It’s 3AM on the opening weekend of the 2026 Venice Biennale, and I am being screamed at in Italian by a manic lady wearing a sailor costume as I barge and elbow my way through a drunken swarm of Biennalistas all trying to board a pirate ship that looks like a floating K-hole.
To the average person, this might sound like a stressful situation. Yet I am a career gatecrasher, and I am back in my happy place.
In 2024, before attending my first Venice Biennale, I had very little idea of what to expect from the art world’s most luxurious (and naughtiest) calendar event. I arrived on a wing and a prayer, prepared for sun, culture, and relaxation. I wound up face down in a canal, alcohol curdling into regret in my bloodstream.
Effectively, I had invaded a week-long orgy of booze, drugs, and sex held for the global cultural elite. At one point, I climbed over gondolas and under bushes to break into the Armani party via the Gritti Palace’s canal terrace, shivering with adrenaline as I watched a less fortunate crasher pinned to the ground by muscle-bound security. In the rain, I joined a horde of art-world hangers on in scaling the walls of an abandoned airport to see Honey Dijon play the Rick Owens / Michelle Lamy HUN80 party. Inside, Armenian ketamine circulated the dancefloor in glass vials, and a food truck served scrambled eggs and caviar as people danced to techno remixes of Chaka Khan. Björk DJed the party at the Icelandic Pavilion, where everyone wore leather gimp masks, only removing them to smash coke huddled in the dark concrete corners of the Venetian Arsenale.
Fast forward two years, and I’m ready to do it all over again.
For those who don’t know, the Biennale is the Olympics of the art world. An artist(s) represents a country, the countries compete to win the coveted Golden Lion prize, blah blah blah. Its prestige and the allure of the Venetian lagoon suck into the event’s orbit an array of “satellite” exhibitions and, most importantly, parties. Everybody who’s somebody (rich and/or desperate) from the art world extended universe gathers here in one big wet congealed ball of networking and neurosis (this year sponsored by Bulgari).
The first rule of the Biennale is that you don’t go to experience art, you go to experience money. And where there is money, there is always delicious, drug-fueled descent. Any good party requires roots in ritual gathering (here, the worship of art), and its holy ground of transcendence (here, a preserved renaissance city slowly crumbling into the bruised teal waters that support it). As the armature for a free music festival shrouded in mystery and funded by rich people, what more could you ask for?
Oh, and somehow everyone is hot.
This year’s Biennale lived up to its notoriety. There was certainly no shortage of parties. Exclusivity increased: it didn’t matter if you were on the list (everyone was on the list) it mattered how well you begged, borrowed, or stole (including glasses that disappeared down into designer bags). Björk made her bi-annual appearance, this year wearing a bright pink fiberglass Bottega Veneta costume that looked like a big penis. A large gay American man gave me a global cruising guide in a sequestered lemon grove while I gorged on strawberries trying to cure my hangover, before an afternoon spent throwing lemons around an abandoned palazzo.
As the media dust slowly settles on this year’s event, amid the onslaught of articles and diaries (that no one actually reads) pumped into the digital ether by the art world’s relentless yet inconsequential PR machine, I bring you… (jazz-) another (-hands). But, instead of boasting of the spoils of my secret cultural infiltration, and listing the names of things and people you have (definitely) never heard of (which I will probably do), I’m going to tell you why, and how, you should break into the Biennale, if it ever takes your fancy.
Why do you want to be there?
People lie. Money does buy happiness and money does buy fun. Who said it had to be your money? Everything’s free once you’re in (including alcohol and drugs). Art-world parties go harder than you think: someone once told me art deals aren’t made in offices, but in toilet cubicles. I can confirm this is true (get networking, girlie). You can party all night long then waddle around all day, Aperol in hand, cigarette in mouth, art on wall, hot boy round corner, late-night walks home through city streets soaked by pink stained lamp light.
Sounds pretty good, right?
How do you get in?
If I’m not supposed to be somewhere, then I have to be inside. If you add me to a guestlist, there’s a 50 percent chance I’ll come. If you refuse me, there’s a 100 percent chance I’ll come. With some mild intelligence, a loose network of associates, some basic Gmail identity fraud, and a pair of oversized black-out sunglasses, no palazzo or open bar is off limits.
