Alright folks, buckle up, ’cause this trip was way messier – and way better – than I thought it’d be. Decided I needed a creative kick in the pants, so I picked a few of those supposedly unmissable global art festivals. No fancy research papers, just me scrolling blogs late at night, coffee cold, eyes blurry. Saw a list screaming “Top Festivals to Inspire Creative Souls,” and figured, why not? Packed a sketchbook expecting fireworks in my brain.
Phase One: Planning? More Like Panicking.
- Stared at flight prices for Venice Biennale until my wallet whimpered. Booked anyway, praying my savings wouldn’t vanish completely.
- Looked at a map and went “crap.” Planned to squeeze in Art Basel Switzerland and Documenta in Kassel right after. Didn’t think about jet lag. Rookie mistake. Big one.
- Bought tickets online for Art Basel like it was concert tickets. Stress-sweating. The confirmation email felt like winning a tiny lottery.
- Packed one giant, ugly backpack. Threw in comfortable shoes, tons of socks (wise), and one semi-decent shirt (dumb). Sketchbooks stuffed everywhere.
The Venice Whirlwind (Literally)
Got off the train in Venice and got immediately lost. Water smells hit me. Dragged my stupidly big bag over like a million bridges, shoulder screaming. Found my tiny Airbnb room damp. Great start.
The Venice Biennale grounds… huge. Just massive. Wandered into the Arsenale first. Got swallowed by this sound piece – like whale groans mixed with static. Freaked me out. Sat on a cold floor sketching like mad, trying to capture the feeling, not just what I saw. Saw one artist literally vomit green slime into a canal for performance art. Sketchbook got rained on. One shoe got fully splashed by a water taxi. Was it inspiring? Yeah. Was it glamorous? Hell no.
Art Basel: Where My Wallet Cried Harder
Switzerland felt too clean after Venice’s grime. Walked into Art Basel. Whoa. Shiny. Bright lights. White boxes. People whispering in languages I didn’t know. Felt like crashing a billionaire’s private party wearing my slightly damp Venice sneakers. Saw a painting priced higher than my life savings. Choked on my free sparkling water (very grateful, but still).
Didn’t sketch much here. Too intimidated. Mostly just walked, eyes wide open. Saw incredible things – a sculpture made of melted bullet casings, weird VR stuff that made me dizzy. But honestly? The sheer scale of money being thrown around kinda… dampened the creative buzz for me. Felt strangely hungry afterwards. Went and ate the world’s most expensive hot dog. Regretted it almost instantly. Developed food poisoning or something equally nasty overnight. Let’s just say inspiration struck while clutching my stomach in a Basel hostel bathroom at 3 AM. Low point. Real low.
Documenta Kassel: Walking It Off
Stumbled onto the train to Kassel, Germany, feeling fragile. Documenta felt totally different. Grittier. More spread out across the whole city. Less “buy me,” more “think about this.” Had to walk everywhere. My feet hated me, but my brain woke up. Found installations tucked into old factories, parks, even a defunct train station.
One piece was just rows of simple wooden chairs facing a blank wall. Sat down feeling skeptical. Ended up sitting there for ages, watching light change on the wall, noticing the grain in the wood. Started sketching the empty space, the feel of just sitting. Sounds silly, but it unlocked something. Saw a huge installation made entirely of shredded currency notes. Thought about that Basel hot dog again. Sketchbook finally came alive here – scribbles, thoughts, messy diagrams.
The Takeaway? It Wasn’t Pretty.
Inspired? Absolutely. But not how those glossy articles say. It wasn’t effortless enlightenment sipping champagne. It was:
- Sweating buckets hauling luggage.
- Getting lost constantly.
- Feeling awkward and poor.
- Dealing with actual bodily fluids (mine and others’).
- Staring at mind-bending art while sleep-deprived and sore.
But you know what? Getting uncomfortable shook things loose. Seeing artists push boundaries – sometimes beautifully, sometimes disturbingly, sometimes just bizarrely – made me realize I play it too safe. That feeling stupid in front of a pile of neon tubes? That’s part of it. Sketching while feeling queasy or exhausted? Those sketches feel more real now. It wasn’t about finding answers, it was about smashing my usual routine and seeing what stuck.
Now my sketchbook looks like a chaotic mess of canal water splotches, anxious Basel scribbles, and surprisingly focused Kassel observations. Not polished. Raw. And maybe that’s the point. Sometimes inspiration looks like green vomit, a stomach ache, and sore feet.
