‘This Handbook not only re-thinks and re-conceptualizes the dimensions of global cultural

policy studies, but also documents up-to-date policy cases from global north to global
south.’
—Anthony Fung, Professor, The Chinese University of Hong Kong
and Beijing Normal University, China

‘Research and scholarship in cultural policy has grown in recent years alongside a continu-
ing expansion in the interpretation of the concept at a practical policy-making level. How
do these developments play out in an increasingly globalised world? This volume brings
together a wide range of original essays that consider the political, economic, sociological
and cultural dimensions of cultural policy in a context of globalisation and international
cultural relations. The contributors are drawn from a variety of disciplines, intellectual tra-
ditions and geographical origins. Based on a thoughtful division of the subject matter into
coherent sections, and edited by acknowledged leaders in the field, the book will appeal to
scholars, researchers and policy-makers concerned about culture and policy in international
affairs today.’
—David Throsby, Distinguished Professor of Economics, Macquarie University, Australia

‘A must-have for any arts and culture scholar, this book provides a walkthrough of the
“weird, wired world” of cultural policies around the globe, plus a foundational survey of
their roots, theories and practices, from the field’s chief protagonists.’
—Abigail Gilmore, Senior Lecturer, Arts Management and
Cultural Policy, University of Manchester, UK
This page intentionally left blank
 The Routledge Handbook
of Global Cultural Policy

Cultural policy intersects with political, economic, and socio-cultural dynamics at all l­evels
of society, placing high and often contradictory expectations on the capabilities and c­ apacities
of the media, the fine, performing, and folk arts, and cultural heritage. These expectations
are articulated, mobilised and contested at – and across – a global scale. As a result, the study
of cultural policy has firmly established itself as a field that cuts across a range of academic
disciplines, including sociology, cultural and media studies, economics, anthro­pology, area
studies, languages, geography, and law. This Routledge Handbook of Global Cultural Policy sets
out to broaden the field’s consideration to recognise the necessity for international and global
perspectives.
The book explores how cultural policy has become a global phenomenon. It brings
­together a diverse range of researchers whose work reveals how cultural policy expresses and
realises common global concerns, dominant narratives, and geopolitical economic and s­ocial
inequalities. The sections of the book address cultural policy’s relation to core academic
­d isciplines and core questions, of regulations, rights, development, practice, and global issues.
With a cross-section of country-by-country case studies, this comprehensive volume is a
map for academics and students seeking to become more globally orientated cultural policy
scholars.

Victoria Durrer is Lecturer in Arts Management and Cultural Policy at Queen’s U

­ niversity
Belfast, Northern Ireland, UK.

Toby Miller is Director of the Institute for Media and Creative Industries, Loughborough
University London, UK.

Dave O’Brien is Chancellor’s Fellow in Cultural and Creative Industries at the

­University of Edinburgh, UK.
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The Routledge Handbook
of Global Cultural Policy

Edited by Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller

and Dave O’Brien
First published 2018
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2018 selection and editorial matter, Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller,
and Dave O’Brien; individual chapters, the contributors
The right of Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller, and Dave O’Brien to be
identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for
their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections
77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced
or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other
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recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks
or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Durrer, Victoria, editor. | Miller, Toby, editor. | O’Brien, Dave, editor.
Title: The Routledge handbook of global cultural policy / edited by
Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller, and Dave O’Brien.
Description: New York: Routledge, 2018. | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017011463 | ISBN 9781138857827 (hardback) |
ISBN 9781315718408 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Cultural policy. | Globalization—Social aspects.
Classification: LCC HM621 .R686 2018 | DDC 303.48/2—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017011463

ISBN: 978-1-138-85782-7 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-315-71840-8 (ebk)
Typeset in Bembo
by codeMantra
 Contents

List of figures xi
List of tables xii
List of contributors xiii

1 Towards global cultural policy studies 1

Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

PART I
Situating cultural policy 17

2 Cultural policy in political science research 19

Jonathan Paquette and Devin Beauregard

3 Cultural economics, innovation and intellectual property 33

Nicola C. Searle

4 Sociology and cultural policy 50

David Wright

5 The relationship between cultural policy and arts management 64

Victoria Durrer

PART II
Regulating cultural policy 87

6 Regulating cultural goods and identities across borders 89

J.P. Singh

7 No exceptions: cultural policy in the era of free trade agreements 102

Graham Murdock and Eun-Kyoung Choi

8 Intellectual property as cultural policy 122

Siva Vaidhyanathan

vii
Contents

9 Cultural policy between and beyond nation-states: the case of

lusofonia and the Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa 133
Carla Figueira

