Cover Ei Arakawa-Nash’s interactive exhibition ‘Grass Babies, Moon Babies’ at the Japan pavilion at Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artist)
Ei Arakawa-Nash’s interactive exhibition ‘Grass Babies, Moon Babies’ at the Japan pavilion at Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artist)
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The Korea and Japan pavilions at this year’s Venice Biennale were an unprecedented collaboration, designed to address trauma and use art as a process of mourning, healing and rebirth
When the Venice Biennale is mentioned, most people envision large- scale paintings, stunning installations or so-called “serious art” validated by academic circles—after all, this is the world’s oldest and most prestigious art biennale which has spotlighted and cemented the reputations of powerhouses such as Louise Bourgeois, Marina Abramović and Anish Kapoor.
But one of the most popular displays this year is the Japan pavilion, which, for the next five months, is home to more than 200 baby dolls. A number of these are available for “adoption”—visitors, if they wish, can be temporarily assigned to a baby, which they then carry around the exhibition for the duration of their visit. On the pavilion’s opening day in early May, it was packed with eager “parents”: art collectors, critics, journalists, tourists and even children, all squeezing their way into the tiny space where the babies were laid out like goods in a flea market, hoping to get their hands on one of the 4kg, nappy-clad, plastic toys.
This is Japanese American artist Ei Arakawa-Nash’s interactive exhibition Grass Babies, Moon Babies which, behind the apparently fun execution, bears serious intent. It forms part of a collaboration with the Korea pavilion this year—these two countries collaborating is especially noteworthy given the pair’s complicated history. From 1910 to 1945, Korea was under Japanese colonial rule, a time marked by forced labour, cultural erasure and political repression. Now, decades later, artists from both pavilions are using their practices to move on from their nations’ stormy past. While the pavilions have been separately curated and the artists deal with subtopics that aren’t directly related to this chapter of history, they are connected by how they both address and confront the past.
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Above Ei Arakawa-Nash’s interactive exhibition ‘Grass Babies, Moon Babies’ at the Japan pavilion at Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artist)
Ei Arakawa-Nash’s interactive exhibition ‘Grass Babies, Moon Babies’ at the Japan pavilion at Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artist)
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In Arakawa-Nash’s Venice work, caregiving and parenthood represent a means of passing on knowledge about the past. After adopting the dolls, visitors carry them around the rest of the exhibition space in an act symbolic of the burden of parenthood—and of educating the next generation about history. The experience also includes changing the baby’s nappy; it contains a QR code that, once scanned, links to a poem and the baby’s “birthday”—a historical date the artist feels is significant to the world.
Some of the dates point to the darker chapters of Korean-Japanese history which, he says, the world “should not forget”—for example, the March First Movement protests of the Zainichi community, ethnic Koreans living in Japan, against Japanese colonial rule in 1919; or the Gwangju Uprising in South Korea, a series of student- led demonstrations that started on May 18, 1980 and ended in a violent political crackdown. Others are tender, such as the artist’s own envisioning of their children’s 30th birthday on December 2, 2054, or the launch of Barazoku, Japan’s first commercially circulated gay men’s magazine, on July 30, 1971; the publication had a crucial impact on the queer artist’s teenage years.
Above Ei Arakawa-Nash, the artist behind the interactive exhibition ‘Grass Babies, Moon Babies’ at the Japan pavilion at Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artist)
Ei Arakawa-Nash, the artist behind the interactive exhibition ‘Grass Babies, Moon Babies’ at the Japan pavilion at Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artist)
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They first conceived of the idea for the exhibition when they welcomed twins with their spouse via surrogacy in 2024. The world was still recovering from the pandemic, and the artist felt acutely uncertain as to what being a parent would look like in those strange times. Lisa Horikawa and Takahashi Mizuki, the Japan pavilion co-curators, wrote in their curatorial statement that such concerns were further complicated by “labour shortages, healthcare strains, and urban decay ... wars, terrors and boycotts ... drone attacks, missiles, and every imaginable act of violence”.
These concerns led Arakawa-Nash to ask questions such as what does it mean to parent and to care? What should parents teach their children? What kind of social conditions should they prepare to ensure their children can thrive in the future? “Babies don’t have a fixed identity yet, so they are very free [from social structures and systems] and are malleable. [Metaphorically,] they could act as a resisting force [against] the patriarchy or an agent for critiquing nationalism,” they say. “I spotlight certain negative legacies [and historical events through the exhibition] because I want my children and the next generation to be better people for the future.”
Above From left: the Korea pavilion and the Japan pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artists)
From left: the Korea pavilion and the Japan pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of the artists)
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For Arakawa-Nash, acknowledging and learning from the past is crucial to preventing traumatic moments from history from repeating. They feel many issues, including Korea and Japan’s shared history, haven’t been talked about enough. “[Even] I used to self-censor, assuming that no one would want a collaboration between the two countries. But it is important to talk to each other,” they say. “Korea is our neighbour, and we can create synergy together. I hope my children will acknowledge the history between us and then create a positive relationship for the future.” The collaboration in Venice is a signal to the world that it is high time the two places resolved their past—and that the world face contemporary crises together.
Visitors can leave the Japan pavilion via a bridge that takes them next door to the Korea pavilion—Binna Choi, the latter space’s curator, says the two teams built the structure as a symbol of this collaboration. Long, broken copper pipes that resemble large branches or roots sprawl on the ground, directing visitors towards the white-framed glass pavilion, and also puncturing its walls and ceiling. They are part of Meridian by Korean artist Goen Choi, one of the two Korean exhibits: from afar, it looks like a shabby bird’s nest in a forest.
