Ayan Farah, Asmaa Jama to represent Somalia at 61st Venice Biennale

Wednesday May 13, 2026

left Ayan Farah. Photo: Christofer Wallentin. right Asmaa Jama. Photo: Tom Whitson

“From a country with the history that Somalia has, where a lot of film prints, visual and cultural material have been destroyed, it can feel hard to feel like you’ve got an artistic lineage”

ArtReview sent a questionnaire to artists and curators exhibiting in and curating the various national pavilions of the 2026 Venice Biennale, the responses to which will be published daily in the leadup to and during the Venice Biennale, which runs from 9 May through 22 November.

Ayan Farah, Asmaa Jama and Warsan Shire are representing Somalia; the pavilion is in the Palazzo Caboto.

Celebrating Visions. Versace partners with ArtReview to share stories from the 2026 Venice Biennale.

ArtReview Tell ArtReview what you plan to exhibit in Venice. What has influenced or inspired you?

Ayan Farah I’m presenting an installation built around two large embroidered landscape paintings that will wrap the room’s walls. The pigments are drawn from clay sourced in Somalia, alongside a porcelain-like pigment made from sea shells gathered while I was working in Scotland. These will be shown with silk paintings that trace the light moving through the windows of my home and studio. I wanted the work to think about time passing, and how nature and the environment hold its record.

Asmaa Jama The Somalia Pavillion will centre on saddexleey, a poetry form of threes, and explore poetry as a living cultural form through a sensorial experience. I plan to show moving image work, installation and visual artworks. My practice spans a wide range of forms. I work in moving image, text, performance and painting, so I want the presentation to reflect that breadth. My influences come from many directions: art, literature, cinema, music, archival histories and stories; myths and legends, and even things that may not be true but make for a good tale. My work often tries to inhabit that place where things are almost true. Magical realism resonates deeply with me, for example. I’m also drawn to a cinematic surrealist lineage, including the work of Wendell B. Harris Jr.

AR In what ways, if at all, does your work relate to the theme of the Biennale exhibition, In Minor Keys?

AF I’m interested in those “lower frequencies”, the lingering traces that remain after movement, loss and erasure. That includes the pigments I make from shells, and the attention paid to the body moving through environments in ways that are not always loudly declared. The work is rooted in storytelling and knowledge handed down through generations. It is a collective effort, from sourcing material to naming the works.

AJ I really connected with the idea of poetry, and with that beautiful image of islands, eddies and Glissant’s garden. I was a poet first, or at least a poet before anything else, and my work still comes from that place. In Minor Keys also makes me think about what is hidden but not yet revealed, what is below the surface, what is stirring. My work often speaks from the shadows or the margins.

AR Why is the Venice Biennale still important, if at all?

AF It matters as a space for encounter and visibility. It gathers geographies and practices that do not often meet in the same room. The attention the biennial attracts can be used critically, and it can help shift narratives.

AJ For any artist, being able to present work on an international stage like this is a dream. My work, and the work I’m drawn to, is international and moves across borders and regions. It’s important to protect that meeting place, to be careful custodians of it, and to think about who is missing, who is absent, and how to make room for those voices.

AR What role does a national pavilion play at a time of increasing confrontational nationalisms? Is it about expressing difference or commonality?

AF A national pavilion can seem like it reinforces separation. But for Somalia it can also function as an open frame. Histories and materials are already entangled across borders, so the pavilion can be a place where the idea of the nation itself becomes unstable.

AJ It’s about commonality. I was born in Denmark and raised in Britain, and I’ve worked with people all over the world, and I’m from Somalia, so my sense of nation is expanded. Many people in the diasporas understand belonging in that same way. Growing up in Europe and travelling showed me more clearly where I feel connection. For me, that has always been the diasporas, the global Black diaspora, and the African continent as a whole. I try to think beyond borders. As artists and as people, our responsibility is to find ways to dissolve them and express what we share.

AR Who for you is the most important artist in any discipline that your country has produced?

AF In the Somali poetic tradition, figures such as Hadraawi have been deeply influential. They come from a culture where language, performance and memory are shared and constantly remade. Somalia does not have a long history of visual art, so I’m glad to see many emerging artists finding a platform now.

AJ The person who moved me most was definitely the poet Hadraawi. His work helped me connect with my parents in a different way, and gave us a common language. That language became the thing I kept searching for, and I came to see art and poetry as a shared language for speaking to people. That was hugely important to me as a young person.

