happen.The result, instead, is boring, to say the least. Forget the utopian dimension that dos Anjos envisioned from the verses of Jorge de Lima, whose Invention of Orpheus sings of "the power to sail on, even without ships, / even without waves and sand". Forget experimentation and forget risk. But please don't get it wrong: when Rina Carvajal announced in November 2009 that the Biennial was going to take up the relations of art and politics, I'm sure she could not have foreseen the dispersal and misplacement of artists and their worksworks that, in context, could have offered a compelling, even revisionary understanding of the complex ideas and influences that preceded what today passes as "political art." And I'm almost convinced that the contributions of Chus Martinez would have made clear the direction of those routes and openings that talented artists such as Jonathas de Andrade, Tobias Putrih, Mario Garcia Torres, Tamar Guimaraes or Antonio Vega Macotela could only manage to insinuate, individually, in this general confusion.In truth, there was enough to have "an extraordinary Biennial," as Carvajal had dreamed of, but not enough to make sense of it. A purpose, a direction, or a clear idea of how to relate artists, artworks, times, and places to one another was missing. And the 29th SP Biennial really has it all: from wonderful terreiros (meeting places) with a variety of functions to art-fair-style, monumentally ugly-tacky sculptures; from political manifestos to social documentaries; from opportunist trivialities to philosophical conundrums; from porno-misery to graffiti; from anthropological entertainment to psycho-poetry; from light shows to poetic pedagogy. It was all there together, leveled, as if in an art fair, without purpose and without sense; loosely framed, instead, between Flavio de Carvalho's revelation ("All of the ideas here exposed, all of the conclusions reached, are attempts to attain a supposed truth... an illusory phenomenon imperceptible to the naked eye") and Anri Sala's predicament via The Clash (Should I Stay or Should I Go?).There are also "political scandals," some more entertaining than others. The one instigated by Roberto Jacoby's work, a sort of electoral office managed by an Argentine Brigade for Dilma Rousseff, the Workers' Party candidate to the Brazilian presidency, threatens to be milked until the end of the Biennial. According to the Biennial Foundation, a report by the Electoral Attorney General's office considered the work to be "an electoral offense," breaking the law that prohibits "the transmission of propaganda of any nature" in places run by public authorities. Agnaldo Farias declared to the press: "We can not contest the court ruling because we even run the risk of going to jail. If we had known in advance that the work dealt with Dilma, we would have warned the artist, because we'd have known there would be problems." Consequently, the work was covered from view, literally censored from the exhibition. As for the curator's claim not to have known the nature of the work: he could have seen it perfectly reproduced in his Biennial's catalogue and its website.The apparent paradox that this situation has happened within the context