Behind the metallic curtain, a polished steel platform turns this pavilion into a fetishist’s dream theatre. A bunch of glass structures adorned with stripped-down computer parts sets the scene firmly in the language of a faux-futuristic present. A woman crouching on her fours mumbles into a microphone. Her look is menacing but that’s only a put-on. Her name is projected on discreet LCD displays, giving this performance the look of an open mic gig. She speaks of her performance anxiety and thus quickly loses the fight for attention to silence and the pavilion next door.  

If this is reminiscent of Anne Imhof’s 2017 German pavilion performance Faust, any favourable comparison pales quickly. Andrea Mancini designated the Luxemburg pavilion as a stage for four ‘residencies’ for performers who would use his steel rehearsal cage to record a vinyl audio record.

This may be generous but is fundamentally misguided. The pavilion’s location and the Biennale’s transient nature are wholly unsuited to this kind of endeavour and the project’s visual framing downs any would-be performer in it. Stage fright is real. Cowardice is another thing altogether.