A cloud in the hand

Visiting the Gaza Biennale’s Istanbul Pavilion at Depo felt less like entering an exhibition and more like stepping into a conversation. One that invites you to sit down, listen, and reflect. The space was arranged with corners to pause, sofas to rest on, and open tables where curators and visitors could meet everyday with a cup of Turkish tea. It wasn’t about spectacle or grand statements or long texts. It was about connection, about holding space for stories that matter.

Some of the artworks were originals, others reproductions, but in this context the distinction didn’t seem to matter, at least to me. Many of the original works couldn’t leave Gaza, and some no longer exist. Still, the reproductions were treated with the same respect and care because they carry the same stories, emotions, and meanings. That gesture alone spoke volumes about what it means to curate with empathy and responsibility. It was wonderful to see Hamada’s work again, after missing the chance to install it with him in Valencia last summer. His work, like that of all artists in Gaza, reminds me how powerful and necessary creative expression can be, especially in times of genocide, war, and conflict. Making art under such conditions becomes a form of resilience, a way to keep dignity and humanity alive.

The second floor was the most emotional part for me. A darker, quieter space filled with video calls recorded with each artist speaking from Gaza. I could see familiar faces like Liza, Aya, Osama, Hazem, Hamada. You could pick up a phone and listen to their voices, as if you were there with them. It was intimate, moving, and real.

One of the video installations showed a participatory work made in Egypt, where people came together to sew a textile map of the Gaza strip. Watching the hands at work, stitching and talking, was incredibly powerful, a collective act of love and memory.

Another video installation stayed with me: an olive tree, nearly swallowed by the sea. Behind it, archival footage of the Nakba and other historical conflicts. The installation stands there, quietly, powerfully, holding on with all its strength.

Alongside the artworks, a public programme of film screenings, poetry evenings, and in-situ conversations with Gazan artists unfolded throughout the duration of the exhibition. This rhythm of dialogue and exchange felt perfectly in tune with Depo’s own ethos: a space dedicated to critical thinking, social reflection, and collective care. It transformed the pavilion into something living and breathing, where learning and solidarity could coexist naturally.

Meeting the curators of this pavilion in person, after months of online exchanges, felt like closing a circle. Being part of this international project and seeing how it grows across different cities has been humbling. It reminds me why I do what I do: to curate with honesty, with care, and with attention to people’s lived realities. Curating becomes an act of care. It’s not about showing art from a distance, but about standing beside it, acknowledging the weight of what it represents and finding ethical ways to share it.

With love and solidarity,

Veronica Revuelta, co-curator of Gaza Biennale Valencia Pavilion