Jakub Jansa occupies a singular position in contemporary art, navigating the intersections of cinematic narrative, immersive installation, and live performance. His practice is characterized by a discerning and often unsettling sensibility that sits in direct dialogue with the legacy of Mike Kelley’s dark deconstructions of childhood nostalgia and institutional folklore, combined with the manic, multi-layered, and hyper-mediated video landscapes reminiscent of Ryan Trecartin. Through this unique lens, Jansa interrogates the invisible mechanisms of social stratification, institutional dynamics, and the pervasive ideologies governing human coexistence. This year, together with the artist duo Selmeci Kocka Jusko, he represents the shared Czech and Slovak Pavilion at the Venice Biennale, with the project The Silence of the Mole, curated by Peter Sit.
Utilizing a sophisticated lexicon of speculative fiction, subversive humor, and the grotesque, Jansa anchors his meticulously staged hybrid environments in contemporary sociology to expose the inherent fragility of systemic constructs and has established himself as one of the leading voices in Central European contemporary art. The 2026 presentation at the Venice Biennale marks a historic milestone: the 100th anniversary of the official Czech and Slovak pavilion. Following this success, we sat down with Jansa to discuss his creative process, the role of humor in deconstructing power structures, and the importance of political art at the Biennale stage.
Through this unique lens, Jansa interrogates the invisible mechanisms of social stratification, institutional dynamics, and the pervasive ideologies governing human coexistence.
The Silence of the Mole
This centenary edition provides an impactful backdrop for Jakub Jansa’s site-specific installation, The Silence of the Mole. The project stands as a testament to rigorous interdisciplinary collaboration, featuring bespoke, sculptural musical instruments called “vozembouch”, developed in tandem with the artistic duo Selmeci Kocka Jusko and Plátna Studio. These tactile objects operate as physical extensions of the pavilion’s overarching sonic landscape.
At the epicenter of the installation is a cinematic work examining the “abduction of imagination” by mechanisms of soft power. Situated within the sterile, high-stakes environments of cultural diplomacy and national representation, the film follows Mr. M — an aging performer whose career has been defined by his portrayal of the iconic “Mole,” an archetype deeply embedded in Czechoslovak collective memory.
Communicating through a reduced, gestural vocabulary and folk-inspired percussion, Mr. M embodies an uncorrupted realm of interiority and empathy. This private sanctuary of imagination is abruptly fractured when he is conscripted into the service of state representation, crystallizing the acute tension between autonomous individual creativity and its co-optation by institutional utility.
Executed with exceptional production fidelity, the film unites a specialized crew to realize Jansa’s meticulous vision. The central motif of “falling silent” is sonically articulated through a haunting score by Oliver Torr, while the cinematography of Tomáš Kotas masterfully captures the visual transition from intimate fantasy to the sterile, calculated reality of the global stage. The protagonist’s psychological landscape is further externalized through a striking, textile-based costume designed by Karolína Juříková, anchoring this profound exploration of cultural memory and systemic pressure in the material world.
Aleksandra Lisek: Your work often functions as a social laboratory. Where do you find the drive to engage in this kind of fictional world-building, specifically when dealing with the complex politics of contemporary power hierarchies?
Jakub Jansa: That is a complex and multilayered question. Essentially, my creative process is an extension of my life as an artist and the various operations I navigate within the art system. I don’t view fiction as something separate from reality; rather, anything I experience — especially the bureaucratic and social pressures of a high-stakes commission like the Venice Pavilion — directly affects my thinking. I implement these real-world stories and systemic frustrations into the narrative. In this way, the work functions as a container that absorbs every interaction, every obstacle, and every observation I gather along the way. World-building becomes a method for processing the actual operations of power that I am currently a part of.
Essentially, my creative process is an extension of my life as an artist and the various operations I navigate within the art system.
AL: I’m particularly interested in your use of humor, the grotesque, and absurdity as tools to explore class dynamics. Does the absurd allow you to expose the fragility of social systems in a way that traditional political discourse simply cannot achieve?
