Art as Lifeline: Why the Medina Triennial Matters More Than You Think
When I first heard about the Medina Triennial, I’ll admit I was skeptical. Another art exhibition? In a rural town in Western New York? It felt like a mismatch—grandiose ambitions clashing with humble surroundings. But after spending time with the works and reflecting on the experience, I’ve come to see it as something far more profound. This isn’t just art for art’s sake; it’s art as infrastructure, as lifeline, as a way to reimagine how we sustain ourselves—both materially and spiritually.
The Rural Setting: A Canvas for Deeper Questions
What makes the Medina Triennial particularly fascinating is its location. Unlike the Venice Biennale, with its opulent pavilions and crowded halls, Medina feels raw and unfiltered. The Erie Canal, which bisects the town, isn’t just a backdrop—it’s a character in the story. Personally, I think this setting forces us to confront questions that urban art spaces often gloss over: What does it mean to sustain a community? How do we balance progress with preservation?
One thing that immediately stands out is the sparseness of the installations. In Venice, you’re bombarded with art; in Medina, you’re invited to linger. This deliberate pacing allows works like Taysir Batniji’s Just in Case #2 to breathe. The piece, an archive of keys from displaced Palestinians, isn’t site-specific to Medina, but it resonates deeply here. What many people don’t realize is that rural spaces often become repositories for global grief, a reminder that even in quiet towns, the weight of the world is felt.
Art as Infrastructure: Beyond Aesthetics
The Triennial’s title, All That Sustains Us, isn’t just a catchy phrase—it’s a manifesto. In my opinion, the curators, Kari Conte and Karin Laansoo, are asking us to rethink what infrastructure means. Is it just roads and bridges? Or can it be something more intangible, like care, labor, or memory?
Mary Mattingly’s Floating Garden is a perfect example. On the surface, it’s a barge with edible plants. But if you take a step back and think about it, it’s also a symbol of resilience, a microcosm of how communities can adapt and thrive in the face of environmental challenges. What this really suggests is that art can be functional, not just decorative. It can feed us, both literally and metaphorically.
The Politics of Space: Who Gets to Grieve?
A detail that I find especially interesting is the Triennial’s lack of emphasis on national representation. In Venice, geopolitical tensions are palpable—visitors avoid certain pavilions like they’re walking through a minefield. Medina, by contrast, feels borderless. But here’s the paradox: while it claims to be inclusive, the very act of curating still involves choices. Whose stories are centered? Whose are left out?
Batniji’s piece, for instance, is a powerful statement on displacement, but it’s also a reminder of the privilege required to even engage with such art. This raises a deeper question: Can art truly be apolitical when it’s funded by state entities like the New York Power Authority? From my perspective, the answer is no. The Triennial’s success lies in its ability to navigate these complexities without pretending they don’t exist.
Decay and Renewal: The Duality of Sustenance
One of the most striking aspects of the exhibition is its exploration of decay. Jean Shin’s Everyday Monuments transforms discarded trophies into tools of labor, a commentary on the invisibility of work under capitalism. Meanwhile, Gamaliel Rodríguez’s paintings depict nature reclaiming colonial structures in Puerto Rico. What makes this particularly fascinating is the tension between destruction and renewal.
If you think about it, sustenance isn’t just about preservation—it’s also about letting go. Scott Hocking’s Tláloc of the Locks, which mines the decay of the Medina Theater, is a brilliant example. It’s not about restoring the past but about finding beauty in its remnants. This duality is what makes the Triennial so compelling: it doesn’t offer easy answers, but it invites us to sit with the questions.
Why This Matters: Art as a Mirror to Society
Here’s the thing: the Medina Triennial isn’t perfect. Some works feel out of place, and the rural setting, while refreshing, can also feel limiting. But that’s precisely what makes it important. It’s not trying to be another Venice or Documenta; it’s carving out its own space in the art world.
What this really suggests is that art doesn’t need to be in a museum to matter. It can be in a high school gym, on a barge, or along a canal. Personally, I think this is the future of art—not as a luxury but as a necessity, not as a commodity but as a conversation.
Final Thoughts: Sustenance as a Radical Act
As I walked through Medina, I couldn’t help but think about Mierle Laderman Ukeles’s Maintenance Art Manifesto. Her idea that care is a form of labor feels especially relevant today, when so many systems are failing us. The Triennial, in its own way, is a call to action: to sustain not just our physical infrastructure but also our social, emotional, and ecological bonds.
If you take a step back and think about it, sustenance is a radical act. In a world that often feels like it’s falling apart, the Medina Triennial reminds us that we have the power to keep things going—one artwork, one conversation, one community at a time. And that, in my opinion, is what makes it truly groundbreaking.
