Mentored by Dorota Jarecka, Katarzyna Kołodziej-Podsiadło and Karolina Plinta
Shedding tears of joy is an extraordinarily intense experience. I find myself thinking that, aside from personal memories, I most often associate it with images of athletes whose faces, magnified on screen, reveal the joy of great victories. The worlds of art and sport have more in common than might be apparent at first glance. Both lack a utilitarian purpose and pursue an ideal, building diverse communities around their proclaimed values.
This ability is revealed through a remarkable coincidence: the first modern Olympic Games were held in Germany in 1895, the same year that the Venice Biennale of Art was inaugurated. Ever since, both have gained international prestige and have become venues for celebrating human achievement. In 2021, the word ‘together’ was added to the unchanging Olympic motto of ‘Faster, Higher, Stronger.’ However, I fear that the growing need to emphasise unity indicates that we are actually becoming worse at achieving it.
The Zachęta National Gallery of Art has looked after the Polish Pavilion at the Biennale for many years.[1] Given its role, the institution must surely recognise the value of cultural representation and communal trust. However, in recent years, the gallery has struggled with pandemic-related challenges and a controversial change in management. Both have made it challenging to stay in touch with audiences, and significant institutional transformations have multiplied the challenges. Anticipation for a new director dominated 2024 at Zachęta, but the team did not go on a break. Accompanied by other shows commenting on today’s urgent issues, the survey exhibition Tears of Joy addressed the question of contemporary modes of perception and attempted a choreographed response. I therefore approach it as the gallery’s reconnaissance of its current agency and a slight provocation aimed at viewers, urging for a re-engagement.
What is Worth Tears
Viewers may have thought they had come to look at art, but in fact they were co-creating a social sculpture. What set this exhibition apart was its conceptual focus on how today’s viewers could shape this sculpture. The curatorial text examined current social sensibilities, considering how contemporary viewers feel and how their emotional reception of artworks created and presented in bygone years has changed.
My personal recollections of this exhibition consist of specific scenes rather than a list of works. The exhibition spanned the entire upper floor, even extending to the staircase. Each room functioned as a polymorphous space, combining works of different formats and time periods. In effect, it functioned as a system of modules, each developing its own atmosphere and… a dominant feature. For instance, Magdalena Abakanowicz’s hushed piece, La Seur (1978), coexisted with Liliana Zeic’s whisper, Boring heterosexual world. It’s time to let loose (2019). This whisper reinforced the silence of a fabric that once aspired to be loud but now gives way to art conceived as a manifestation. Piotr Uklański’s total installation Untitled (Wide Open) (2012) dominated another room, where neighbouring pieces, including Erna Rosenstein’s painting The Source (1965), remained quiet and ‘docile.’ The only sign of resistance I noticed between the works presented at Tears of Joy was how Wojciech Bąkowski’s claustrophobic video-installation, Spoken Film (2008), coped with the proximity of Oskar Dawicki’s spectacular piece, Tears of Joy (2014). ‘The white tank’ – for want of a better description of the box housing Bąkowski’s screening – was so tightly sealed that it was impossible to tell if anyone was inside or if anything was happening. Conversely, being inside the tank cut off the internal noise. The recognition of the show’s spatial arrangement featured differently in Jana Shostak’s spectator-damaged installation The Workshop (2024) – a mobile art studio and reading corner. As I approached, I thought that the young artist was performing behind a table, but it turned out to be a gallery employee sitting there to protect the work after it had been defaced.[2]
In these and other situations, the exhibition seemed to accept any interference with its form, carefully preserving it and transforming it into part of the exhibition space. One of the most notable reactions from visitors was the outcry against Katarzyna Kozyra’s well-known Pyramid of Animals (1993).[3] A protest was carried out in front of the taxidermic pyramid, with one brave spectator stepping forward as if onto a stage and saying: ‘I look forward to the day when violence against animals becomes illegal!’ This worked much like Brecht’s epic theatre, which was known for its ‘alienation effect.’ In hindsight, what made this interaction even more interesting was how exaggerated it might have felt in the context of neighbouring works, including Zbigniew Libera’s ethically questionable Intimate Rites (1984), which was placed right next to Kozyra’s piece. Today, the question of consent from the video participant – which was completely ignored in the curatorial description of the work depicting the artist tending to his senile relative – could easily trigger a discussion about the rights of people who require ongoing assistance. Why didn’t this happen at Tears of Joy? Perhaps the work did not inspire any objections because Libera’s approach is an obvious anachronism, and progress has been made in the fight for the recognition of people with disabilities and chronic illnesses compared to the continuing struggle for animal rights. Or perhaps it is because the fear of our own powerlessness still prevents us from confronting the physical vulnerability of human beings, and Libera’s ‘embarrassing art’ still possesses a quiet strength? Contemporary ethics are closely linked to survival, psychological well-being, and the ecology of relationship-building. We know that well-being shapes experience, so we ask art to sympathise with us.