Difficulty: easy — Bypass the list
The person on the door is always highly stressed. You have leverage. You could be (YOU ARE) someone important… Try name roulette: pick any art-world It girl/boy and try your luck (I watched a journalist successfully use “Jay Joplin” and there was at least one girl at every party using “Chloe Wise”). Or, mumble an unintelligible name under your breath—repeat until they give up and hand you the guestlist, then point at any name that isn’t crossed out already.
Alternatively, just confuse the door person until it’s easier for them to let you in than to continue the conversation. Demand your entry. Plead your case. You belong inside.
Difficulty: medium — Physical break-in
This approach is high energy, high risk, and high adrenaline. Security is lax. There’s always a way under (foliage, legs), over (fences, walls) or through (back doors). Requires some bravado and dexterity. Easier when drunk.
Difficulty: hard — Get your name on the list
Requires pre-meditation and strategy. Create a character (collector/gallerist/artist/journalist). Create a reason. Email PRs, galleries, and foundations. Make up a fake article if you have to (I have never ever done this). Or, once on the island: befriend PRs/ beg to be someone’s +1/schmooze that name onto the list. I believe in you.
Difficulty: high-risk — Identity fraud (requires intel)
Get access to the original email invite and fraud your own. There are ways to make this seem authentic… I’ll leave you to work that out. Alternatively, find the name of the person(s) running the party. Change a friend’s WhatsApp contact name to theirs. Earlier in the day, fabricate a conversation inviting you to the party. You might not be on the list, but you should be. Boom. Be a diva. These methods require negotiation skills and confidence, and come with relative risk. Not for the faint hearted.
Difficulty: long game — Become a journalist
Oh I know you want to be one of the diary girlies writing for insert name of slowly collapsing print magazine.The system is flawed and easy to manipulate. You don’t have to be a good writer, but you do (I think) have to be hot. Coverage is currency. Get some commissions from magazines to heighten your validity. Write a few ego-stroking articles (it’s all anyone will publish anyway). The more you (metaphorically and sometimes literally) wank off PRs and galleries, the more dinners and parties you will be invited to. Bish bash bosh.
TIP: This is a game of access. Information = power. I’ve broken in with a little and I’ve broken in with a lot, but you need at least some intel (bare minimum, addresses). All it takes is finding one person in the know. You have two years until the next one to locate them.
BONUS FEATURE: Biggest Biennale Crash-Out of 2026
And the award goes too….
As the HMS K-hole approached the dock, a lady gripping a clip board wearing a sailor hat and bejeweled Gok Wan-esque belt prepared for her career-defining role: pirate-ship lock-in door girlie for a certain “Brazilian-founded global gallery empire.”
Already nearing her limit of intoxication (the party started at 2AM), Sailor Socialite—let’s call her “Mel”—tried her darnedest to process the (actually very composed) mob, but the scene descended into chaos as barely anyone was allowed in/on. People jumped through portholes, threw beer bottles at the boat, and fought to the front of the crowd—at one point almost pushing Mel into the water as she pleaded with God. She paced the dock like a panicked Apprentice contestant, screaming and reveling in her feigned authority (reports from the boat suggest she was guzzling unknown substances via a nasal spray inhaler). As the crowd watched in befuddlement, we slowly realized we weren’t there to party… We were merely the captive audience, orchestrated to bear witness to Mel’s power play fantasy colliding with the erratic nature of Italian events planning. As always folks, all the world is a stage, and men and women merely players. I hope Mel knows she is a star (I want to make her a star).
This person went to extreme lengths to clamber aboard. They failed:
BONUS TIP:
While powders seem readily available across the lagoon, the presence of weed remains a mystery. Thankfully, Venice operates according to a heightened law of manifestation, where both tangible objects and less tangible aspirations can be conjured. In 2024, I approached a lone man standing in the middle of Piazza San Marco in the middle of the night. He turned to me and opened an ornate wooden box bursting with weed. This year, on my final night, it arrived by way of an apparition (recently divorced Irish man with anxious border collie).
Anything is possible if you dream hard enough…
Follow Billy on Instagram @billymparker
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