10 Cultural governance and cultural policy: hegemonic myth

and political logics 148
Jeremy Valentine

PART III
Rights and cultural policy 165

11 Disabled people and culture: creating inclusive global

cultural policies 167
Anne-Marie Callus and Amy Camilleri-Zahra

12 Minority languages, cultural policy and minority language media:

the conflicting value of the ‘one language–one nation’ idea 181
Enrique Uribe-Jongbloed and Abiodun Salawu

13 Cultural policy in Northern Ireland: making cultural policy

for a divided society 195
Phil Ramsey and Bethany Waterhouse-Bradley

PART IV
Practice and cultural policy 213

14 The art collection of the United Nations: origins, institutional

framework and ongoing tensions 215
Mafalda Dâmaso

15 Exporting culture: the Confucius Institute and China’s smart

power strategy 233
Tony Tai-Ting Liu

16 From arts desert to global ­cultural metropolis: the (re)branding

of ­Shanghai and Hong Kong 247
Kristina Karvelyte

17 Making cultural work v­ isible in cultural policy 265

Roberta Comunian and Bridget Conor

18 Fringe to famous: enabling and popularising cultural ­innovation

in Australia 281
Mark Gibson, Tony Moore and Maura Edmond

viii
 Contents

19 Inside out: the role of ‘­audience research’ in cultural ­policies

in the United States 299
Jennifer L. Novak-Leonard

20 Considering the ­second-order health effects of arts e­ ngagement

in relation to cultural policy 309
Rebecca Gordon-Nesbitt

PART V
Global issues, regional cultural policy 325

21 Inequalities: when ­culture becomes a capital 327

Laurie Hanquinet

22 Cultural policy and c­ reative industries 341

Susan Luckman

23 Too-explicit cultural policy: rethinking cultural and creative

industry policies in Hong Kong 355
Louis Ho

24 Cultural policy and mega-events 365

Beatriz Garcia

25 The challenges of the new ­media scene for public policies 382

George Yúdice

26 Uniting the nations of ­Europe? exploring the European Union’s

cultural policy agenda 397
Kate Mattocks

PART VI
Development and cultural policy 415

27 The international politics of the nexus ‘culture and development’:

four policy agendas for whom and for what? 417
Antonios Vlassis

28 Reimagining development in times of crises: cultural policies,

social imagination, and the creative economy in
Puerto Rico 430
Mareia Quintero Rivera and Javier J. Hernández Acosta

ix
Contents

29 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan and a case

of the T
­ aiwanese film industry in a ­creative industries model 449
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

30 Uneasy alliances: popular music and cultural policy in the ‘music city’ 468
Catherine Strong, Shane Homan, Seamus O’Hanlon and John Tebbutt

PART VII
The nation state and cultural policy 483

31 Cultural policy in India: an oxymoron? 485

Yudhishthir Raj Isar

32 From Cultural Revolution to cultural engineering: cultural policy

in post-Revolutionary Iran 503
Ali Akbar Tajmazinani

33 K-pop female idols: culture industry, neoliberal social policy,

and governmentality in Korea 520
Gooyong Kim

34 ‘Regeneration’ in Britain: measuring the outcomes of cultural

activity in the 21st century 538
Peter Campbell and Tamsin Cox

35 Japanese cultural policy, nation branding and the creative city 558
Tomoko Tamari

36 Cultural policy and the power of place, South Africa 577

Rike Sitas

PART VIII
Conclusions 595

37 The light touch: the Nigerian movie industry in a low

policy environment 597
Jade L. Miller

38 The political career of the culture concept 607

Tony Bennett

Index 621

x
 Figures

6.1 Frequency of terms ‘national identity’ and ‘cultural identity’ in Google Ngrams 91
12.1 Campaign by Plataforma per la llengua 182
23.1 Number of participants of cultural and entertainment activities organised
by the Leisure and Cultural Services Department (2002–2014) 361
23.2 Number of students enrolled in humanities, art, design and performing arts
(1997–2013) 362
24.1 Types of special event from a tourism point of view 366
24.2 Iconic images: bridging local and global narratives in Mexico 1968 372
24.3 Visual representation of ‘Olympic Experience’ components 376
24.4 ‘Inspired by 2012’ as a referent for non-commercial Olympic branding 377
28.1 The cultural ecosystem pyramid 442
28.2 A strategy for the creative industries 443
28.3 Sustainable creative economy index 445
29.1 Model of public subsidy system before creative industries policy 463
29.2 Model of public subsidy system after creative industries policy 463
35.1 Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision 568
36.1 Theatre in the Backyard 586
36.2 Harare Academy of Inspiration Programme 587

