we decide to show engages with the momentary tastes of the viewer: he who abandons himself to wanting to interpret what he sees coherently with his world, synchronizes with our soul. Here is the spark, the love at first sight between artist and observer. Those who dwell on the details and look for them as if we were a shopping list, have no artistic spirit, have succumbed to the induction of advertising needs. Let’s remember the importance of art, and the beauty of being artists.
Love is not falling in love with a nice butt or a perfect body. Love is not going around and bragging about having a ‘perfect girlfriend’ or a ‘sexy boyfriend. Love is not stopping at appearances. Love is going beyond: love is digging deep to find the soul, looking beyond what we are on the outside, not stopping at the size of the bra, or jeans. Love is finding what is inside our body, which is only the shell of our essence.
All my life I have been surrounded by people who were wrong, embarrassed, hurt others, were unfair, and were always forgiven, while I have always been silent and those few times that I dared to say something wrong I was condemned . From here I started thinking about all the privileges that being beautiful, being thin brings, because in my life it has always been like this. Beauty gives the opportunity to be yourself, not to be rejected, to be appreciated. I almost killed myself because I wanted so much to be like them, to finally be able to speak, to open up, to be loved. I just wanted to be beautiful. It may seem superficial, but to me it wasn’t, and it’s not. Try to live your whole life surrounded by people who use you, who never want to see you for who you are beyond appearances, to be surrounded by people who behave horribly but who are forgiven for a simple reason. It is too difficult to believe that the world is not like this. And it’s unfair, it’s unfair to know that you have so much to give and can’t do it, it’s unfair to be rejected so many times that you end up thinking you don’t deserve anything. The world is unfair, and the saddest thing is that I feel I can’t do anything about it.
The ‘physical’ factor is perhaps one of the first criteria of perfection that they impose on us right from the start. Wherever you look, you find yourself small and frail little bodies as an emblem of beauty and superiority. But how did we get to this superficial homologation where everything that is not perfectly linear is ugly? Until a few years ago, perfect beauty was identified through the curves of a body. The more you were abundant, the more you liked it. Now if you can’t wear skinny jeans you don’t even get considered, as if you weren’t a real person. Without feelings, as if the offenses did not affect you in the least. As if you don’t have to fight this odyssey enough on your own. All this superficiality that people inculcate in your mind does not go away and stays with you. And you carry it inside, and you have to live with that sense of bitterness and rejection.

ORIENTAL PHOTOGRAPHY

I love to photograph, I love to immortalize every moment of our life on a camera display, to then print it and attach it everywhere.
Do you know why I love photography? Because it allows me to capture that fleeting moment, that moment that I will never get back, except in my memories. I hate time. That’s why I love photos; because, in a way, it’s like I can stop it.
Photographing is a co-creating, a co-becoming. It is like breaking down, merging with the other person and then eventually regaining one’s own identity. Only afterwards it is no longer the same thing. I took a photograph of every moment and of every passing person in my life. I photographed for fear of forgetting. I photographed, instead of looking, of memorizing. And now I find myself with a thousand photos, and no memories.
For those who want to recover everything that passes before their eyes, the only way to act consistently is to take at least one photo per minute, from when they open their eyes in the morning to when they go to sleep. Only in this way will the rolls of exposed film constitute a faithful diary of our days, without anything being excluded. If I started to photograph myself, I would go all the way down this road, at the cost of losing my reason. Instead, you still claim to exercise a choice. But which? A choice in an idyllic, apologetic sense, of consolation, of peace with nature, the nation and relatives. It is not just a photographic choice, yours; it is a choice of life, which leads you to exclude dramatic contrasts, the knots of contradictions, the great tensions of will, passion, aversion. So you think you are saving yourselves from madness, but you fall into mediocrity, into stupidity.
I took pictures. I photographed instead of talking. I photographed so as not to forget. Not to stop looking. I love to photograph. I love having material memories, and I think we should all photograph our memories, and always carry them with us.

Taking pictures is holding your breath when all our faculties of perception converge in front of the fleeting reality: in that instant, capturing the image turns out to be a great physical and intellectual pleasure. To photograph is to put the head, the eye and the heart on the same line of sight. For me, photography is a way of understanding that does not differ from other forms of visual expression. It is a cry, a liberation. It is not a question of affirming one’s originality; it is a way of life.
A photograph: who knows what fascinates us in these colored or black and white pieces of paper. Every time we look at them, we get excited, always. I photograph, because it makes me feel better, so I have the whole world at my fingertips, I never lose anything. Not because I’m afraid of forgetting, I’m not that many years old yet. People who say ‘photographer so I don’t forget things’, I just don’t understand them. What are you stupid? Maybe you need a doctor more than a camera. I photograph because it’s not the close-ups that are important, but the details. Just yesterday I was looking at the photos taken a few years ago and I noticed details that I had never noticed before. How beautiful. A photograph never ceases to amaze us. Photographer to photograph, which seems idiotic as a thing. Have they ever asked you why you breathe? Why do you love? There isn’t a real answer, because there is, you need it. Here, I need to photograph. Not compulsively. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. It’s not like if you shoot every day you’re a better photographer than someone who shoots twice a month. Maybe for two weeks, two months, the machines remain in the drawer collecting dust, because I can’t, I don’t want to, and what do I know. Then, one beautiful morning, I see details, colors, people that drive me crazy, so I absolutely have to photograph them. There is nothing more beautiful and stimulating than taking pictures of complete strangers. Photography is worth much more, for the fugitiveness of the moment. Notice: maybe this girl is passing through that street, because yesterday she lost her connection to Milan, so she decided to take a stroll along via Montenapoleone, maybe she’s going to look for those strawberries dipped in chocolate that she likes so much and you you are there, by chance. Your lives in that moment cross, without a word, without a real look, just a flash. Here, this shot is yours forever, you will observe it millions of times thinking: ‘It goes as it came out good! I love it’. This happened to me with just a few clicks, and the real emotion is imagining the life of these people, what they will be doing right now, in what part of the world they may be. Often, we wish we could find them, to give them what belongs to them. Because, ‘I insist, you must have it, it’s too beautiful, you look gorgeous in this shot’. And obviously the chances of meeting these subjects are practically close to zero, this is the crucial point for photographers. We fall in love with things seen only once. And we carry them with us forever.

VISIT ITALY: VENICE BIENNALE

Venice Biennale is an international art exhibition featuring architecture, visual arts, cinema, dance, music, and theatre that is held in the Castello district of Venice every two years during the summer.

BIENNALE 2017
BIENNALE 2017
BIENNALE 2017
The Biennale was founded in 1895 as the International Exhibition of Art of the City of Venice to promote “the most noble activities of the modern spirit without distinction of country.” The first Biennale, which achieved worldwide recognition and welcomed more than 200,000 visitors, included artists from 16 countries.
BIENNALE 2019
BIENNALE 2019
BIENNALE 2019
BIENNALE 2019
For more than 100 years the Biennale concentrated on showcasing four areas—art, theatre, music, and cinema—but in 1998 it expanded to include architecture and dance. In 2004 the festival’s sponsoring organization was restructured as a foundation in order to increase the efficiency of programming and to attract investment from private partners. At the beginning of the 21st century it typically attracted more than 300,000 visitors.
BIENNALE 2018
BIENNALE 2018
BIENNALE 2018
PREVIEW BIENNALE 2021

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