Bangkok reveals itself in layers. The city is a vibrant weave of contrasts — where temple spires glint gold beneath towering flyovers, and canals carve quiet paths through neighbourhoods alive with the hum of markets and engines. Time here does not erase; it accumulates. The ancient presses against the modern, and this tension creates a city that feels at once timeless and new.
On a water tram gliding down one of Bangkok’s khlongs (canals), I hear someone say offhandedly, “They call it the Venice of Asia.” The khlongs once formed the backbone of the city’s infrastructure, but many have been filled to make way for roads. The thought, however, lingers, as I recall my visit to Venice earlier this year. La Biennale, heavy with legacy, left me strangely dissatisfied — the grandeur of the “city on the water” weighed the biennale down, and the curatorial work didn’t manage to make a statement strong enough to cut through. Here, as the Bangkok Art Biennale unfolds, I’m hopeful for something different. And I have a reason to be.

Now in its fourth edition, the Bangkok Art Biennale (BAB) has become an important marker in Southeast Asia’s cultural landscape. Titled Nurture Gaia, the 2024 biennale invites us to reflect on what it means to “nurture” in an era of ecological crisis and societal fragmentation.
“The concept of ‘Nurture Gaia’ stems from our reflection on Gaia as a maternal figure — a universal symbol of life, nourishment, and interconnectedness,” explains Prof. Dr. Apinan Poshyananda, Chief Executive and Artistic Director of the Bangkok Art Biennale.

In recent years, many international art exhibitions have gravitated toward ecological themes, focusing on the concept of the Anthropocene (a term used to describe our current era, in which humans have become a significant force affecting the planet) as well as humanity’s fraught relationship with nature. The 2024 Gwangju Biennale, for instance, offered a deeply sombre vision, lingering on the detritus of a world teetering on collapse. By contrast, the Bangkok Biennale curatorial team resists this pull toward despair. Rather than dwelling on what we have done, they open a space for questions that look forward.
“Art can’t solve all the problems,” Dr. Brian Curtin, one of five curatorial team members, tells me, “but it shouldn’t leave us hopeless either. What we aimed for was a space to rethink our connections — to the environment, to one another, and to ourselves — with a sense of possibility rather than despair.”
BAB spans 11 venues, ambitiously placed across a sprawling city notorious for its long distances and dense infrastructure. Yet, the curatorial team has mapped out routes to make sense of this scale — river routes, temple journeys, and cultural landmarks — all designed to fold the city into the biennale experience itself.
The River Route
I begin my journey on the River Route, on a tour hosted by the private villa Siri Sala and facilitated by curators Dr. Brian Curtin and Dr. Paramaporn Sirikulchayanont. Our first stop is the National Museum.

The exhibition is hosted in the Siwamokhaphiman Throne Hall, once a royal audience chamber where the Viceroy sat to hear grievances from the people. Walking through its gates, I pause to take in the grandeur: steeply pitched roofs, gilded finials, and courtyards bathed in soft afternoon light.
Here, the curators have invited artists to engage directly with the museum’s vast archives, creating a dialogue between contemporary works and cultural heritage. It’s a sensitive and ambitious approach.
“Try not to think too deep into the meanings first,” suggests Curtin. “Rather, try to take the objects in on a visual level first.” It’s an invitation to see before we interpret, to let the objects speak as they are — tactile, immediate, and alive.
As we enter, we are immediately met eye-to-eye with Parvati by Ravinder Reddy — a monumental blue head of a woman, adorned with intricate golden jewellery and a perfectly coiffed hairdo. Her gaze is steady and calm, her open eyes exuding a quiet, assured confidence.

When approaching the sculpture I learn a piece of local history. Apparently, during the political unrest of May 2010, when the CentralWorld shopping complex was set ablaze amid clashes between anti-government protesters and the military, a 13-foot-tall sculpture by Ravinder Reddy remained unscathed. This sculpture, often mistaken for the Hindu goddess Kali due to its blue hue, was believed by some protesters to bring bad luck if tampered with, and so was left untouched.
Directly in front of Reddy’s sculpture, an ancient Tribhumi manuscript unravels. The Tribhumikatha, a 14th-century Thai cosmological text, describes the realms of existence from Manusakatha (the realm of humans) to Niriyakatha (the realm of hell), its vivid illustrations depicting grotesque punishments and surreal torment — a stark juxtaposition to Reddy’s serene, almost divine figure.
In the right wing of the hall, Nakrob Moonmanas’ Fish, Fire, Fallout continues the dialogue with the past. Also drawing from the Tribhumikatha, Moonmanas reassembles fragments of history: ancient fish sculptures, mixed media, and artefacts that speak of survival and collapse. “Working with the archive is exciting but also overwhelming,” Moonmanas reflects. “Much of it exists not in catalogues but in the archivists’ minds — an inheritance we can only access if we ask.” His work, like the museum itself, becomes a meditation on what we preserve and what risks being forgotten.