xi
 Tables

15.1 China real GDP growth 2000–2013 (%) 234

1 5.2 Number of Confucius Institutes and Confucius Classrooms 236
17.1 Data extracted from HESA (2015) to highlight specific trends for creative
disciplines 269
20.1 Comparative table of studies in the evidence base 318
29.1 Creative industries seminars in 2000, 2001, and 2002 452
29.2 Two film industry projects in creative industries model 458
29.3 Domestic market shares of Taiwanese cinema in Taiwan (cumulative total
of Taipei City box office) from 2006 to 2011 459
29.4 Transition of the public subsidy and investment system 460
32.1 Main cultural policy developments in post-Revolution era 510

xii
 Contributors

Devin Beauregard is Doctor of Public Administration from the School of Political Studies
of the University of Ottawa in Canada. His postdoctoral work includes cultural policy in a
digital age and cultural policy and minorities.

Tony Bennett  is Research Professor in Social and Cultural Theory in the Institute for
Culture and Society at the University of Western Sydney. He is a member of the Australian
Academy of the Humanities and of the Academy of the Social Sciences in the UK. His main
books include Formalism and Marxism (1979), Bond and Beyond: The Political Career of a Popular
Hero (1987, with Janet Woollacott), Outside Literature (1991), The Birth of the Museum (1995),
Culture: A Reformer’s Science (1998), Pasts beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums, Colonialism
(2004), and Making Culture, Changing Society (2013).

Anne-Marie Callus is Senior Lecturer at the Department of Disability Studies, Faculty for
Social Wellbeing, University of Malta. She obtained her PhD at the Centre for Disability
Studies, University of Leeds in 2011. Her research subject was the self-advocacy movement of
people with intellectual disability in Malta. Among other subjects, she lectures and researches
on the cultural representations of disabled people, and issues of rights and empowerment
especially for persons with intellectual disability. She has worked in the disability sectors in
Wales and in Malta since 1994. Prior to her appointment as a lecturer, she worked in special
and inclusive education, community-based services, development of disability policy and
research about disability issues. From 2010 to 2013 she was the Executive Director of the
National Commission Persons with Disability, Malta’s disability anti-discrimination body.

Peter Campbell is Lecturer in Sociology and Social Policy at the University of Liverpool.
His research to date has focused upon cultural policy and on attempts to align culture and
creativity with processes of socioeconomic urban regeneration. In addition to doctoral re-
search studying political discourse and activity regarding the ‘creative industries’ and their
broader social role, he has worked on evaluation of the European Capital of Culture research
programme and the London 2012 Cultural Olympiad.

Eun-Kyoung Choi is Lecturer and Executive Researcher of Institute for East Asian Studies
at Sungkonghoe University, Seoul, Republic of Korea. Her MA and PhD degrees in the
communication and media departments are from Goldsmiths University of London and
Loughborough University, UK. Her research interests include political economy of commu-
nications, new media studies and Asian broadcasting.

xiii
Contributors

Roberta Comunian is Lecturer in Creative and Cultural Industries at the Department of Cul-
ture, Media and Creative Industries, King’s College London. She recently published an edited
collection on Higher Education and the Creative Economy (Routledge, 2016) and numerous papers on
creative graduate careers in the UK. She is interested in the relationship between public and pri-
vate investments in the arts, art and cultural regeneration projects, creativity and competitiveness.

Bridget Conor  is Senior Lecturer in Culture, Media and Creative Industries at King’s
College London. Most recently, she edited and contributed to Gender and Creative Labour
(with Professor Rosalind Gill and Dr Stephanie Taylor, 2015). Her research interests include
cultural labour, screen production policymaking and inequalities in the cultural industries.

Tamsin Cox is Head of Policy and Research at DHA and an Honorary Research Fellow
in the School of Sociology, Social Policy and Criminology at the University of Liverpool.
She has undertaken a range of work with funding bodies, local authorities, organisations,
networks, and events.