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Above ‘Bearing’ (2026) by Hyeree Ro in ‘Liberation Space: Fortress/Nest’ at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: Donghwan Kam)
‘Bearing’ (2026) by Hyeree Ro in ‘Liberation Space: Fortress/Nest’ at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: Donghwan Kam)
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When visitors enter the pavilion, the atmosphere softens as they encounter the second exhibit. Eight “stations”, encircled by a translucent, waxy membrane and collectively titled Bearing, represent temples, where artist Hyeree Ro encourages visitors to mourn, remember, mend, wait or perform other actions related to grieving or reflecting on the past. One of them, the Mourning station, features a sculptural installation made up of bent black branches planted on mounds of salt that represent snow.
Titled Funeral, the piece is co-created by Nobel laureate author Han Kang, based on a scene in her 2021 book We Do Not Part, which is built around the tragic history of the 1948 Jeju Massacre. Also present in the pavilion are two of Arakawa-Nash’s dolls, whose birthdays are March 1 and May 18—dates significant to Korean liberation.
If the Japan pavilion takes a largely fun approach, examining the future of the nation’s identity and sentiment, Korea’s is more solemn, with an emphasis on remembering the past. Titled Liberation Space: Forest/Nest, the dual exhibition is envisioned as both an opportunity for nurture and healing (“nest”) and for danger or darkness (“forest”). This binary, contrasting concept is observed throughout the building: in Meridian, the copper pipes seem like needles that pierce through the pavilion to induce pain, but at the same time, the artist describes it as “acupuncture”. “Geographically, the word ‘meridian’ refers to lines of longitude, while in eastern medicine, it signifies the pathways through which energy flows within the body,” says Choi, the artist. “The concept of acupuncture itself inherently involves considerable pain, but it simultaneously carries the meaning of healing through that very process. In a way, I believe these elements serve as a metaphor for Korea’s current political climate and situation,” referring to the country’s recurring pattern of political struggle, liberation and healing.”
Above Goen Choi, the Korean artist behind ‘Meridian’, featured at the Korea pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of Choi)
Above Hyeree Ro, the Korean artist behind ‘Bearing’, featured at the Korea pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of Ro)
Goen Choi, the Korean artist behind ‘Meridian’, featured at the Korea pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: courtesy of Choi)
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Choi the curator further elaborates that the term “liberation space”—haebang gonggan in Korean—in general refers to the transitional period between 1945, when Korea was freed from Japanese colonial rule, and 1948, when the government of South Korea was established. “This was a time of exhilaration after nearly 40 years of occupation, but also a time of intense yearning, dreaming, and struggling for a more just and fair society and for better lives for all,” she says. But just as people left behind by the colonial regime were eager to participate in shaping change, foreign powers like the US and the Soviet Union also saw an opportunity to try to influence the undefined nation, which led to national division again.
“I would [propose] that liberation [should] not be understood as a singular event in the past, but as a durational practice marked by ruptures and struggles that recur and surge in different moments, each time blooming into and sustaining new movements,” says the curator. The concept of haebang gonggan, she observes, extends far beyond post-occupation Korea. Its historical roots date back to the 1894 Baeksan rebellion, where commoners united to fight state corruption and foreign encroachment. This spirit of resistance re-emerged during the 1980 Gwangju Uprising, and then on December 3, 2024, when citizens protested the government’s declaration of martial law. She adds that while the exhibition focuses on Korea’s history, this struggle for liberation is a shared sentiment in other countries, and she hopes the show offers a space of reflection and mourning also to visitors from other cultures who may find resonance.
Above ‘Meridian’ (2026) by Goen Choi, part of ‘Liberation Space: Fortress/Nest’ at the Korea Pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: Donghwan Kam)
‘Meridian’ (2026) by Goen Choi, part of ‘Liberation Space: Fortress/Nest’ at the Korea Pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026 (Photo: Donghwan Kam)
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While the Venice Biennale may not bring about immediate social changes, the South Korean artists believe that art is a way of encouraging viewers to face issues that they may be reluctant to address. “Art isn’t about changing the existing world with what we make; it’s about allowing what the world truly is to come out. It engages questions of care and safety. It necessitates reflection,” says Choi.
Ro adds: “When an artist makes art, it’s like she’s gently pressing viewers’ knees from behind instead of directly hitting them. You still lose your balance, but you’re not hurt. Art, to me, is a softer but equally powerful way of inspiring understanding of each other.” Neither pavilion provides a simple or immediate remedy to the painful geopolitical scars of the mid-20th century; nor do they pretend that art alone can overwrite decades of political friction. Instead, they choose to demonstrate how vulnerability, dialogue and creative synergy can reshape a fractured relationship. By intentionally building a bridge between their respective exhibition spaces, Japan and Korea have transformed their corner of the Venice Biennale into a site of collective healing. It stands as a vital signal to the global community that true liberation is a continuous, shared practice—one that begins by bravely facing the storms of the past in order to navigate contemporary crises together.
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Zabrina is the Senior Editor, Arts and Culture of Tatler Hong Kong. She specialises in performing arts, visual art and film. Her wanderlust was first fuelled by the Mighty Rovers Antarctica Expedition 2010. Over the years, she has interviewed A-list artists and filmmakers, including Oscar winners Chlóe Zhao and Tim Yip, Golden Horse winner Sylvia Chang, In the Mood for Love cinematographer Christopher Doyle, Pachinko author Min Jin Lee, and Coachella’s first Chinese solo singer Jackson Wang. She won gold at the WAN-IFRA Asian Media Awards for her 2021 feature on the waves of hate crimes targeting Asian Americans.