JJ: I believe humor is one of the most essential weapons we have for resistance. It is not just about making people laugh; it is a tool for liberation. Humor allows you to overcome things that are significantly larger than yourself — systems that can feel overwhelming or crushing to your basic human experience. When you utilize the grotesque, you strip away the self-serious veneer of power. It allows you to expose the cracks and the inherent fragility of these social systems. Traditional political talk often gets bogged down in the same structures it tries to critique, but humor can sidestep those rules. So yes, I use humor as a weapon to reclaim a sense of agency. But be careful with humor. On the other hand, it can also become a tool of normalization.
Humor allows you to overcome things that are significantly larger than yourself — systems that can feel overwhelming or crushing to your basic human experience.
AL: Regarding The Silence of the Mole, the character Mr. M finds his performance failing once it is moved from an intimate setting to the grand, globalized stage of the Biennale. Could you elaborate on the “silence” that occurs when a private, imaginative language is suddenly forced to serve a larger institutional system?
JJ: We are really asking whether silence is a sign of intentional disagreement or a symptom of failure. This is a question deeply rooted in our regional history, where many have lived under intense geopolitical pressure. Historically, we have been forced to ask ourselves: should we speak or should we remain silent? Many were never given the choice and were forced into silence. In this project, the Mole character translates that collective experience into a performance. Eventually, the very instruments he uses to communicate begin to withdraw from the situation. They go silent, and in doing so, they destabilize the entire experience on the stage. It creates a moment of profound self-reflection for the character and the viewer alike, ending with an open question about the nature of representation.
AL: Can you tell us more about the genesis of Mr. M? How does he relate to the cultural history of the region?
JJ: Mr. M is based on the famous Czechoslovak character from the animated movie The Little Mole from the 1960s, while also drawing from the existential weight found in the works of Franz Kafka. The Little Mole was a major cultural export, sent all over the world, including to places like China. We took this universally recognized, “harmless” figure and transformed him into an aging performer who has been trapped in that role his entire life. We chose him because he is so understandable in a political context. He is an innocent, safe figure that an institution would naturally select for something like a Biennale because he appears non-threatening. Watching that innocence get entangled in the mechanisms of soft power is the heart of the story.
AL: Your collaboration with Selmeci Kocka Jusko and Plátna Studio resulted in sculptural musical instruments. How did these physical interventions help define the sonic and visual landscape of the pavilion?
JJ: The exhibition is carefully balanced between the film and the physical sculptures. The artists from Selmeci Kocka Jusko conducted deep research into the folk instrument traditions of Czech and Slovak culture. They took those traditional forms and translated them into abstract, sculptural pieces — almost like a “Little Tower” of cultural craft. These aren’t just props; they represent the heritage that the character is carrying with him. They define the visual world by grounding the fiction in something tangible and historically resonant. They also designed the pavilion’s architectural installation, conceived as the remains of the Mole’s burrow.
AL: Do these sculptural objects dictate the narrative of the film, or does the story demand the creation of these specific “failed” instruments?
JJ: It was a mutual dialogue. They collaborated on a very specific set of instruments that appear in the film, which the Mole uses for his performance. In the film’s narrative, these instruments are almost like characters themselves — they are his friends, and he has a kind of inner dialogue with them. So, there are two distinct layers: the instruments in the film that have a “voice” and a relationship with Mr. M, and the static sculptures in the pavilion space that represent the silence following his collapse.
AL: What do you hope the audience discovers about their own role in these hierarchies after witnessing Mr. M’s collapse?
JJ: I think the film forces the audience to confront a choice. After seeing what happens to Mr. M, they have to decide for themselves: will they stay silent? Is silence a form of resistance, a weapon you use when you refuse to participate, or is it a failure to act when action is required? The message is really about that personal decision-making process within a larger system.
I think the film forces the audience to confront a choice. After seeing what happens to Mr. M, they have to decide for themselves: will they stay silent?
AL: In the context of the Biennale, which is inherently a political stage, do you feel an ethical responsibility to create “political art,” or is this purely a personal observation of social structures?
JJ: We feel an enormous sense of responsibility, and with that comes many dilemmas. To be honest, at the beginning, we weren’t even sure if we wanted to apply for the Pavilion. The weight of representing a nation on such a stage felt like a burden we weren’t sure how to handle. But we eventually decided to move forward because we realized that if we didn’t take this space to say something meaningful, the position would simply be occupied by someone from “the other side” who might not question these structures at all. We spent a long time debating the morality of the project and our responsibility to the current political moment.