Mafalda Dâmaso is a PhD candidate in Visual Culture at Goldsmiths, University of London.

Her thesis analyses the visual rhetoric of the United Nations. Her research interests also in-
clude contemporary art and international relations and, increasingly, culture and development.

Victoria Durrer is Lecturer in Arts Management and Cultural Policy at Queen’s ­University
Belfast. She is Co-founder of the Cultural Policy Observatory Ireland and an Arts and
­Humanities Research Council, UK – funded research network, Brokering Intercultural
Exchange: Interrogating the Role of Arts and Cultural Management. Her research focuses
on cultural policy design and delivery, the social processes of cultural production and en-
gagement within institutional settings, the socialisation of arts managers and cultural policy
makers and issues of inclusion within the arts and cultural sector.

Maura Edmond is a Research Fellow in the School of Media, Film and Journalism, Monash
University, Australia. She has written about arts and culture for a range of ­Australian publica-
tions and cultural organisations. Her research has been published in New Media and S ­ ociety, TV
and New Media, Screening the Past, Media International Australia, Senses of Cinema and elsewhere.

Carla Figueira is the Director of the MA in Cultural Policy, Relations and Diplomacy and
of the MA in Tourism and Cultural Policy at the Institute for Creative and Cultural Entrepre-
neurship, Goldsmiths, University of London. Carla is an International Relations graduate of the
Instituto Superior de Ciências Sociais e Políticas, Universidade Técnica de Lisboa (Portugal), she
moved to London after a career in arts management. In the UK, she went on to gain an MA in
Arts Management (City University, UK, Chevening Scholar) and a PhD in Cultural Policy and
Management (City University, UK, Praxis XXI Scholar). Her research interests include interna-
tional cultural relations, cultural diplomacy, cultural policy, language policy, and lusofonia.

Beatriz Garcia is Head of Research at the Institute of Cultural Capital, University of

­Liverpool. She has led international research on the cultural impact and legacy of large-scale
urban interventions since 1998, specialising on the local and global cultural policy implica-
tions of Olympic Games and the European Capital of Culture Programme. She is the author
of The Olympic Games and Cultural Policy (Routledge, 2012), chartering 100 years of Games
cultural programming, and European Capitals of Culture: Success Factors and Long-term Effects
(European Parliament, 2013), documenting the programme’s first 30 years in operation.
xiv
 Contributors

Mark Gibson is Associate Professor of Communications and Media Studies in the School
of Media, Film and Journalism at Monash University, Australia. He is author of Culture and
Power – A History of Cultural Studies (Berg, 2007) and has published widely on cultural and
creative industries, media practices and cultural geography. His research interests include cul-
tural economies, the history of communication and cultural studies and suburban cultures.

Rebecca Gordon-Nesbitt is based at King’s College London, UK. She is Researcher for
an Inquiry instigated by the All-Party Parliamentary Group on Arts, Health and Wellbeing.
She obtained her PhD in Sociology from the University of Strathclyde in 2012 and published
a study of the cultural policy of the Cuban Revolution in 2015. Her research interests include
the social value of the arts and culture and the underlying politics and economics.

Laurie Hanquinet is Senior Lecturer in Sociology at the University of York. Her work has
focused on tastes, art museum visitors, cultural participation and inequalities. She is the au-
thor of Du musée aux pratiques culturelles. Enquête sur les publics de musée d’art moderne et contempo-
rain (2014-Editions de l’Université de Bruxelles) and the editor of The Routledge International
Handbook of the Sociology of Culture and Art (2016) with Mike Savage.

Javier J. Hernández Acosta is Director of the Business Administration Department and

Assistant Professor on Entrepreneurship and Marketing at Universidad del Sagrado Corazón
in Puerto Rico. He earned a PhD in Entrepreneurship and Managerial Development at the
Interamerican University of Puerto Rico; he has published in several books and journals on
topics such as cultural policy and creative entrepreneurship. He is also an advisor for creative
industries policies in Puerto Rico. 

Louis Ho  is Research Assistant Professor at the Department of Humanities and Creative
Writing, Hong Kong Baptist University. He was previously Programme Leader of Cultural
Studies and Communication Programme and Visual Arts Programme at the Community
College at Lingnan University. He received his PhD in Humanities and Creative Writing
from Hong Kong Baptist University. Beyond the university, he has continued to participate
in various arts and cultural organisations by serving as board member of 1a Space, a local
influential art organisation, and Renaissance Foundation Hong Kong. His research interests
include cultural policy studies, cultural and creative industries, creative labour, museum and
museology, and visual arts.