I should also mention Abdulkadir Said, who made some very beautiful, poignant films. For someone in the African diaspora, especially from a country like Somalia, where so much film, visual material and cultural material has been destroyed, it can be difficult to feel as though you have an artistic lineage. The dream is to return to an archive, to reach back and see what came before. Finding his work was powerful for me. I’ve also had the chance to speak with him, and he is very generous with his time.

AR What is something you want people to know about your nation that they might not know already?

AF Somalia is often described as “a nation of poets”. It has a long history of intellectual, artistic and poetic production that rarely receives international attention.

AJ Perhaps that it has the longest coastline in Africa? Somalia has an extraordinarily interesting history. There are five Somali territories, four periods of colonization. There was also a rich cultural scene, with Pan African exchanges of musical troupes touring Africa and beyond, and film festivals under the socialist government. So while, as you say Ayan, it is seen as a nation of poets, there is also a deep history of other art forms.

It is also a country with a strong sense of shared identity, alongside meaningful regional differences expressed through culture, dialects and lived experience. Earlier generations understood that well, and younger people are now rediscovering it.

And for me, that coastline is fascinating. There are many ceremonies, many rituals. The image of Somalia is often narrowed to nomadic camel herders, which is of course one story, but the south holds an incredible history.

AR Given that you are exhibiting in a national pavilion, is there something, a quality or an issue or attitude, that distinguishes the art of that nation from that of others, that makes it particular? Are there specific contexts that it responds to, or do you think that art is a universal language that goes beyond social, political, or geographic boundaries?

AF Art always responds to specific landscapes and ways of living, but I’m not sure those ideas can be flattened into identity labels. What interests me more is how artists work within and across contexts, and how they carry multiple histories and geographies at once. That is especially true for a place like Somalia, with one language and one religion but diverse environments and lived experiences.

AJ I do think one of those contexts is the rupture of the Civil War. Artists in Somalia and throughout the diaspora are still living with its consequences. I’m not saying every work responds to that directly, but when something like that happens in a place, it alters everything. That’s why I lean toward speculative work, spirits, memory, myth and things that can’t be known for certain. Beyond the loss of life, there is something devastating about the loss of cultural memory and material culture. It creates a fracture. And everything that comes after, whether it addresses it or not, is a response in some way.

AR What, other than art are you looking forward to seeing or doing while you’re in Venice?

AF I’m looking forward to walking a lot. Venice is the ideal city for that.

AJ I really want to get a masquerade mask. I find them fascinating, and the history of them — the idea that wealthy people would go into town and not be recognised — is very interesting. They also seem so ornate and detailed. In a dream world, I’d also love to visit Murano, because I think that’s where glass blowers used to be kept on the island so their secrets wouldn’t be stolen. I’d love to see a foggy Venice too, and I want to see it at night. All the things I want to see are a bit eerie. In films, there are always those beautiful shadows after dark.

AR Could you give us a brief overview of your average working day while creating your presentation in Venice?

AF I’m in and out of the studio every day because the dyes need time to mature and the material has to dry. Four days a week, I get up at 6:30am for a contemporary dance class. It clears my head and helps me work out the day ahead. After that I spend around six hours in the studio, grinding pigments, dyeing, painting, washing, sewing and sometimes embroidering.

AJ I usually wake up at noon. I’ll eat some soft-boiled eggs, take a short walk around my neighbourhood, check my emails and see what needs answering. Then I’ll open a couple of sketchbooks and start sketching ideas. I find it easier to work in a café, which is a bit boring to admit, but I think I just need other people around to keep me accountable. I might sketch installation ideas, do some research, read papers or watch a film, and then walk to my studio at Spike Island. I’ll get a tea and usually stay there for four or five hours, just working. I tend to work best when it’s dark, so it’s very quiet. I usually have one main medium I’m focused on, and everything else gets channelled through that. At the moment it’s mostly painting, along with some digital work. I might teach myself something from a tutorial, or make something in clay, prime a board, mix paint, and so on. I also listen to a lot of rap! If it’s daytime I’ll walk around the harbour. I like spotting the new boats that have come in. I keep all my notes on my phone, along with my to-do list. I send voice notes to myself, take pictures, sketch. I like carrying a small book that I’ll probably never read. Then I go home feeling slightly dissatisfied, but that’s what brings me back.

AR Can art really change the world?

AF Art can create a space for reflection and dialogue, and that can send out ripples that lead to change.

AJ I definitely think art can be used as a tool and has the power to change the world. As an artist, it’s about trying to speak the truth. Good art can inspire people, move them and change their hearts. It can encourage people to dream, imagine new worlds and grieve. In that way, it can move people who may then go on to change the world themselves.

The 61st Venice Biennale runs 9 May through 22 November 2026