An Exclusive Interview with Belu-Simion Fainaru, Artist of the Israeli Pavilion at the Venice Biennale 2026

Belu-Simion Fainaru,  © Florin Stefan

Belu-Simion Fainaru occupies a distinctive position within the landscape of contemporary artistic research, where his work is grounded in a sustained reflection on the relationships between matter, memory, and time. His works do not present themselves as narrative or illustrative devices, but rather as situations in which perceptual experience is slowed down and rendered unstable, compelling the viewer to confront forms of meaning that cannot be immediately resolved.

Representing the Israeli Pavilion at the Venice Art Biennale 2026, Fainaru develops a language that avoids interpretive closure. His work tends toward an open state, in which meaning is produced through the duration of observation and through the interplay between material and immaterial elements. In this context, memory is not understood as an archive or testimony, but as a process in transformation, traversed by absences and partial recompositions.

Overall, his research privileges suspension and the construction of a space of attention rather than the definition of unequivocal meanings, a perspective that this conversation has further illuminated.

Belu-Simion Fainaru, Rose of Nothingness (2026), Venice Art Biennale, Arsenale, Venice, © Werhaftig Venezian.

INTERACTIVE ART MAGAZINE: In your work, memory never takes the form of an archive or of simple historical testimony; it rather appears as an unstable, vulnerable matter, continuously traversed by absence and inner transformation. In a present dominated by increasingly radical polarizations and a constant pressure toward the simplification of public discourse, how can art still preserve an authentic space for complexity, ambiguity, and contemplation?

BELU-SIMION FAINARU: I believe that the role of art today is not to provide answers or to confirm existing positions, but rather to preserve a space in which thought can remain open. In a world that seeks to reduce complexity into clear and absolute meanings, art protects the possibility of remaining within uncertainty. It does not offer a single truth, but creates the conditions in which multiple meanings can exist simultaneously.

In my installation The Rose of Nothingness, each drop of water is simultaneously matter, time, and a sign. It does not represent a fixed meaning, but rather an event of becoming. Meaning does not reside within the object itself; it emerges through the encounter between the artwork, the viewer, and time. Therefore, the work does not seek to be read as a closed text, but as an ongoing interpretive space, in which every act of looking creates a new possibility of understanding.

Kabbalistic thought has profoundly influenced my perception. The idea of tzimtzum—the contraction or withdrawal that precedes creation—teaches that creation begins through the making of space, through absence that allows presence to emerge. In art as well, emptiness, silence, and suspension are not voids, but charged spaces of potential. The fracture is not only a sign of loss, but also a condition from which new meaning can arise; and repair (Tikkun) is not a final destination, but a continuous movement of listening, responsibility, and creation.

For me, memory is not an archive of facts, but a living process of becoming. It exists in the tension between presence and absence, between what can be articulated and what remains impossible to fully represent. Therefore, art does not reconstruct the past and does not attempt to resolve trauma; rather, it creates a space in which one can carry the fracture without erasing it, allowing what cannot be expressed to continue resonating.

Precisely in an era of polarization, in which public discourse demands rapid conclusions and rigid identities, I believe that art remains one of the few places where uncertainty can still exist as a value. It invites us not to immediately decide, but to linger; not to reduce the other into a concept, but to encounter them in their full complexity. In this sense, art is not only a means of expression, but an ethical practice of listening. It opens a space in which multiple voices can coexist without being erased, and from this tension the possibility of hope may emerge.

© Werhaftig Venezian (all other photos)

I.A.M.: Your practice has often engaged with void, fragility, and precariousness not as lack, but as spiritual and existential conditions. In the current historical climate, do you feel that these elements have acquired a different resonance, also in relation to your position as an Israeli artist?

B.S.F.: I feel that the concepts of emptiness, fragility, and vulnerability have acquired a deeper and more urgent meaning today, yet for me they have never represented absence alone. The void, as I understand it through Kabbalistic thought, is not an empty space or a complete lack, but a field of possibility. Tzimtzum creates a space in which something new can emerge. In this sense, the fracture is not merely the result of loss, but a condition from which movement, creation, and repair (Tikkun) can arise.

Throughout my practice, I have explored situations in which human existence reveals itself as delicate and vulnerable: a drop of water, an everyday object, an empty space, or a fragile material. These elements carry within them the memory of what once existed and what no longer exists. They do not represent trauma directly; rather, they allow trauma to resonate through silence, absence, and the tension between presence and non-presence. For me, what is not spoken or not visible can sometimes carry the deepest dimension of memory.

In the current reality of wars, crises, and uncertainty, these experiences acquire a renewed resonance. The world around us reminds us how fragile the structures we perceive as stable home, belonging, security, and continuity actually are. Yet the purpose is not to remain within vulnerability alone, but to examine how new forms of responsibility and renewed connections between human beings can emerge from fracture.