On the opposite side of the room, Dusadee Huntrakul presents A Verse for Nights, an installation that layers prehistoric fossils, Ban Chiang bracelets, pottery shards, and seashells cast from Pattaya Beach with his own sculptures and found objects in three large museum glass displays. Viewers must look carefully to distinguish between the ancient and the contemporary objects all set out on display in a uniform manner. “Not only does this work criticise humanity’s obsession with collecting and making things, but it also introduces ideas about multiple beginnings of the world, and beginnings of civilisations through myths — an ode to storytelling and human imagination,” comments biennale curator Pojai Akratanakul.

I look around Sahamongkol Hall in quiet awe. Not one of these objects was here before the Biennale began. How many voices have the artists awakened, returning this building to its original mission — a space where conversations once shaped the fabric of society? “It’s truly remarkable,” reflects Moonmanas. “The National Museum is one of the most conservative institutions in Thailand.” This remark makes me pause. Indeed, in a time and place where the past is often romanticised and the present tightly controlled, this moment feels significant — an act of reclaiming space for plurality and imagination.
A short bus ride away, our journey continues at the National Gallery, where Nurture Gaia calls attention to voices often erased or overlooked. We are first met with George K.’s Aravaani series that brings focus to the transgender community of Tamil Nadu, known as Aravaani. Life-sized sculptures, rendered with careful precision, depict figures inspired by the ritual marriages between Aravaan, a deity, and the Aravaani people. Their expressions hold both fragility and pride, offering a rare glimpse into a tradition that is often ignored or misrepresented.

Another room that left a strong impression is Project Pleiades by Agnes Arellano. In a dimly lit room we are met with four goddesses: human-sized figures of Kali, Magdalene, Inanna, and Dakini look at the viewer with defiance and pride. They are made to embody different facets of the sacred feminine. But this version of femininity is far from feeble. Magdalene rests atop roses and skulls, while Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction, stands on a mound of severed children’s hands.

As we move deeper into the gallery, Chitra Ganesh’s The Thick of Time reconfigures the visual language of Indian mythology and comic books. Her prints burst with colour and symbolic detail: fragmented female figures, surreal animals, celestial orbs, and blooming flora hover in tension across dreamlike compositions. Inspired by Amar Chitra Katha, a series of Indian comics meant to simplify history and moral lessons, Ganesh’s work replaces the patriarchal lens with female agency.

On the far side of the gallery, Mella Jaarsma’s Barkcloth-Dark Cloth examines the precarious balance between tradition and commodification. Working with Papuan artist Agus Ongge, Jaarsma creates garments from barkcloth — a material once integral to daily life across the Asia-Pacific, now relegated to the realm of tourist souvenirs. The accompanying video shows the painstaking process of beating the bark into cloth, a practice threatened by modernity.

In the courtyard, we are met with what remains of Kira O’Reilly’s Menopausal Gym. The work consists of gymnastic balls crushed under the weight of metal frames as well as suspended rubber bands, evoking torture rather than wellness. This is the physical trace of O’Reilly’s earlier performance, a grueling enactment of endurance: the sweat, the pain, and the raw vulnerability of a body in flux.

In the light of the setting sun, we weave our way through the bustling streets of Rattanakosin Island, the heart of Bangkok’s historic old town, sidetracked momentarily by the intoxicating smells of street food — grilled skewers, tangy som tum, the ever-present aroma of pandan. Our next destination brings us to the most mystical stop of the River Route: Wat Pho, the Temple of the Reclining Buddha.
We gather under the branches of an ancient bodhi tree — much like the one beneath which the Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment. Nearby, Louise Bourgeois’ Eyes quietly occupies a corner of the Missakawan Garden, its smooth granite spheres gazing eternally outwards. Behind us, the golden Reclining Buddha shimmers serenely through every window of the temple.

