The Brooklyn Rail

The atmosphere of this year’s Venice Biennale preview week was unsurprisingly divided. On the one hand, heightened geopolitical tensions and protests over the participation of Russia and Israel raised questions of who should be allowed to exhibit. On the other, the gilded palazzos that were a backdrop for plenty of shows set a glamorous stage for the countless parties (even if the art on view took a less exuberant tone). These contrasts simmered, never boiling over into outright controversy, leaving some presentations feeling flat and avoidant of a strong stance. That was until I entered Palazzo Contarini Polignac and Still Joy: From Ukraine into the World. The show is a gut punch and a reminder of why we need art to ground us.

Still Joy features artists mainly from Ukraine examining what it means to find joy in times of hardship and strife—exploring themes ranging from ecological fragility and physical separation of loved ones to the devastating repercussions of war. The exhibition begins with a positive tone, starting with the title and the first works visitors encounter: two videos by Roman Khimei and Yarema Malashchuk featuring people at a rave in Kyiv. The videos were made four years apart, the first in 2019 when the threat of war with Russia was dissipating and the second in 2023 in war-torn Ukraine. While in 2019 the rave could have been one of many forms of nightly entertainment, in 2023 it had become a brief respite from a period without the promise of tomorrow. Taken at face value, however, the videos simply depict vivacity and uninhibited joy—a happy façade hiding reality.

This feeling continues in the next room, where Simone Post’s installation of ephemeral chandeliers hangs throughout the gilded room. Made of candy, the works fill the air with the sweet smell of sugar, their whimsical colors welcoming visitors eager to take photographs of the childlike space. The title, She Knew She/It/They Would Melt (2026), alludes to something profound and sinister beneath the surface, perhaps a harbinger of what’s to come in the exhibition, as the carefree nature dissipates the second the viewer leaves this room.

For the rest of the show until the visitor returns to the candy-filled space and exits through the rave, the tone is markedly different. Consisting mainly of sculpture, video, and installation, the works address displacement and loss head-on. In Yurii Gruzinov and Oleksiy Sai’s video Land (2026), we see bodycam footage from Ukrainian soldiers on recon missions in enemy-controlled territories running through destroyed villages, their choppy breathing filling the palazzo with a harrowing soundtrack. Visitors clad in cocktail attire openly cried watching the desperate scene. In Open World (2025), another video by Khimei and Malashchuk takes viewers to a different war-torn environment, using a robotic dog to help a boy return to his hometown of Zaporizhzhia, which he was forced to leave for Poland. In the video, the boy navigates his old city and even speaks with his mother through the robot, underscoring the distance that the war has created and a reminder of those who chose to stay.

Other works offer quiet meditation, highlight the interconnectivity of people across generations and cultures and invite viewers to consider the importance of care. These more tender moments imbue the exhibition with joy in subtle and at times heartbreaking ways. In the context of the Biennale, which positions itself as a reflection of the world today, Still Joy delivers a strong message about finding ways to retain our humanity during hardship. While harrowing at times, the show maintains a sense of triumph and offers a reminder that joy and pain coexist, transcending borders and uniting us far more than separating us.