Choral Weeping
The way in which reality is perceived – or rather, experienced – has undoubtedly changed since the early days of Libera and Kozyra in the art world.[4] A new generation of audiences has grown up in recent decades, and many people have immigrated to Poland, so it was beneficial for Zachęta to reintroduce itself. However, many interpreted this reintroduction as a retrospective and a show of fondness for the past, and it was received with relative disappointment. The critical reactions stemmed from the forward-thinking outlook of the artistic community, which, with its rich memory and imagination, continues to crave charismatic statements that foreshadow the future. However, Tears of Joy was not so backward-looking, and perhaps the reserved reception showed that we, the viewers ourselves are too used to dwelling on the past. Perhaps it is us, not the exhibition, who need a time loop to fight windmills.
The misunderstandings surrounding the exhibition’s relationship with time may be due to a lack of disclosure regarding the curators’ intentions and perceptions. Zachęta’s publicly accessible collection spans the period from the 1940s to 2020. By contrast, the exhibition featured works ranging from The Source by Erna Rosenstein (1965) to Lonely Wing by Nadia Markiewicz (2024). I am not asking why all periods were not represented, given that the exhibition was not chronological anyway. However, I do wonder what determined the temporal density of the curatorial selection and the lack of representation of other periods.
Why was Katarzyna Kozyra’s clear dominance passed over in silence? Would it not have been clearer and more fruitful to explicitly explain why Kozyra’s ‘solo’ appeared in this context? Since exhibitions are vehicles for self-reflection, unveiling the curatorial thinking could add value to this show rather than imposing an interpretation. The exhibition as a whole – or any exhibition, for that matter – is a selection and a position in itself, so it would be good to justify the rationale.
More than fifty people worked on preparing Tears of Joy, which is a larger team than usual. The effort could be compared to that of a medium-sized orchestra. Did this play out? Or maybe it will soon? It would be a failure if this exhibition were to serve as a culmination of reflection on what Zachęta is nowadays. For an exhibition to be successful, it must result in concrete actions. Things that shape us often only feel important after time has passed.
Authentic Crying
The idea of scoring a choreography for the exhibition certainly proved inspiring. Its creator, the dancer and performer Alka Nauman, addressed the audience with the following invitation: ‘Listen to your body.’ The exhibition leaned towards bodily therapy, exploring the idea of ‘being-enough’ rather than being perfect as a setting for interactions with art. I admit that this approach can have an extremely soothing effect. Choreographic thinking updated the gallery’s toolbox, demonstrating its receptivity to each viewer’s emotional state — the closest approximation to their most private sphere: the body.
Nevertheless, the invitation to listen to one’s body in the exhibition pamphlet could cause tension. It certainly did for me, as I presumed that I would be expected to behave in a preordained manner. Bruce Nauman’s choreographic suggestions and questions, scattered throughout the exhibition, might have served two purposes: either to deepen contact with the work, or to allow the viewer to emerge from deep interaction with it. However, this is merely my theoretical conjecture, as my experience of the exercises was limited to reading about them. I detected an echo of the contemporary cultural requirement for people and institutions to ‘produce authenticity’ in them. I don’t say ‘to be authentic’ because this pressure is about performance, not existence. Nauman’s notes reminded me of a question I once heard during a long conversation about art and participation: ‘What if I don’t want to be myself in public?’ Perhaps therein lies part of the answer as to why I am uncomfortable with choreographic questions. Contemporary understandings of authenticity are linked to notions of sincerity (the spectre of Romanticism) and the public sphere (the idea that the private is political). To what extent do we need to be open?
As tools of ideological struggle, manifestos always contain a certain reduction. Reducing authenticity to its image creates discomfort. I find it hard to trust the friendly openness with which I am addressed by the text on the wall of an institutional gallery. I look doubtfully at the self-identification interface that Nauman offers in the choreographic score. I wonder: if she is revealing herself, perhaps I should too? ‘This essay is written from the perspective of a white, able-bodied woman. However, I don’t want to specify whether I am neurodiverse or straight.’ Identity is multidimensional and fluid; even documentation cannot capture everything that changes.
The triumph of the exhibition’s choreography is that it reminds me that I have the right to choose: whether to join in, whether to be seen or heard, whether to be open. Refusal always seems more difficult than acceptance. When Nauman invites me to participate in bodily exercises and I refuse, it gives me a lot to think about.