“The pupils are directed this way,” explains Curtin, gesturing toward the sculpture and the surrounding temple space, “so that they are always looking at the Buddha, but also at the bodhi tree. This is about creating a dialogue.” He adds, “You see, we wanted a biennale that feels accessible to everyone, even those not on speaking terms with contemporary art. That’s why we went to such lengths to bring art outside of art institutions and directly to the viewer — into places of mass public interest.”
It’s worthwhile noting here that the Bangkok Art Biennale presents a somewhat unique case in the world of mega-exhibitions: it is free of charge. While visitors may need tickets to access certain museums and foreigners have to pay temple entrance fees (a cost waived for locals), the biennale’s main venues, such as the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre, are completely open to the public.
The late afternoon light bathes the temple grounds in gold, matching the hue of the Buddha inside. It spills across the twisting branches of the bodhi tree and onto our group of art pilgrims. I ask Dr. Sirikulchayanont about the unique challenges of curating in active religious spaces. She smiles, offering an anecdote:
“Well, in a manner of speaking, you can call it a test of faith,” she laughs. “At one of the temples, a video installation refused to work for over ten days. The artist adjusted the sound, recalibrated the colour, rewired everything, and yet nothing changed. Finally, we made an offering at the temple — and immediately, the issue resolved itself.”
As the sun dips lower, we make our way to the pier, where long-tail boats rock gently against the water. Across the canal, Wat Arun — the Temple of the Dawn — glows gold in the evening light, its spires catching the last glimmers of the day. We drift back toward Siri Sala, carrying with us a day filled with spectacular encounters with art.

The City Route
The next morning begins with a shift in scale. I hail a cab from the aromatic tangle of Chinatown, where carts clatter and the city bustles, wide awake. We drive towards Pathumwan, Bangkok’s commercial centre, where the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre (BACC) stands as the epicentre of the biennale, housing the largest collection of works under Nurture Gaia.
Right upon entering, I look up to see the spiralling architecture resembling that of the Guggenheim Museum. The upper part of the spiral is crowned with a hanging sculpture: a golden-winged, angel-like creature, gently moving in a hypnotic rhythm. This is Choi Jeong Hwa’s Golden Girl, presenting us with an archetypical image of the Mother.

Stepping into the first exhibition hall, I encounter a familiar work by Bali’s Ari Bayuaji. His project Weaving the Ocean began during the pandemic, when he started collecting discarded plastic ropes washed ashore from the mangrove forests near his home. With careful hands, Bayuaji and local communities unravelled the ropes and reworked them into sculptures. “Rangda sculptures and masks are still used by Balinese [people] at temples and shrines to remind people of tragedy and natural disasters, so the Balinese are aware of the need to keep doing good things by nurturing nature,” the curators explain.

Further along, Busui Ajaw weaves her own histories into works inspired by Akha folklore. Her expressive paintings in shades of red, black, and white celebrate Amamata, the revered first mother — fertile, protective, and enduring. Ajaw connects this goddess-like figure to contemporary motherhood, portraying the unwavering strength of women in navigating both everyday life and ancestral responsibilities. Her works offer insights into the stories of women that stretch across generations while remaining rooted in her own experience as an Akha woman.
I contemplate how many artworks in the biennale revolve around the feminine.

“The focus on the feminine emerged naturally from Gaia’s identity, “ explains Poshyananda. “The feminine, in its many forms, represents not only creation but resilience and healing. Many works in this edition of BAB highlight these qualities — inviting viewers to consider how the principles traditionally associated with the feminine can inform a more sustainable and empathetic future.”
Another commentary on womanhood, Amanda Heng’s Always by my side communicates themes of loss and remembrance. The work consists of photographs taken over three decades: Heng and her mother, posed side by side, bodies shifting with time. A simple embrace between mother and daughter — sometimes close, sometimes distant — becomes a meditation on familial ties and our own ever present mortality. Heng, one of Singapore’s pioneering artists, quietly confronts cultural traditions that often render women’s relationships invisible. In doing so, Always by my side reclaims a space for care, intimacy, and intergenerational bonds.

Further on, Yanawit Kunchaethong’s installation Tiger Crossing the Stream reflects on his family’s forest, once lush and alive, now eroded by industrial projects. Kunchaethong grinds the remains of a 40-year-old rosewood tree — killed during the construction of a solar power plant — into a fine, ashen powder. On the gallery floor, he inscribes a line from a 19th-century Wat Pho inscription: “Will count the days and nights that will never return.” The tree, reduced to dust, becomes both a relic and a plea.

On the upper floor, Bagus Pandega and Kei Imazu present Artifical Green by Nature Green 4.0, a work that addresses the stark environmental costs of industrialisation. Using kinetic machines as well as bioelectric signals extracted from palm trees, the installation traces the destruction of Indonesia’s tropical rainforests for palm oil production. A mechanical brush driven by these bio-signals creates images that dissolve under flowing water, a visual metaphor for the erasure of biodiversity.

