Reflections from the Venice Architecture Biennale 2025: A Journey Through Identity, Ecology, and Sensory Experience

Fontana's piece "Fluid Field" involved a projected playing field that shifted shape and size, eluding any fixed definition of the body. According to the concept, regular sports fields reinforce binary categories—male or female, adult or child, able-bodied or disabled—and thus separate bodies into fixed groups. This installation subverted that. It created a pitch in flux, where players had to adapt constantly. It asked whether it is the field shaping the players—or the players shaping the field.

Another deeply intense experience came from the Nordic Pavilion, curated by a trans artist as well—Teo Ala-Ruona. The atmosphere was haunting, raw, almost terrifying. This wasn’t just an architectural space—it was an embodiment of a violated, trembling body. The elements were aggressive: huge, looming syringes; a broken-down car; graffiti scribbled across glass; a feeling of invasion and exposure. It felt like architecture was being reimagined through the pain of the body, not just as a backdrop, but as an active participant in trauma. The whole pavilion vibrated with discomfort, and I couldn’t look away. It was impressive in the most visceral sense of the word.

Ala-Ruona's work, titled "Industry Muscle: Five Scores for Architecture," invited the viewer to reflect on how architecture intersects with bodily experience, especially within a fossil-fuel-driven modernism that often erases or marginalizes non-normative bodies. The work highlighted how fossil-fueled architectural modernism continues to shape norms around health, ability, and body categorization. It proposed five speculative 'scores' or scripts for future architectural practice: impurity, decategorization, performance, technobody, and reuse. I could feel these values pulsing in the space, almost like they were breathing inside those broken-down machines. It also suggested how our built environments are still haunted by the ideology of efficiency and standardization, often at the expense of diversity and care.

And then there was the Swiss Pavilion. Oh, Switzerland. This was almost funny. It took five curators and what looked like a small army of sponsors to create a space that essentially resembled a Swiss spa made of tree stumps, hanging cloths, and little wooden partitions. There were chairs to sit on, and someone taking a shower behind a curtain. It was quiet, borderline absurd in its ambition to recreate a national identity through spa minimalism. But you know what? Maybe that is Switzerland.

But the one that really got to me—on a deeply sensory level—was the Uruguay Pavilion. Walking into that space after the oppressive Venetian heat (30+ degrees, humid, suffocating) was like stepping into a sanctuary. Water dripped slowly from amethyst crystals into metal buckets. The air was moist and cool. It was all so subtle—no flashy visuals, no loud statements—but it told a clear story: Uruguay is a land of water. Not metaphorically, but literally—its water territory exceeds its landmass. The whole pavilion seemed to breathe, quietly asserting its country’s identity as a source of calm, hydration, and coolness in a burning world. I couldn’t stop thinking: Uruguay is a country of the future.

This message felt even more powerful in contrast to another work I saw—an overwhelming video installation showing the terrifying effects of global warming: floods, death, heatwaves. I wish I remembered which pavilion it was in, but I was so taken aback that I didn’t note it down. Uruguay, in contrast, was like a quiet whisper: “We have water. We are prepared.”

The concept was simple yet profound: HOME. The pavilion framed home as more than a structure—it’s Country, memory, ancestral presence, and responsibility. You could feel it—like sitting inside someone’s heartbeat. The pavilion was curated by The Creative Sphere, an all-First Nations team, and it radiated the values of belonging and care through soft textures, gentle forms, and interactive elements. It felt deeply honest.
And that’s what I take away from this Biennale: the stunning range between extremes. From cold, modern, sometimes even scary art installations… to soft, homemade textures that seem to whisper stories. And in between, the undeniable presence of queer and trans artists who aren’t just “included,” but are at the center of some of the Biennale’s most unforgettable moments.
Maybe that’s the true architecture of today: a space that reflects our shifting identities, our climate fears, and our longing for home—not in concrete, but in sensation.