On my way to the Helsinki biennial, I walked past a crow raiding an overflowing bin. The trash was scattered across the street and the bird handled a plastic tub with its black claws. With a careful grip on the rim, it shifted its weight and suddenly tilted the container to get to the leftover food. This was not the first time I’ve been in awe of a crow’s abilities. Then I hurried on, rushed as usual.
With this urban nature experience fresh in my mind, I arrived at Vallisaari, the uninhabited island that is the main venue of the third Helsinki Biennial. On paper, the theme is “shelter.” In practice, this means “nature” and “coexistence.” A general sense in the first two biennials – also held on Vallisaari in 2021 and 2023 – was that art could not compete with the surrounding nature. The challenge now is to mend this rift.
My first impression was that curators Kati Kivinen and Blanca de la Torre have done their utmost to ensure that this is not a question of art versus the archipelago environment. They repeatedly emphasise the non-human intelligence that can be attributed to nature. Everything revolves around flora and fauna, microbes and mycelium. To my surprise, they have even included the resourceful crow.
Kristiina Koskentola’s Murder of Crows (2021) is a film that examines the attributes that humans have projected onto crows. I see it as a key work because Koskentola highlights how humans have turned everything in nature into a symbol of one thing or another. We have a deep-seated tendency to see anthropomorphic traits in the natural behaviour of different animal species. The crows Koskentola filmed don’t at all appear as harbingers of death and misfortune, and as the artist notes in her voiceover, decomposition is actually a positive force.
Kivinen and de la Torre’s curating keeps coming back to the cycle of nature. Examples are numerous: Tamara Henderson’s Worm Affair (2023) is an installation based on a stripped-down compost bin with live worms living in it. Nomeda and Gediminas Urbonas’s organ-like plastic tube structure Futurity Island (2018–25) refers to a kind of protective casing created by caddisfly larvae. In the Esplanade Park in the heart of Helsinki, you can see huge insect hotels built for pollinators (Kalle Hamm and Dzamil Kamanger’s Bug Rugs, 2023).
It’s all very gentle and careful; no one is getting their hands dirty. For instance, Henderson’s compost bin is so anonymous that it’s virtually impossible to interpret. The only evidence that the worms really exist is a kind of abstract sound recorded from inside the compost.
I recall, as a contrast to the biennial’s well-mannered installations, Aude Pariset’s Greenhouses (2016), shown at Kiasma in 2017. It featured live mealworms feasting on foam plastic, and I still remember the atavistic feeling of disgust those innocent insects triggered in me– and how it gradually gave way to a mix of horror, delight, and fascination.
The Helsinki Biennial does not aim to create impact by evoking similar ugly emotions. A touch of melancholy is present, mainly in the form of Sara Bjarland’s well-placed and compelling stranded dolphin sculptures (Stranding, 2025). Other than that, it’s heartfelt all the way. The common thread is that everything in nature is beautiful, from protozoa to blue whales. True, perhaps, but also a thesis that, in the long run, becomes rather harmless.
At certain points, I wondered if kindness and sympathy weren’t a bit infantilising. Kati Roover’s Songs in the Ocean (2025), for example, made me think of the colourful animal and science books from my childhood. The 20-minute film is a personal meditation on how amazing whales are. But the fact that whales are often large and that they sing is something everyone already knows – just like everyone knows that the ocean’s ecosystems are in crisis. If not thanks to books and elementary school, then perhaps because of the BBC’s immensely popular nature documentaries.
Similar problems can be found in Tania Candiani’s Subterra (2025), where living plants are planted in narrow glass cases so that their roots can be viewed. In the context of the biennial, works like these are rather bland. On the other hand, they blend in well with their surroundings in Vallisaari. But the fact that the art isn’t jarring also has its advantages – for example, I noticed that I wasn’t comparing it to the natural surroundings in the same way as during the previous biennial.
That the theme word is interpreted by the curators in an unabashedly kind-hearted way has its charm too, especially considering that many of the works are displayed in old military bunkers. I appreciate that shelter has been freed from its potentially violent and apocalyptic connotations. In essence, that’s the biennial’s main political statement – and why not? After the previous biennial’s veritable avalanche of vague fluff, a more concrete nature-oriented approach is warranted. This year’s biennial carries an air of atonement; the act of grovelling before bacteria and protozoa seems to be a mea culpa of sorts from the organiser, Helsinki Art Museum (HAM).
On the other hand, HAM and the City of Helsinki have little choice but to focus on nature – at least, as long as the biennial is centred on Vallisaari. The island is overgrown and large areas are protected by the Finnish wild life and park administration, while other parts are closed off for safety reasons. The biennial’s artists are not allowed to leave any trace whatsoever, which naturally leads to compromises and to everything being assembled on the environment’s terms.
At the same time, the section shown on the mainland – in Esplanade Park and HAM – feels a bit neglected, unimaginative even. A number of nuanced works end up overshadowed: Regina de Miguel’s paintings, Otobong Nkanga’s tapestry, Theresa Traore Dahlberg’s sculptures, Edgar Calel’s embroideries and installation… the list goes on, which is frustrating. I wonder how many of those who visit Vallisaari Island also make it to the museum. Probably not even half.
The City of Helsinki’s long-term strategy is for the biennial to become one of the world’s most internationally renowned events. The question is how to approach the climate theme that has characterised the biennial’s first three editions going forward. Not addressing it would feel disingenuous, especially now that the curators have finally succeeded in creating moments of symbiosis between the art and the nature of Vallisaari. However, it aligns a bit too well with how scenic Finland is marketed abroad.
Amid all the softness, there are several pieces that transcend mere agreeability. The artist duo nabbteeri’s magnificent installation a suitable host (2025), which consists of dry twigs inserted into the facade of a condemned building, made me understand something about what the biennial aims to achieve by placing art outdoors. My imagination was sparked and I felt excited.
I experienced something similar with Geraldine Javier’s remarkably beautiful textile installation Witness (2025), as well as with Saskia Calderón’s experimental vocal piece Sonata Vallisaari (2025), which is the strongest of the biennial’s many sound works. And, of course, when I sat in front of Koskentola’s film about the ever-present crow. These works suggest that there may indeed be a place for humans in nature – that we don’t necessarily need to vanish from the face of the earth for it to have a chance to recover from the destruction we’ve caused. I truly hope that is the case.
