At the 61st Venice Biennale, the Bulgarian Pavilion explores alternative models of collective existence that move beyond narratives of dominance, hierarchy, and fixed identities. Curated by Martina Yordanova, The Federation of Minor Practices foregrounds forms of interdependence, care, and subtle, often overlooked gestures as foundations for coexistence. Bringing together the works of Gery Georgieva, Maria Nalbantova, Rayna Teneva, and Veneta Androva, the project proposes a decentralized and pluralistic understanding of collectivity. In this interview, Yordanova reflects on her curatorial approach, the responsibilities of national representation, and the ambivalent relevance of the “Central and Eastern Europe” category within contemporary international art discourse.
If you had to distill your pavilion into a single idea, what would it be—and what does it push back against?
If I had to distill the pavilion into a single idea, I would say it is about imagining forms of being together that are not based on dominance, control, or fixed identities, but on interdependence, care, and small-scale, often overlooked practices. The Federation of Minor Practices proposes a model of coexistence built not from the center, but from the margins. It brings together different voices that remain autonomous, yet connected, suggesting that collectivity does not have to mean uniformity.
In that sense, the project pushes back against dominant political and cultural narratives that rely on hierarchy, visibility, and scale. It resists the pressure to produce a singular, representative image, whether national or ideological, and instead insists on multiplicity, fragility, and nuance as valid forms of presence.
Why this artist, and why now?
Because each of them brings a distinct practice, but shares a similar sensitivity toward what I would call minor gestures, subtle forms of resistance, care, and ways of navigating uncertainty. I was not looking for a unified aesthetic or a single narrative, but for a group of artists whose works could enter into a meaningful dialogue without collapsing into sameness. Gery Georgieva, Maria Nalbantova, Rayna Teneva, and Veneta Androva each approach the present from different angles, but they all engage with fragile, often overlooked forms of experience that rarely become central in dominant narratives. Why now is also important. We are in a moment where large-scale explanations and stable structures seem increasingly insufficient. These artists do not try to resolve that instability, but to stay with it, to observe it closely, and to propose other ways of thinking and relating through their work.
What does participation in the Venice Biennale actually change for you—beyond visibility?
Beyond visibility, it changes the scale of responsibility. You are no longer working only within your immediate context, but entering a space where every decision resonates differently, culturally, politically, and institutionally. For me, it has also shifted the way I think about collaboration. The Biennale demands a level of precision, coordination, and long-term thinking that transforms the project into a complex ecosystem rather than a singular exhibition. It pushes you to articulate your ideas more clearly, but also to remain open to translation across different contexts.
At the same time, it creates new forms of dialogue. Not only with international audiences, but also within your own context, because the act of representing a country inevitably reflects back and repositions your work locally. So beyond visibility, it’s really about entering a different scale of thinking, production, and accountability.
“Central and Eastern Europe” is still widely used as a category—do you find it meaningful, limiting, or outdated?
I think it is all three at the same time, which is exactly what makes it complicated. On one hand, the term still carries historical and political weight. It points to shared experiences, transitions, and structural conditions that have shaped artistic practices in very specific ways. In that sense, it can still be meaningful as a contextual frame.
At the same time, it is also limiting. It tends to flatten differences and to group together very distinct positions under a single label, often from an external perspective. It can create expectations about what kind of work should emerge from this region, which is something I’m generally cautious about. I don’t think the category is entirely outdated, but I do think it needs to be used more carefully. Rather than a fixed identity, I see it as a shifting reference point, something that can be activated, questioned, or even refused depending on the context.
Do you feel your work is read differently in Western contexts—and if so, is that a misunderstanding, a projection, or something you actively work with?
Yes, it is often read differently, and I think that difference is a mix of projection, partial understanding, and contextual translation. There is sometimes an expectation that work coming from this region should “explain” something, whether historical, political, or cultural. That can lead to readings that frame the work primarily through geopolitics, even when the intention is more layered or ambivalent. In that sense, there is definitely an element of projection. At the same time, I don’t see this only as a misunderstanding. Every context produces its own reading, and that can also open unexpected interpretations. I try not to fully control that process, but to be aware of it. So rather than resisting it completely, I think of it as something to work with. The project for Venice is structured in a way that allows for multiple entry points and different readings, without collapsing into a single, fixed meaning.