Shane Homan is Associate Professor of media and cultural studies at the School of Media,
Film and Journalism at Monash University, Australia and is currently leading the Australian
Research Council project ‘Interrogating the Music City: pop and the cultural economy of
Melbourne’. He has commissioned reports on the Australian music industries; in 2015 he was
involved in reviewing the Victorian Government’s Music Works program of popular music
infrastructure and funding. His most recent book is Popular Music Industries and the State:
Policy Notes (Routledge, 2016) with Martin Cloonan and Jen Cattermole.

Yudhishthir Raj Isar is Professor of Cultural Policy Studies at The American University of
Paris, founder-editor of the ‘Cultures and Globalization Series’ (SAGE) and author of many
scholarly articles and edited volumes on a wide range of cultural policy issues across the
world. He is also currently Education Director of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture. Between
2011 and 2016 he was Eminent Research Visitor and Adjunct Professor at the Institute for
Culture and Society, Western Sydney University.
xv
Contributors

Kristina Karvelyte is a Visiting Researcher at the Research Institute for the Humanities
and Social Sciences, National Taiwan University. She recently completed her PhD at the
School of Media and Communication, University of Leeds, UK. Her work looked at mo-
bility and transformation of the ‘creative city’ policies – particularly at large-scale cultural
events – in Shanghai, Hong Kong and Taipei. Kristina’s research interests revolve around
Chinese cities, creative cities, large-scale cultural events, urban cultural policies in East Asia
and policy transfer/mobility.

Gooyong Kim  is an Assistant Professor of Communication Arts at the Department of

­English, Languages, and Communication Arts in Cheyney University of Pennsylvania, Cheyney,
PA, USA. He obtained his PhD in Cultural/Media Studies from the University of California,
Los Angeles (UCLA), in 2010. His research interests include Critical/Cultural Studies, Media
Studies, Media Aesthetics/ Criticism, Media Literacy, Political Economy of the Media, Philos-
ophy of Technology, Cultural Politics of Neoliberalism, and Social Movements. He is finalising
a book manuscript, From Factory Girls to K-Pop Idol Girls: Cultural Politics of Developmentalism,
­Confucianism, and Neoliberalism in Korean Popular Music Industry, which examines how Korean
popular music has become a dominant socio-cultural phenomenon since the late 1990.

Yu-Peng Lin  is a PhD Candidate in Film and Television studies, the University of
­Nottingham, UK; he is a member of Campaign for Media Reform [CMR] in Taiwan. His
research interest includes informal distribution of media, cultural policy and film industry.

Tony Tai-Ting Liu is Associate Research Fellow at the Center for Contemporary China
Studies, National Chung Hsing University, Taiwan. He was a visiting researcher at the Insti-
tute for Social Justice, Australian Catholic University. He is the author of a dozen journal ar-
ticles and book chapters in English and Chinese. His research interests include International
Relations Theory, International Political Economy, and East Asia international relations
with a focus on China, Japan and Taiwan.

Susan Luckman is Professor of Cultural Studies and Associate Director of the Hawke EU
Centre, University of South Australia. She is the author of Craft and the Creative Economy
(2015) and Locating Cultural Work (2012), and co-editor of The New Normal of Working Lives:
Critical Studies in Contemporary Work and Employment (2018), Craft Economies (2018), and Sonic
Synergies: Music, Identity, Technology and Community (2008).

Kate Mattocks is a teaching fellow in the Department of History & Politics at Liverpool
Hope University. She completed her doctoral research, which examined cultural policy
coordination in the European Union, at City, University of London. She has held previous
teaching posts at City and Richmond University. Kate is interested in many aspects of the
politics of cultural policy-making.