As an artist working from an Israeli context, I am aware of the historical and existential weight carried by this place: memory, trauma, conflict, and questions of belonging and cultural continuity. However, I do not see my work as a national statement, but as part of a broader human dialogue. The Israeli experience is a point of departure, but the questions raised by my art—how we remember, how we live with loss, and how we create from rupture—are universal questions.

I.A.M.:In your works, identity never appears as a fixed assertion or a clearly defined belonging, but rather as an experience of passage, diaspora, and layered memory. Do you believe that art still has the capacity to resist the contemporary demand to be immediately legible, declarative, or ideologically framed?

B.S.F: I believe that art still has the ability, and perhaps even the responsibility, to resist the demand to be immediately understandable, unequivocal, or confined within a single ideological framework. For me, the essence of art is not to provide quick answers, but rather to remain open, to preserve mystery, and to create a space in which questions can continue to exist.

Identity has never been a fixed or closed entity for me. It emerges through constant movement between places, languages, memories, and experiences. My own experience of migration from Romania to Israel, and later through encounters with different cultures in Europe and the United States taught me that identity is not a stable place, but a space of transition. A person can carry within themselves several homelands, several memories, and simultaneous feelings of belonging and estrangement.

In my works, I do not attempt to represent identity directly, but rather to create a space in which identity can reveal itself through material, memory, and absence. Similar to Kabbalistic thought, in which meaning exists not only in what is revealed but also in what remains hidden, artistic creation also contains a space for what cannot be immediately defined. Emptiness, silence, and gaps are not forms of absence, but spaces in which the viewer participates in the creation of meaning.

I believe that art loses something of its power when it becomes only a declaration. Its role is not necessarily to affirm an existing position, but to allow complexity, provoke thought, and open new possibilities of seeing. A meaningful artwork does not merely ask to be understood; it invites an ongoing encounter in which each viewer brings their own memories, questions, and experiences.

In an era in which art is often expected to be clear, immediate, and aligned with a particular position, I see the freedom to remain open, ambiguous, and unresolved as a fundamental value. It is precisely the ability to exist between identities, between past and present, between places and different narratives, that allows art to create a shared human space—not by erasing differences, but by acknowledging them.

I.A.M.: The Biennale seems to be undergoing a profound transformation in the way it conceives exhibition space and the relationship between representation, belonging, and cultural geography. To what extent does this more unstable, fluid, and processual condition resonate with an artistic practice such as yours, which has long worked on thresholds, transition, and the vulnerability of identities?

B.S.F: Throughout my practice, I have been engaged precisely with unstable spaces with transitions, thresholds, and situations in which place, memory, and cultural belonging are not fixed conditions, but ongoing processes of formation.

The Biennale, as an international institution, is moving beyond the traditional idea of simple national representation toward a more complex understanding of culture—as a dynamic space of relationships, memories, mutual influences, and movements between places. This is a significant shift, because cultural belonging is not created only through geographical borders or defined historical frameworks, but also through encounters between communities, processes of migration, dialogues between traditions, and the continuous meeting between past and present.

For me, culture is not a closed system, but a living space created through multiple layers of time and human experience. It develops through encounters, through translations between languages, and through the movement of ideas and materials across different regions of the world. Therefore, cultural belonging is not a fixed condition, but an ongoing process of transformation, in which different memories, places, and narratives meet and generate new meanings.

I believe that the fluid and processual condition of the Biennale today does not merely reflect a changing reality, but also allows art to operate in the place where it is strongest: in spaces of transition. Precisely within areas that are not completely defined, where encounters, tensions, and dialogues between different traditions take place, new interpretations and connections between people, communities, and stories can emerge.

For me, art exists within this space—between the local and the universal, between personal memory and collective memory, between tradition and transformation. It does not seek to present culture as something fixed that must be preserved, but rather to reveal the processes through which culture is created and continually reshaped.

I.A.M.: Venice is a city that exists in a constant tension between permanence and dissolution, memory and disappearance, historical sedimentation and material fragility. In what way does this almost metaphysical condition enter into dialogue with the meditative and ritual character of your installations?

B.S.F.: For me, Venice is a space in which water is not only a physical element, but also an existential, cultural, and spiritual force. It is a city built upon water, where the boundary between solid and fluid is constantly shifting. Water sustains the city, yet at the same time threatens it; it preserves memories while simultaneously eroding the material world. This tension is an essential part of Venice’s metaphysical character, and it deeply resonates with my own artistic concerns.

