Step inside the Canadian pavilion at this year’s Venice Biennale, and the first thing that hits you isn’t the art, but the air. It is thick, heavy, and calibrated to a precise, steaming humidity that mimics the Amazon basin. Small tubes hiss, releasing warm mist into the space, while a third of the pavilion has been surrendered to a dark, murky pond where massive lily pads drift in a state of engineered suspension.
This is Entre chien et loup, an installation by Montreal artist Abbas Akhavan that transforms one of the Biennale’s most recognizable spaces—the teepee-shaped Canadian pavilion—into a monumental Wardian case. For those unfamiliar with the term, the Wardian case was the 19th-century glass terrarium that allowed the British Empire to transport exotic plants across oceans without them dying of salt spray or disease. By turning the pavilion itself into a shipping container for nature, Akhavan isn’t just showcasing plants; he is staging a critique of how we possess the natural world.
At the center of this humid ecosystem are the Victoria water lilies. These are not mere decorations. Their seeds traveled from the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, in London, to be germinated at the Orto Botanico di Padova—the oldest botanical garden in the world—before finally arriving in Venice to mature. The journey is a deliberate mirror of the imperial routes of the 1800s, where the act of “discovering” a plant was often a prelude to owning it.
The Imperial Blip and the 100-Million-Year Record
The choice of the Victoria boliviana, or the Bolivian water lily, is surgically precise. The genus was named after Queen Victoria during an era of aggressive imperial ambition, a time when the West sought to classify, rename, and display the “curiosities” of the Global South as trophies of power. But Akhavan is interested in the tension between human timelines and biological ones.
“The genus being about 100 million years old, Empire is but a blip,” Akhavan remarked amidst the crowds and the Venetian rain. By placing a prehistoric organism within a framework of colonial history, the work suggests that while humans obsess over borders and ownership, the plants themselves carry a memory that predates the very concept of a nation-state.
The biological life cycle of the lily adds a layer of theatricality to the unease. The flower opens for a single night, releasing a fragrance to lure a beetle, then closes to trap the insect overnight. As it shifts from female to male, it releases the beetle and sinks beneath the surface to ripen its fruit. It is a process of capture and release, a biological mimicry of the way imperial powers “collected” nature.
| Feature | Biological Reality | Imperial Context |
|---|---|---|
| Species | Victoria boliviana | Named for Queen Victoria |
| Origin | Amazon, Argentina, Bolivia | Extracted for European gardens |
| Transport | Natural seed dispersal | The Wardian Case (Glass containers) |
| Status | Climate-risk zones | Curated exhibition piece |
Who Gets to Live With Nature?
Beyond the botany, Entre chien et loup addresses a growing contemporary anxiety: the privatization of the environment. Akhavan argues that the world has been mapped and plotted as a garden for those wealthy enough to afford access to it, while the poor are increasingly shut out from the natural world.
This critique extends even to conservation. The installation poses a provocative question: is “protecting” a species an act of altruism, or is it another form of classification and control? In a Biennale defined by geopolitical noise and climate dread, Canada’s entry chooses a quieter, more insidious path, asking who is allowed to be a protector of nature and who is viewed as a predator.
The title itself, which translates to “between dog and wolf,” refers to the twilight hour when a shepherd can no longer distinguish his guard dog from a wolf. It is a metaphor for the blurring line between the entity that protects the environment and the entity that consumes it.
The High-Stakes Gamble of the Giardini
The National Gallery of Canada (NGC), under the direction of CEO Jean-François Bélisle, commissioned the work and selected Akhavan to represent the country. The decision was a calculated risk. In the competitive ecosystem of the Venice Biennale, where thousands of artists vie for attention, the “three-second judgment” is a brutal reality.
Bélisle notes that while many visitors decide within seconds whether to stay or move on, Akhavan’s ability to manipulate volume, color, and atmosphere makes the work seductive enough to survive those first few seconds. However, the installation’s impact is intentionally subdued. It doesn’t scream for attention; it breathes, mists, and waits.
This restraint stands in stark contrast to other Canadian presence at the Biennale, such as the collective of architects using their showcase to highlight Canada’s domestic housing crisis. While the architects tackle a loud, immediate social failure, Akhavan tackles a slow, ancestral one.
For the visitor, the experience is one of patience. The lilies will continue to grow and blossom throughout the duration of the event, making the pavilion a living clock. It is a thoughtful, researched piece of art that asks the viewer to slow down—a request that may be the most radical part of the entire exhibition.
The exhibition remains open to the public through November 24, 2024. Following the close of the Biennale, the fate of the living installation and the transition of its botanical elements back to their respective gardens will mark the final chapter of the work’s journey.
Do you think nature in art should be a mirror of beauty or a reminder of loss? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
