Roberto Diago turns the Cuban Pavilion into a scarred counter-history of empire, labour, Black survival, and the human warmth missing from the polished machinery of the Venice Biennale.

To arrive at the Cuban Pavilion in Venice is already to understand something about power. You leave behind the manicured theatre of the Giardini, those neat little national fortresses erected during the high noon of empire, where countries with colonial money secured permanent real estate inside art history itself. Then comes the Arsenale: the old Venetian war machine reborn as cultural runway, its kilometres of brick corridors processing art with the rhythm of a luxury slaughterhouse.
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