The forced excitement accompanying each new iteration of the Venice Biennale, I've heard it said, is akin to a faked orgasm'at some point, it's probably better to stop. Yet among this magical city's spells, as the novelist Mary McCarthy once wrote, is 'one of peculiar potency: the power to awaken the philistine dozing in the sceptic's breast.' McCarthy had in mind 'dry, prose people' who object to 'feeling what they are supposed to feel, in the presence of marvels.' This, then, is the art lover's dilemma whenever the Biennale comes around: Do you marshal skepticism or let the feelings flow' Whatever your preference, you'll get a lot of practice. The Biennale, which opened last week and will remain up through November, has frequently and misleadingly been called 'the Olympics of the art world''and it's certainly a competition of sorts (primarily for attention), but no one seems to care much about who's winning. More accurate, it's an everywhere-all-at-once phenomenon. You try to...
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