At what point in the process did you become most aware of your geopolitical position—and did it open doors or quietly close them?
I think that awareness was present from the very beginning, simply because working within the structure of a national pavilion already places you in a clearly defined geopolitical framework. But it became more tangible as the project started to circulate internationally, in conversations, partnerships, and institutional contexts. In many ways, it actually opened doors. There is a growing interest in perspectives that come from contexts like ours, especially when they don’t conform to expected narratives. That created space for dialogue and made it possible to position the project within a broader conversation without having to simplify it.
At the same time, I’m aware that this visibility is not neutral. It comes with certain expectations, sometimes subtle, about how a position should be articulated. What interested me was to use that opening without fully complying with those expectations, to maintain a certain complexity and autonomy within that framework.
Is there such a thing as a shared “Central and Eastern European-ness” in contemporary art, or is that idea mostly imposed from the outside?
I think it exists, but not as a stable or clearly defined identity. It’s less a shared “essence” and more a set of overlapping conditions, historical experiences, transitions, and ways of navigating uncertainty that can sometimes resonate across different contexts. At the same time, the idea is very often reinforced from the outside, through institutional frameworks, curatorial narratives, or market logics that tend to group diverse practices under a single label. That can create a simplified image of what “Central and Eastern European” art is supposed to be.
So for me, it’s something that can be both real and constructed at the same time. It can be meaningful when it emerges from within specific practices or conversations, but it becomes limiting when it is imposed as a fixed category. In that sense, I prefer to think of it as a shifting field of relations rather than a defined identity.
What was the hardest decision you made that no one visiting the exhibition will ever notice?
There were many difficult decisions along the way, but I would prefer to keep them to myself. What I can say is that these kinds of decisions are often about balance—what to include, what to leave out, how to hold together different voices without reducing them. They are not always visible in the final form, but they shape the structure of the project in a fundamental way. In a sense, the things that remain unseen are often what allow the visible parts to function.
How do you negotiate the line between aesthetics and politics without falling into illustration or overstatement?
For me, it’s about resisting the urge to make things too explicit. The moment a work starts to simply illustrate a political idea, it loses its complexity and its capacity to open questions. I’m more interested in creating situations where the political is embedded in the form, in the atmosphere, in the relationships between elements, rather than stated directly. This allows space for ambiguity, for multiple readings, and for a more active engagement from the viewer. At the same time, it requires a certain level of restraint. Not everything needs to be said, and not everything needs to be resolved. I think it’s precisely in that tension, between what is visible and what remains open, that both the aesthetic and the political can coexist without collapsing into each other.
In your view, is it still necessary for a pavilion to respond to current geopolitical realities—or can disengagement be a position in itself?
I think both approaches are possible, but they produce very different outcomes. Engaging with current geopolitical realities can make a pavilion feel urgent and connected, providing a lens through which audiences can reflect on the world we live in. It can also position the work within a broader conversation beyond the art context. At the same time, disengagement can absolutely be a position in itself, if it is intentional. Choosing not to respond directly to dominant narratives can create space for alternative temporalities, subtle forms of reflection, or ways of imagining the future differently. What matters, in either case, is that the choice is deliberate and coherent with the project’s conceptual framework. For The Federation of Minor Practices, the work is not a direct commentary on current politics, but it is deeply engaged with the conditions that shape our collective and individual lives, asking audiences to think about modes of coexistence, care, and interdependence.
What kind of reading—or misreading—of your exhibition would concern you the most?
I welcome multiple readings and interpretations, but I hope the work is experienced as a space for reflection and engagement rather than as a tidy illustration of a single idea.
What is currently influencing your thinking outside the art world—and why does it matter to your work?
I’m influenced by a variety of things, but most of all by emotions and personal experiences that make me feel I am growing. They shape the way I think about people, collaboration, and the conditions for creativity. Beyond that, I’ve recently been reading about textiles and gardening—two areas that fascinate me and that I hope to explore in my future curatorial projects. They inspire ways of thinking about materials, processes, care, and the rhythms of life, which I try to bring into the way I approach exhibitions and the spaces I create for artistic practice.