Jade L. Miller is Assistant Professor of Communication Studies, Wilfrid Laurier University,

Waterloo, ON, Canada. She works on media industries from a global networked and geo-
graphic perspective. Her first book, Nollywood Central, on the industrial structure and global
connections of the Southern Nigerian movie industry, was published in 2016 by BFI Press.
Besides her work on the Nigerian movie industry, Dr Miller researches the geographies and
implications of film tax credits and the culture of quantification that global Hollywood uses
to make sense of new markets for investment and distribution.

xvi
 Contributors

Toby Miller  is Emeritus Distinguished Professor, University of California, Riverside;

Sir Walter Murdoch Professor of Cultural Policy Studies, Murdoch University; Profesor
­Invitado, Escuela de Comunicación Social, Universidad del Norte; Professor of Journalism,
Media and Cultural Studies, Cardiff University/Prifysgol Caerdydd; and Director of the
Institute for Media and Creative Industries, Loughborough University London.

Tony Moore is an Associate Professor in Media Studies at Monash University and author
of Dancing with Empty Pockets: Australia’s Bohemians and Death or Liberty: Rebels and Radicals
Transported to Australia 1788–1868, recently adapted as a major documentary. A former ABC
TV documentary-maker and commissioning editor at Pluto Press and Cambridge University
Press, Tony heads up a major Australian Research Council project examining the connec-
tion between emerging creative arts and popular culture, entitled Fringe to Famous.

Graham Murdock is Professor of Culture and Economy at Loughborough University, UK.

He has held visiting professorships in Belgium, New Zealand, Norway, Sweden and the United
States and taught widely across China. His distinctive writings on culture and communications
combine insights and methods from political economy, sociology and cultural studies and have
been translated into 21 languages. His recent books include, as co-editor, Digital Dynamics, The
Idea of the Public Sphere, The Handbook of Political Economy of Communication and Money Talks:
Media, Markets, Crisis. He is currently working on the transformation of public culture.

Jennifer L. Novak-Leonard, PhD, specializes in the development and use of novel mea-

surement systems to understand cultural participation, and the personal and public values
derived from those experiences. Her research considers the role of cultural and creative
expression within public policy and enterprise. She is a faculty member at Northwestern
University, USA.

Dave O’Brien  is the Chancellor’s Fellow in Cultural and Creative Industries at the
­University of Edinburgh. He is the author and editor of several books on cultural policy and
writes widely on a range of social science and humanities issues, including cultural work,
urban regeneration and public policy.

Seamus O’Hanlon teaches urban and cultural history at Monash University in Melbourne.

His research focuses on the impacts of economic, demographic and social change on the
architecture and culture of the contemporary city. He has written extensively on the history
and culture of Melbourne, with his most recent books Melbourne Remade: The Inner City since
the Seventies (2010) and Melbourne’s Federation Square: The First Ten Years (2012). His current
research focuses on the history of pop and rock music in Melbourne since the 1960s and a
history of the impacts of globalisation on the Australian city since the 1970s.

Jonathan Paquette is Professor of Public Administration at the School of Political Stud-

ies of the University of Ottawa in Canada. He is also executive editor of the Journal of Arts
Management, Law and Society. His research interest includes heritage and cultural policies and
arts management.

Phil Ramsey is Lecturer in the School of Communication, and Member of the Centre for
Media Research, Ulster University, UK. He obtained his PhD in Media Studies at Ulster
in 2011, and his research focuses on cultural policy, media governance and public service

xvii
Contributors

media. His work has been published in international journals that include Media, Culture &
Society, International Journal of Cultural Policy, Cultural Trends, Convergence and Television & New
Media.

Mareia Quintero Rivera is Associate Professor at the Interdisciplinary Studies Program

and the Masters in Cultural Agency and Administration of the University of Puerto Rico,
Rio Piedras Campus. She obtained her PhD in Social History from the University of São
Paulo, Brazil, in 2002. Her research and publications focus on cultural criticism in the His-
panic Caribbean and Brazil; cultural practices, policies, and social agency. She served as
president of the Puerto Rican Commission for Cultural Development, and board member of
the Institute of Puerto Rican Culture.

Abiodun Salawu  is Professor of Journalism, Communication and Media Studies and

­Director of the research entity Indigenous Language Media in Africa at the North-West
­University, South Africa. His major areas of research interest include indigenous ­language
media, development communication, critical studies and new media. He has to his credit
­numerous journal articles and book chapters. He edited the seminal book, Indigenous ­L anguage
Media in Africa. He was also the lead editor of the book Indigenous Language ­Media, ­L anguage
Politics and Democracy in Africa. He is rated as an established researcher by the ­National
­Research Foundation of South Africa.

