Imagine arriving from Mars and stepping into the 2026 Whitney Biennial. Would the exhibition reveal that the nation is on the brink of fascism? That two citizens have been killed in daylight by masked federal agents? That diligent immigrants are being taken from Home Depot and Walmart and sent to camps? That the government openly kidnaps and assassinates foreign leaders to seize their oil?
Consider that artists have been silenced and lost opportunities due to their political stances, even at the Whitney, where a program was halted and its leader dismissed over a group’s support for Palestinians.
Would any of these issues be evident at this year’s prestigious exhibition? Not really.
Yet, leaving the show, you might sense something amiss in the United States. An undercurrent of fear and restraint is palpable. Why else the somber and subdued atmosphere? Why so timid and joyless?
With few exceptions, like Ali Eyal’s haunting Ferris wheel from his war-torn childhood in Baghdad, and Kainoa Gruspe’s doorstops crafted from materials found on US military bases and golf courses in Hawaii, it seems the Whitney Biennial is retreating from reality instead of engaging with it.
This biennial is neither bad, nor “safe,” nor “weird.” It’s not even apolitical — it couldn’t be, even if it tried. It’s simply fearful.
The event is a timid, traumatized gathering where artists lament, console, and find solace in ambient sound baths (Oswaldo Macía, Young Joon Kwak), altars (Zach Blas), and shrines (Enzo Camacho and Ami Lien) while outside, Trump’s Epic Fury unfolds.
Despite sidestepping current political issues, the exhibition checks many progressive boxes. It broadens the scope of American art to include artists from Palestine, Iraq, Vietnam, Japan, and the Philippines — regions impacted by American imperialism. The biennial critically examines systems of surveillance, extractivism, and oppression, alongside the structures that support them. Yet, this critical insight, though informed, doesn’t offer a unified statement on the prevailing chaos. Were not Soviet gulags and Chinese re-education camps filled with individuals who understood the systems oppressing them?
“To some, the Biennial may not be ‘political enough’ if it fails to confront global leaders or conflicts,” writes Whitney Museum Director Scott Rothkopf in the biennial’s catalog foreword, possibly anticipating criticism. He states a preference for “other forms of both art and political agency” that are less confrontational, mentioning free admission programs (free Friday nights, free second Sundays, and free for visitors 25 and under) as examples of his political initiatives. Co-curator Marcela Guerrero, alongside Drew Sawyer, notes in the catalog that suggesting the 2026 Biennial coincides with an urgent historical moment seems “trite, self-indulgent.”
These rhetorical maneuvers seem to mask a reluctance to take a firm stance in this turbulent period of American history, perhaps to avoid upsetting a museum trustee or donor.
This hesitation is further evident in the decision to have no theme this year. At a press conference before the show, Guerrero stated that she and Sawyer wanted to avoid any predetermined ideas, opting instead for open-mindedness, ultimately focusing on moods and “minor feelings.” (Journalists were not permitted to ask questions.) While not advocating for overly literal art, a theme helps unify works into a cohesive vision, statement, or historical record. Even the Museum of Modern Art, with its board full of questionable billionaires, took a stand against Trump in 2017 by organizing an impromptu protest show featuring artists from countries affected by the initial “Muslim ban.” Ignoring a meaningful theme now seems akin to hiding one’s head in the sand, resulting in a gathering without a shared purpose. “Relationality” — however that’s defined — without solidarity.
The most impactful Whitney Biennials were those that embraced risk and weren’t afraid of mistakes. Amid protests over Vice-Chair Warren Kanders’s connections to tear gas used against asylum seekers and protesters, the 2019 biennial curators bravely included an investigation by Forensic Architecture into his controversial businesses. The inclusion of Dana Schutz’s contentious painting of Emmet Till in the 2017 edition sparked significant discussions about race, representation, and ethics in art. In the future, when we may reside in Elon Musk-developed, Palantir-monitored condos on Mars, will the 2026 Whitney Biennial be remembered?