In order to come together, we must put in more effort to bring together all the groups we experience as ‘the other.’ Some of the projects focus on traumatic and complex group experiences (Rajkowska, Zeic, Żmijewski and Kozyra). In this way, the exhibition reminds us that it is possible to break out of an uncomfortable collective experience through art.
Tears of Joy proves that, even in a world dominated by political and economic divisions, there is still room to negotiate what unites and strengthens us. As I leave the rooms of Zachęta, I ask myself: what evokes tears of joy in art? Aesthetic excellence and the courage to tackle difficult subjects are just two ways in which the exhibition touches our most personal emotions.
Intense experiences are important, but what matters most is who we become afterwards.
Translated by Arkadiusz Półtorak
Mariia Varlygina, born in Ukraine and developing her critical practice in Poland, is a graduate student at Jagiellonian University, specializing in cultural anthropology and research of visual culture. Her professional engagements include collaborations with Ukrainian and Polish cultural institutions, contributing as a curator, writer and translator. From 2022 she is the curator of the Baszta site-specific gallery in Krakow.
Her mentors were:
Dorota Jarecka is a Polish art historian, critic and curator whose work focuses on modern and contemporary art, visual culture and the social history of art. She is affiliated with the Institute of Literary Research at the Polish Academy of Sciences (Instytut Badań Literackich PAN) and has published widely on topics ranging from Surrealism and the neo-avant-garde to documentary and curatorial practice. From 2016 until 2024 Jarecka served as director of Galeria Studio in Warsaw. Earlier in her career Jarecka worked as a journalist and critic (including a long spell at Gazeta Wyborcza), organised programs and workshops at institutions such as the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, and collaborated on curatorial and editorial projects. She is the co-author/co-editor of books and catalogues, notably the monograph on Erna Rosenstein (Erna Rosenstein. Mogę powtarzać tylko nieświadomie) and publications on post-war and contemporary Polish art. In recognition of her contributions to art criticism, Jarecka was a recipient of the Jerzy Stajuda Prize for Art Criticis in 2011.
Katarzyna Kołodziej-Podsiadło is an art historian, curator at the Zachęta – National Gallery of Art in Warsaw where she curated or co-curated among others The Potential Histories (2024/2025); The Tears of Joy (2024); Two arts are better than one (2021); Rechowicz/Smaga. Cirle (2019); Money to burn (2016); Victor Man. Zephir (2014); THE ARTISTS. Visual artists’ concerts and sounds projects (2013-2016); Hools (2012). Her curatorial approach is characterised by attention to how exhibitions can function not only as displays of artworks but as devices for generating new dialogues — often incorporating performance, sound, and participatory elements in the gallery space. Her projects have also provided critical takes on Polish and global art histories.
Karolina Plinta is an art critic, editor-in-chief of the magazine ‘Szum’ (together with Jakub Banasiak). Author of numerous texts on art, since 2020 host of the podcast ‘Godzina Szumu.’ Winner of the Jerzy Stajuda Art Criticism Award (for the magazine ‘Szum’, together with Adam Mazur and Jakub Banasiak). Her writings have appeared in major Polish cultural publications and she has also contributed to educational initiatives focused on art careers and professionalization of artists. Her interests include performative arts, institutional critique (especially engaging with how art institutions work and fail), gender in art and feminist perspectives.
[1] Editor’s note: Zachęta – National Gallery of Art serves as the custodian and organizer of the Polish Pavilion at both the Venice Art and Architecture Biennales. The selection of curatorial projects is conducted through an open, two-stage competition. The gallery also manages the Pavilion’s building, a Polish national property since its construction in 1932.
[2] Editor’s note: On June 18, 2024, a day after the opening of the exhibition Tears of Happiness at Zachęta National Gallery of Art, Jana Shostak’s open studio was vandalized. The artist reported that her notes were defaced with a hammer and sickle symbol, hostile slogans were written, polaroid photographs were cut, and elements of the studio were spray-painted. Shostak speculated that the attack might be linked to her activism supporting Belarusian and Ukrainian refugees and her outspoken, left-leaning political views.
[3] Editor’s note: The work features four stuffed animals — a horse, dog, cat, and rooster — stacked in a vertical arrangement. Upon its original presentation, the work sparked significant public controversy in Poland, leading to debates about the ethical implications of using animal bodies in art.
[4] Editor’s note: The term ‘early days’ likely refers to the early 1990s when Libera and Kozyra emerged as prominent figures in the Polish contemporary art scene. Both artists are associated with the so-called Polish Critical Art movement, which addressed social, political, and institutional issues through provocative and engaged practices. Zachęta – National Gallery of Art was closely involved with this generation, providing exhibition opportunities, institutional support, and a platform for public debate around their works.