Nicola C. Searle is an economist specialising in intellectual property (IP) at the Institute for
Cultural & Creative Entrepreneurship, Goldsmiths, University of London, United K ­ ingdom.
She obtained her PhD in the economics of trade secrets at the School of ­Economics & ­Finance,
University of St Andrews in 2010. Nicola is a prominent blogger in the IP community. Her book
Economic Approaches to Intellectual Property was published by Oxford University Press in 2016.

J.P. Singh  is Chair and Professor of Culture and Political Economy and Director of the
Centre for Cultural Relations at the University of Edinburgh. His latest book is Sweet Talk:
Paternalism and Collective Action in North-South Trade Negotiations (Stanford, 2017). His book
Globalized Arts: The Entertainment Economy and Cultural Identity (Columbia, 2011) won the
American Political Science Association’s award for best book in information technology and
politics in 2012. His current book project is Development 2.0: How Technologies Can Foster
Inclusivity in the Developing World (Oxford, forthcoming). He has advised international organ-
isations such as UNESCO, the World Bank and the World Trade Organization and played a
leadership role in several professional organizations.

Rike Sitas is Researcher at the African Centre for Cities at the University of Cape Town.
She received her PhD from the University of Cape Town in Architecture, Planning and
Geomatics, focusing on the role of public art in urban knowledge production. Her research
interests revolve around the intersection of art, culture and heritage and cities, particularly
in the global South. Implicit in this is a fascination with cultural and urban policy coalitions
and recasting creative economies and creative cities in Africa. She currently coordinates the
Mistra Urban Futures project in Cape Town, manages Public Art and the Power of Place,
UrbanAfrica.Net and the Academic Seminar Series at ACC.

Catherine Strong is Senior Lecturer in Music Industry at RMIT University in Australia. She
has published on popular music and collective memory, gender and heritage; she is the author of

xviii
 Contributors

Grunge: Music and Memory (Routledge, 2011) and co-editor (with Barbara Lebrun) of Death and
the Rock Star (Ashgate, 2015). She is the reviews editor for Perfect Beat journal and Chair of the
International Association for the Study of Popular Music, Australia-New Zealand branch.

Ali Akbar Tajmazinani  is currently the Dean of Social Science Faculty at Allameh
­Tabataba’i University (Tehran, Iran) and Deputy President of the Iranian Social ­Welfare
Association. Prior to completing his PhD in Social Policy (Youth Studies) in the UK
(holding an ORS Award) he was attached to the National Youth Organization of Iran as
­Director General of Youth Research Office and Head of International Affairs Department.
Tajmazinani has under­t aken several research projects and published extensively on youth
and social policy with various national and international institutions including the National
Youth Organization, UNICEF Representative in Iran, Council of Europe’s Youth Direc-
torate, Secretariat of the Cultural Revolution Council, Social Security Research Institute
and Tehran Municipality.

Tomoko Tamari is a lecturer in the Institute for Creative and Cultural Entrepreneurship and
member of the Centre for Urban and Community Research, Goldsmiths, University of London.
She is managing editor of Body & Society (SAGE). Her long standing research interests focus on
consumer culture in Japan and Japanese new women, which will be discussed in her forthcom-
ing book entitled, Women and Consumer Culture: the Department Store, Modernity and Everyday Life
in Early Twentieth Century Japan (Routledge). She has recently published ‘Metabolism: Utopian
Urbanism and the Japanese Modern Architecture Movement’ in Theory Culture & Society, (2016)
Vol.31 (7–8) and ‘Body Image and Prosthetic Aesthetics’ in Body & Society (2017) Vol.23 (1). She
is currently working following areas: Body image and disability; human perception and the mov-
ing image; probiotics and immunity; Olympic culture and cities.

John Tebbutt is a Senior Lecturer in the School of Media, Film and Journalism at Monash
University. John is a managing editor for ‘Continuum’ and on the board of The Radio Jour-
nal; international studies broadcast and audio media. He is a coordinator for the Australian Audio
Radio Researcher’s Association (ARARA) and researches transnational media cultures with
a focus on community and public media.

Hui-Ju Tsai is a PhD Candidate in Social Sciences at Loughborough University, UK and

a member of Campaign for Media Reform [CMR] in Taiwan. Her recent published arti-
cles include Fighting the Neoliberalised Media Market & State Interference: The Interdependency of
­Taiwan PTS and Civil Society Organisation (2016). Her research orientation is a critical political
economy approach to studying culture and communication policies. Tsai is especially inter-
ested in creative industries, public service media and the democratisation of mass culture.