This relationship is reflected profoundly in my installation The Rose of Nothingness, in which water is not merely a material, but a carrier of meaning. Like Venice, the installation exists within a state of transition: the water is in constant movement, yet creates a sense of suspension and contemplation. Each drop appears and disappears, yet its continuity creates a memory of persistence. Water becomes a kind of living writing, in which every sign is temporary and yet meaningful.

The decision to present a work based on water in a city such as Venice creates a dialogue between two aquatic spaces: the city and the installation. In both, water embodies a dual force—a source of life and renewal, but also a symbol of fragility and the passage of time. Just as Venice exists through a delicate balance between survival and erosion, the work exists through the balance between one drop and another, between presence and absence.

The meditative and ritual dimension of the installation emerges from the repetition and the slow rhythm of the water. The continuous dripping resembles breathing or a meditative practice, in which meaning does not arise from a dramatic gesture, but from duration, attention, and listening. The viewer does not simply look at the work; they enter into its rhythm of time.

For me, Venice and the installation meet in the place where material becomes memory and time becomes experience. Both offer a reflection on human existence as something delicate and fragile, where nothing is completely permanent, yet precisely through impermanence the possibility of meaning, beauty, and memory emerges.

© Werhaftig Venezian (all other photos)

I.A.M.: Your works seem to require from the viewer a suspension of ordinary time a slow, contemplative, almost silent temporality. In a culture dominated by visual acceleration and the immediate consumption of images, do you think contemplation can still represent a form of cultural and ethical resistance?

B.S.F.: In a world in which we are constantly overwhelmed by images, information, and the demand to respond immediately, the ability to stop, remain, and listen becomes an act of resistance in itself. Art can offer a space in which time is not measured only through efficiency and speed, but through the depth of experience and the ability to be fully present.

In my installations, I seek to create conditions for slowing down. The work does not reveal itself through an immediate glance or a direct message; rather, it requires from the viewer time, patience, and a willingness to remain within a state of uncertainty. Meaning emerges gradually, through the encounter between the viewer, the material, and time. Similar to Kabbalistic or Talmudic study, there is no single final answer, but rather an ongoing process of reading, interpretation, and discovery.

In The Rose of Nothingness, for example, the repeated action of water dripping creates an almost ritualistic rhythm. Each drop is a unique moment, yet its repetition creates a sense of continuity. The work invites the viewer to move from an understanding of time as a rapid sequence of events toward an experience of inner time a time of listening and contemplation.

For me, contemplation is not an escape from reality, but another way of encountering it. It allows us to resist simplification, speed, and the immediate consumption of meaning. Through slowing down, a possibility opens to perceive complexity, develop empathy, and cultivate a different relationship with the world and with others.

Therefore, I see contemplation as an act containing an ethical dimension: it requires us to make space, to listen, and not to immediately impose interpretation or judgment. In a world where everything competes for our attention for only a brief moment, the ability to remain with something, to deepen our encounter with it, and to allow it to transform us, becomes a form of freedom and responsibility.

I.A.M.: Looking beyond Venice, toward which territories do you feel your research needs to move today? Are there new urgencies, new languages, or new forms of spiritual questioning that you sense as inevitable in the near future of your work?

B.S.F.: I feel that my artistic research continues to move toward spaces where the boundaries between matter and spirit, between human beings and the environment, and between memory and the future become increasingly fluid. After many years of engaging with memory, fracture, absence, and the relationship between being and nothingness, I feel that the questions occupying me today are expanding toward questions of responsibility, connection, and interdependence—between human beings and the world in which we exist.

I am increasingly interested in spaces where nature, culture, and technology meet. Water, for example, which has appeared throughout my work as a material of memory, time, and consciousness, is now also understood as a symbol of a broader ecological system—a vital yet vulnerable resource that connects personal existence with collective responsibility. The question is no longer only what we remember, but also how we live within a larger network of relationships.

I feel that the art of the future must search for new languages of listening. Not necessarily languages based on more information or more images, but rather on sensitivity, slowness, and contemplation. Perhaps the greatest challenge of our time is not only to understand the world, but to learn again how to listen to it.

Spiritually, I continue to be drawn to the space between the visible and the hidden. The Kabbalistic concepts of contraction (tzimtzum), fracture, and repair (Tikkun) continue to inspire me, but today I also understand them within a broader context as ways of thinking about the relationship between the individual, the community, and the environment. The void is not a place of absence, but a space in which a new possibility can emerge.

I believe that my future works will continue to explore states of transition between places, between cultures, between material and memory, and between human beings and the world. I am not searching for a new language that would erase what came before, but rather for a deeper exploration of the questions that have accompanied me throughout my practice:

How can we create from fracture?How can we preserve memory without becoming imprisoned by the past?And how can art open a space in which the possibility of connection, responsibility, and hope can still exist?

Thank you very much for your time and for sharing these reflections with us.

Efthalia Rentetzi