Finally, Nuttapon Sawasdee’s March of the Termite closes the BACC experience with an unsettling but brilliant reflection on labour and hierarchy. Drawing parallels between termite colonies and human society, Sawasdee presents an immersive soundscape of termites communicating through head-banging rhythms. Performing, the artist embodies the worker termite — donning a black-metal-inspired costume and mimicking the insect’s frantic movements. The performance feels both absurd and tragic, critiquing systems that undervalue human labour while celebrating the resilience of these unseen creatures that quietly maintain ecological balance.

As my trip nears its end, I make my way to the Queen Sirikit National Convention Centre (QSNCC), situated in Khlong Toei, a district that has come to symbolise Bangkok’s rapid urban transformation. Once the fringe of the city centre, the neighbouring Asok area has, since the mid-1990s, grown into a hub of high-rise condominiums, shopping complexes, and glass-wrapped corporate towers.
The QSNCC reflects this shift: a vast, modern structure of steel and glass, its sharp lines overlooking the carefully curated serenity of Benjakitti Park. The park’s lake mirrors the skyline, framed by manicured flowerbeds and fountains whose sprays catch the light.
Inside, I find one of the most compelling works of the entire biennale: Telle mère tel fils (Like Mother Like Son) by Adel Abdessemed. Here, three airplane forms, constructed from inflated felt, twist together — their softened shapes at odds with the coldness we typically associate with such machines. The artist recalls his mother’s technique of rolling pastry, transforming what could be read as symbols of industrial development or environmental destruction into a deeply personal meditation on care, creation, and memory.

I walk on, and take a rest in front of a two-channel video of a choreographed performance by Isaac Chong Wai. There is something soothing about the singing and the movement of figures on the screen.
“The Biennale poses questions about the complex interrelationships between humans, not just the environment,” explains curator Pojai Akratanakul. “For example, Isaac Chong Wai’s Die Mutter video discusses collective trauma. His performance presenting the controlled bodies singing and soothing one another evokes a sense of shared vulnerability and collective healing.”

A promise of “uncommon intimacy”
The biennale unfolds like a book, each venue turning a page, offering a new perspective on what it means to “nurture Gaia.” Before leaving the city, there is one final artwork I need to see. To find it, I navigate through Bangkok once more — across the dense, pulsing traffic and over the Chao Phraya River — until I arrive at the immaculate, sun-bleached courtyard of Wat Prayoon. The whiteness is blinding, and I struggle to orient myself. Drawn instinctively to the main temple, I stop to pray. I light an incense stick and offer flowers at the altar. As I strike the gong, its reverberations ripple outward, an echo of my hopes sent into the open sky.
From here, I discover the path to the temple’s adjacent hall, where the welcome hum of air conditioners envelops me. I sit in a darkened space, alone and momentarily still, as Jessica Segall’s (un)common intimacy unfolds on two glowing screens in front of me.
Segall’s work is disarming. For this project, she trained herself to swim with large predators — tigers and alligators — in U.S. states where private ownership of these animals remains legal. The videos document these underwater encounters: the artist, dressed in a polka-dot dress and red high heels, moves with careful, deliberate grace as she reaches toward these creatures of immense power and unpredictability.

Segall’s hyper-feminine aesthetic underscores the themes of control and submission we associate with both women and the wild. In Segall’s work, however, the categories of domination and control have been blown to pieces — her gestures of touch, caress, and quiet presence shift the dynamic entirely. The work feels like an invocation of possibility: that intimacy can exist in the most precarious of relationships, and that vulnerability can become a form of strength.
Sitting alone in the cool darkness, I realise how fitting this is as the final stop of my journey. (un)common intimacy offers no easy answers. Instead, it leaves me with gentle invitations — to rethink how we coexist, to embrace the spaces between fear and care, and to believe, even tentatively, in the fragile hope of connection.
The gong I struck earlier lingers in my memory. As I step back into the glaring light of the courtyard, I imagine its sound rising again, reverberating outward — like Segall’s work, like the biennale itself — into a world that is still listening.
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The Bangkok Art Biennale 2024: Nurture Gaia runs till 25 February 2025. Learn more at bkkartbiennale.com.
Header image: Installation view of Choi Jeong Hwa’s Breathing Flower (2018-2024), waterproof fabric and motor, dimensions variable. Image courtesy of Bangkok Art and Culture Centre (BACC).