Austrian pavilion: the space was left completely empty bar the installation of a new floor and ceiling, courtesy of Heimo Zobernig. “How can a meaningful contribution be made in an environment… in which each voice competes for the most attention?” asks the ponderous literature accompanying this non-display.
British pavilion: anyone hoping for something completely different by Sarah Lucas was left disappointed by another iteration of boobs, bums, genitals and cigarettes, only bigger, shinier and yellower than usual.
Danish pavilion: another show that wasn’t helped by the literature surrounding it, for example the quotes from the cult classic The Exorcist: “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” With not one but two gallery directors from Marian Goodman hovering around during the opening day, it felt like this much-hyped show was a sales opportunity as much as anything else.
Martial Raysse at Palazzo Grassi: a sprawling career survey of derivative works à la Warhol and Rauschenberg, plus oversized blue, grey and purple canvases of girls in bikinis. Not enough imagination and not enough talent. And no, in art, scale does not automatically give you gravitas.
Peter Doig at the Palazzo Tito: the show was so heavily bolstered by art-world heavies (with a starry dinner the night before the Biennale opened and a press conference and interview conducted by the Tate director Nicholas Serota, while major Doig collector Viktor Pinchuk paced the preview tête-à-tête with the curator) that no one seemed to want to raise any doubts. At best, the work was unresolved; at worst, clumsy and derivative. Overrrated.
But still, however bad, nothing this year comes close to our current all-time favourite blooper: Marc Quinn at the Cini Foundation at the Venice Biennale 2013.