Bernard Vienat

I believe this interest developed very early on. Even as a young gallery owner in Geneva at the age of 19, I was struck by the power that certain works could have: their ability to make invisible or distant phenomena perceptible. In particular, upon discovering Robert Smithson’s work, I realized that art could reveal the transformations of landscapes, industrial processes, and the tensions between nature and human activity.

My interest in environmental and political issues also dates back to my teenage years, when I read books like Rachel Carson’s *Silent Spring*. Later, as part of the Vorticidad project, I was able to observe firsthand some of the consequences of extractivism in Latin America while working with artists such as Pedro Reyes, Marcela Armas, and Abraham Cruzvillegas. All of this has gradually shaped my thinking about the connections between art, ecology, and politics.

BV

I’m not sure “anxiety” is the word I’d choose. What puzzles me more is our collective ability to grow accustomed to forms of destruction or collapse that are becoming almost normal. I think anxiety can be paralyzing if it produces nothing but a sense of inevitability. What interests me more is how art can foster forms of attention, sensitivity, or awareness in the face of these transformations—not to reassure, but to prevent a kind of collective numbness.

Ray Bradbury’s text remains highly relevant for this reason. This automated house, which continues to function mechanically even though no one is there anymore, becomes almost a metaphor for our technological, economic, or digital systems: structures that follow their own logic independently of living beings.

There Will Come Soft Rains was therefore not just an exhibition about disappearance, but also about what remains: the infrastructure, the automated systems, the traces, and the stories we leave behind.

BV

I fully understand this criticism, and I think it’s necessary. The art world can sometimes foster a kind of critical complacency: we talk about collapse, extractivism, or climate catastrophe in relatively sheltered spaces, without this actually transforming the structures that produce these forms of violence.

But I don’t believe we should pit different forms of action against one another. Movements of civil disobedience play an essential role: they bring to light urgent issues that many prefer to ignore and push the boundaries of public debate. Without these forms of disruption, many ecological issues would likely have remained on the margins.

I often think of Gramsci’s idea of “the pessimism of the intellect and the optimism of the will.” We must take a clear-eyed look at the violence of the transformations underway: technological acceleration, the concentration of power, and the commodification of nearly every aspect of life. But that does not mean we should abandon all attempts to create spaces for thought, experience, or encounter.

With (re)connecting.earth, we are specifically trying to avoid a moralizing or didactic stance. The works do not tell the audience what to think. They make visible flows, interdependencies, forms of extraction, and invisible relationships between territories. They seek to rekindle attention in a world saturated with information and constant distraction.

I don’t believe that an exhibition can “save” anything. But I still believe that certain artistic experiences can change our perception of the world, even if only in a fragile or partial way. And today, this ability to shift our perspective seems to me to be far from useless.

BV

For this edition of (re)connecting.earth, which is currently underway through June 14, we have indeed set up a co-creation phase leading up to the Biennale. This is the first time we’ve developed this type of initiative on this scale. The idea was to begin exploring the theme of natural resources not only among curators, artists, and researchers, but directly with the public—and in particular with students from HES-SO as well as elementary school classes in the Geneva region.

Launching this dialogue nearly a year before the exhibition profoundly transformed the way we work. This allowed us to build a collaborative bibliography, organize several conferences and public discussions—notably with cognitive psychology professor Tobias Brosch, some of whose talks are available on our YouTube channel—and engage in dialogue with more than 1,200 children about issues related to raw materials, extraction, and our relationship with resources. Some of this work has been documented and is available on our website.

What really struck us was the young people’s ability to grasp very quickly that digital technology, everyday objects, and even the most mundane infrastructure rely on extremely complex physical chains. As soon as we talk about the resources behind a smartphone, a battery, or the sand used in concrete, the discussions become very concrete.

This phase of co-creation also influenced certain curatorial decisions. Several artists were invited very early on to participate in the workshops or to meet with these young audiences. Some of the reflections and questions that emerged during these exchanges are now reflected in the artworks, in the educational programs, or in the way the Biennale was conceived as a space for experience and dialogue, rather than simply an exhibition tour.

BV

I don’t think the imagination is disappearing, but rather that it’s becoming necessary to actively cultivate it in the face of an ever-more-pervasive attention economy. We live in an almost continuous stream of images, stories, and demands, and artificial intelligence is further accelerating this saturation.

In this context, it becomes essential to restore a central place to culture, sensory experience, and certain forms of slowness—for adults as well as children. We must be able to preserve moments of disconnection, to relearn how to observe, listen, dream, and sometimes even be bored without constant stimulation. Attention is becoming almost a political and cultural issue.

That said, I do not believe that artificial intelligence spells the end of the imagination or creativity. These tools also enable the emergence of new narrative forms and new imaginaries. But they must remain tools, and not become systems that entirely condition our relationship with reality. This likely implies much stronger forms of regulation.

That is also why I remain deeply attached to physical experiences, both in art and in our relationship with the living world. Stepping into an installation, listening to a sound piece, closely observing a material, or walking through a landscape: these are experiences that still partially resist this constant acceleration and continue to foster a sense of presence in the world.

BV

I think we need to remain modest about what art can actually achieve. A biennial, of course, cannot single-handedly transform the dynamics of the global commodities trade or put an end to the extractivist mechanisms that underpin part of the contemporary economy.

But I still believe that art can bring about shifts, sometimes very subtle ones. Not necessarily “environmental epiphanies,” but moments of friction, doubt, or awareness. An installation, an image, or a physical experience can suddenly make perceptible realities that usually remain abstract: extraction chains, resource flows, and territories rendered invisible behind everyday objects or infrastructure.

What’s interesting about Geneva, in fact, is this almost paradoxical proximity between these global economic systems and cultural institutions. The city is home to major players in commodities trading, international organizations, research centers, and a very active cultural scene. This tension is part of the very context of the Biennale.

Nor do I believe in a simplistic moral stance in which art would be entirely “external” to these economic logics. Cultural institutions, foundations, collectors, and artists themselves operate within systems of funding, power, and global circulation. Perhaps what matters is not so much to claim an impossible purity as it is to succeed in opening up spaces where these contradictions can be made visible and discussed publicly.

And we must not underestimate the capacity of artworks to have an impact over time. Certain artistic experiences linger with us for a long time without immediately producing a dramatic change. They gradually shift the way we see things, connect realities, or perceive our responsibility within certain systems. In my view, that in itself is already a form of impact.

BV

I believe, in fact, that these acts of violence demonstrate just how closely intertwined the mechanisms of domination are. The dehumanization of populations, wars, and colonial or genocidal logics are almost always accompanied by the destruction of territories, resources, and living environments. There is often a continuity between the way certain humans are treated and the way living things are exploited.

In these times of brutality, reconnecting with the living world does not mean turning away from politics or seeking a naive form of refuge in nature. On the contrary. It can be a way to reaffirm relationships of interdependence, shared vulnerability, and attention to what connects us.

I also believe we must be wary of a romantic vision of “reconnection.” We are already part of the living world, even when we forget it or when we destroy it. The question is rather: what kind of relationship do we want to maintain with the world around us and with other forms of life?

Art obviously cannot respond to the world’s violence on its own. But it can sometimes create spaces where we slow down, where we can still feel something, where certain forms of empathy or perception remain possible despite the saturation of images of war and disaster.

In an era when so much discourse seeks to fragment, pit people against one another, or dehumanize, I believe that maintaining spaces that are sensitive, collective, and attentive to life already constitutes a form of cultural and political resistance.