Philip Aguirre y Otegui is a prominent participant in the ongoing Venice Biennale. It is anticipated that the artist, renowned for fusing sculpture, drawing, textiles, and public installations, will showcase a collection influenced by years of research on social justice, migration, and memory. These topics are particularly pertinent in the modern world, and the artist has been pursuing them for a long time.
The artist Philip Aguirre was born in Schoten, Belgium, in 1961, and his diasporic experiences, lost country, and art are closely linked to his exile. Similar to his identity, the artist’s family encountered numerous difficulties during World War II: his father escaped the Spanish Civil War, and his mother’s family was persecuted. His art and viewpoint have been influenced by these issues. His artistic approach is informed by these familial tales of adversity and survival. In addition, he represents both the worlds shaped by difficult times in the past and the issues of the present.
He frequently addresses concerns and themes such as resilience, fragility, and belonging. Rather than merely depicting these concepts, his artwork makes them come to life through shattered forms, unsteady shapes, and materials that allude to both vulnerability and strength.
As part of the interview series, a conversation with Venice Biennale artists, Abirpothi, featuring Belgium-born artist Philip Aguirre y Otegui. The artist discusses in detail his work and his presence in the Venice Biennale.
Q: Your work at the 2026 Venice Biennale, Gaalgui Shelter, draws from Senegalese fishing boats used in dangerous migration journeys. How did you approach transforming such politically charged vessels into a poetic sculptural form?
Philip Aguirre: The Gaalgui Shelter I am exhibiting at the biennial traces its origins back to my initial designs for the large Gaalgui sculpture I created in 2008 with the support of Koyo Kouoh. Those early designs were more like poetic pavilions, evoking watchtowers and shelters. The blue I use is the one used to paint many canoes in Senegal. (drawing Migration)
Q: Across your practice, shelter appears both as architecture and metaphor. What does the idea of “home” mean to you in a time when displacement has become a global condition?
Philip Aguirre: Home is a very important theme in my work. Through the concept of home, you can say so much about the world, on both the macro and micro levels. I am intrigued by how people try to survive; a roof over one’s head becomes absolutely essential. Seeking protection.
Q: The Biennale’s theme, In Minor Keys, emphasises quieter emotional registers rather than spectacle. How do you see your work resonating with Koyo Kouoh’s curatorial vision?
Philip Aguirre: Stillness has always been important in my body of work. I have never liked spectacle or aggressive gestures. So for me, this is an obvious way to express myself.
Q: Your terracotta bas-reliefs, The Courtyard and the Street, seem to contrast intimacy with instability. How do you think clay, as a fragile and ancient material, carries memory differently than bronze or stone?
Philip Aguirre: This is a difficult question. I can also see my reliefs being executed in bronze, but the message would still be slightly different. Clay is very pure; you scoop it out of the river and create something with it. You dry it and fire it. It is the most direct and pure material, but also the most fragile. The most tender material.
Q: Water is a recurring presence in your work—sometimes as hope, sometimes as danger. Why has water remained such a powerful symbolic and political force in your artistic language?
Philip Aguirre: Ever since I was very young, I have realised the importance of water in the world. Without water, there is no life. Water symbolises life and fertility. To have water is to have power. You can dehydrate the other, and so water is also used as a weapon of war. Many wars are about water. Now also in Israel and in many other places.
Q: Many of your sculptures engage with migration without becoming documentary illustrations. How do you balance political urgency with poetic ambiguity?
Philip Aguirre: I have never liked propagandistic art. When art becomes too direct and literal, it turns into propaganda. Journalism and documentaries are the right tools for speaking directly about certain topics. Art has a different approach, a broader and timeless responsibility. So I spend a lot of time thinking about how I can tell a story in a poetic way, accessible to a wide audience, and hopefully still relevant a hundred years from now.
Q: Your father fled Spain during the Civil War, and displacement is deeply embedded in your family history. How much of your practice emerges from inherited memory rather than direct experience?
Philip Aguirre: I’ve certainly been deeply shaped by my family’s stories about war and refugees. Fortunately, I’ve always had a safe home and environment. But because of my family history, I’m very sensitive to all stories about migration, homelessness, etc. That’s how I see the developments in the world, everywhere on the street. I’m in Venice, and I see the refugees hiding, sometimes asking for some money. I see on the street where there’s war in the world; you just run into those people.
Q: In projects like Théâtre Source in Douala, you worked directly with public space and community infrastructure. Do you see sculpture as capable of producing social change beyond the symbolic?
Philip Aguirre: Yes, I truly believe that a work of art like Théâtre Source can significantly change a community’s social fabric. Facilitating access to water and creating a meeting place are important issues.
Q: Your works often feel unfinished or vulnerable, almost as if they are still in transition. Is fragility an intentional formal strategy in your practice?
Philip Aguirre: Doubt, vulnerability, and being unfinished are important to me. Something that is completely finished prevents the viewer from forming their own interpretation of the image. I create vulnerable heroes, vulnerable Kouros figures.
Q: The architecture in your sculptures frequently resembles provisional shelters, ruins, or temporary constructions. Are you interested in architecture as protection, or as evidence of instability?
Philip Aguirre: First, I want to say that I am very interested in architecture. I love it. I once considered becoming an architect. I think “Protection” is very important, but also the supportive, the bearing. Architecture is also about living together, community. Architecture is also ruined, the ruin of war. Architecture can also be power.
Q: You have spoken through your work about refugees, borders, and colonial histories. Do you think European audiences have changed how they engage with these subjects over the past decade?
Philip Aguirre: Certainly. Empathy is disappearing very quickly. The discourse has become very harsh, and that is disastrous for the future. If you stand up for refugees or the poor, you’re labelled a Marxist, even though it’s a normal, humane stance.
Q: Artists such as Frans Masereel and Alberto Giacometti have been cited as important influences on your work. What aspects of their practices continue to guide you today?
Philip Aguirre: Giacometti, Martini, Laurens, Picasso, Maillol, and many others were important to me as a student. They shaped me. Masereel is important to me in my graphic work. I strive to create clear images that are legible and can be distributed democratically.
Q: The Mediterranean appears in your work not as a picturesque landscape but as a site of trauma and passage. What responsibilities do artists have when representing spaces marked by human suffering?
Philip Aguirre: Every artist must determine for themselves what their responsibility is. I use the “Mare Nostrum” to highlight the horror of Europe’s closed borders, the tragedies that befall refugees on that sea. But Henri Matisse paints idyllic scenes—”Luxe, Calme et Volupté”—on the Mediterranean. Showing beauty is also a protest against horror.
Q: At a moment when many biennales risk becoming highly theatrical or market-driven, your work remains grounded in human vulnerability and craft traditions. Do you see this as a form of resistance?
Philip Aguirre: Yes, this is certainly a form of resistance. I want to demonstrate that art can truly be something other than products destined for art fairs. For example, “Théâtre-Source” is truly my response to the market-driven art world. The essence of art is not to create products intended for speculation, etc.
Q: Looking at the current political climate around migration, nationalism, and borders, do you feel art still has the power to influence public consciousness—or is its role now more about bearing witness?
Philip Aguirre: I don’t think art can directly influence public opinion. Art, however, can make individuals think, touch them emotionally, and comfort them. And art can certainly bear witness as well.
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