My Experience at the Florence Biennale, 2009
- hufreeshc
- Sep 3
- 3 min read
Updated: Sep 7
In 2009, as a young and upcoming artist, I received an invitation that both thrilled and terrified me: to exhibit at the Florence Biennale in Italy. For me, it felt like a dream — the kind of opportunity that every artist secretly hopes for. But the dream came with a heavy price tag: a participation fee of 1,500 euros, along with travel expenses, shipping costs for my artworks, and accommodation. The numbers swirled in my head like impossible walls.
Still, something inside me whispered, You must go.
I began writing to art universities and institutions across India, hoping for a grant or sponsorship. I must have sent appeals to at least ten different places. Each day I waited for a reply that never came. The silence was discouraging, but I refused to give up. Finally, I reached out to the Dutch Foundation, Stichting de Zaaier, in Auroville. To my immense relief and gratitude, they responded with support. Without their generosity, I would never have set foot into a world of art I had never seen before.
Stepping into the Biennale was overwhelming — a hall alive with nearly a thousand artists from all corners of the globe, each presenting their vision, each canvas a different voice. For the first time in my life, I felt the pulse of the global art community. It was exhilarating and humbling all at once.
But the Biennale was not just about celebration; it was also about judgment. Artists were being evaluated by an international panel. Among them was an Indian judge. When he discovered I was from India, he walked straight up to my work. In a voice loud enough for others to hear, he began harshly criticizing my painting. His words cut deeper than he could have known. I stood there frozen, surrounded by other artists, feeling exposed and humiliated. That night, and for the next three days, I cried, convinced that I was the worst artist in the world.
Just as I was sinking into despair, something unexpected happened. Throughout the nine-day event, a French artist began standing in front of my painting. Day after day, he returned, standing for what seemed like hours, without uttering a word. His silent presence was both puzzling and strangely comforting.
On the very last day, he finally approached me. His words remain etched in my heart:
"I have been trying to understand what makes your art so different. Now I know. I paint from my mind, but you… you paint from your heart. When I go back to France, I will try to paint from my heart too."
In that moment, it felt as if his words fell like raindrops on parched earth. They healed something inside me that had been broken. His simple observation became a turning point — a reminder of why I create.
I realised then that if my art could touch even one human being, if it could inspire even a single soul to see differently or feel more deeply, then all the struggles, all the tears, and even the criticism were worth it.
The Florence Biennale taught me that the art world is vast, complex, and sometimes brutal. But it also showed me that true connection in art does not come from recognition or awards — it comes from the heart meeting another heart through creation.
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