Enrique Uribe-Jongbloed is Full Professor at Universidad de Bogotá Jorge Tadeo since

January 2017, formerly Professor and Researcher at the Department of Social Communi-
cation in Universidad del Norte, Barranquilla, Colombia. He obtained his PhD from the
Department of Theatre, Film and Television Studies at Aberystwyth University, Wales, in
2013. His research interests include identity, language and media production. He edited the
book Social Media and Minority Languages.

Siva Vaidhyanathan  is the Robertson Professor of Media Studies and the Director of
the Center for Media and Citizenship at the University of Virginia. He is the author of

xix
Contributors

Intellectual Property: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2017), The Googlization
of ­Everything—and Why We Should Worry (University of California Press, 2011), Copyrights
and Copywrongs: The Rise of Intellectual Property and How it Threatens Creativity (New York
University Press, 2001), The Anarchist in the Library: How the Clash between Freedom and Con-
trol is Hacking the Real World and Crashing the System (Basic Books, 2004). He also co-edited
(with Carolyn Thomas) the collection, Rewiring the Nation: The Place of Technology in American
Studies ( Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007).

Jeremy Valentine is Reader in Media, Culture and Politics in the Media, Culture and Per-
forming Arts Division, Queen Margaret University, Edinburgh. He got a PhD in Political
Theory at Essex University in 1993. He is a founding editor of the monograph series Taking
on the Political. His research interests include political economies of culture, contemporary
political thought and critical theory.

Antonios Vlassis  is a FNRS (Fonds national de la recherché scientifique-Belgium) Re-

searcher and Lecturer in the Center for International Relations Studies (CEFIR) at the
Department of Political Science, Liege University. He obtained his PhD in International
Relations from Bordeaux University (France) in 2010, and his scientific contributions have
appeared, among others, in the European Journal of Communication, International Journal of Cul-
tural Policy, Third World Quarterly, Politique européenne, Études Internationales, and Cuadernos
de Información y Comunicación. His research and teaching fields focus on international and
regional cultural policy, cultural diplomacy and cultural globalisation.

Bethany Waterhouse-Bradley is Research Associate in the Psychology Research Insti-

tute at Ulster University, UK. She obtained her PhD in Social Policy at Ulster in 2012 and
taught in Social Policy, Sociology and at the Transitional Justice Institute. She worked in
migration policy between Northern Ireland and Westminster before returning to take up an
academic post in 2015. Her research explores social movements, claims-making and agency
in traditionally excluded groups.

David Wright teaches in the Centre for Cultural and Media Policy Studies at the University
of ­Warwick. His research interests are in cultural consumption, popular culture and the politics
of cultural participation. He is the author of Understanding Cultural Taste (Palgrave, 2015).

George Yúdice is at the University of Miami, FL, USA. He is the author of The Expediency
of Culture: Uses of Culture in the Global Era (Duke University Press, 2003), Cultural Policy, with
Toby Miller, (Sage, 2002), Música, nuevas tecnologías y experiencia (Gedisa, 2007). He is on the
editorial board of the International Journal of Cultural Policy.

Amy Camilleri-Zahra  is an Assistant Lecturer at the Department of Disability Studies,

Faculty for Social Wellbeing, University of Malta. She graduated from the University of
Malta with a Bachelor of Psychology degree (First Class Honours) in 2011 and then went
on to obtain a Master of Arts degree in Disability Studies (Distinction) at the University of
Leeds, United Kingdom. She is currently a Master of Philosophy candidate at the ­University
of Malta with the possibility of transferring to a Doctor of Philosophy degree at a later
stage. Her main research interests are gender and disability issues, implementation of the
­U NCRPD and social representations of disabled people.

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 1
Towards global
cultural policy studies
Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

• Bulgarian: Единство в многообразието

• Croatian: Ujedinjeni u različitosti
• Czech: Jednotná v rozmanitosti
• Danish: Forenet i mangfoldighed
• Dutch: In verscheidenheid verenigd
• English: United in Diversity
• Estonian: Ühinenud mitmekesisuses
• Finnish: Moninaisuudessaan yhtenäinen
• French: Unie dans la diversité
• German: In Vielfalt geeint
• Greek: Ενωμένοι στην πολυμορφία
• Hungarian: Egység a sokféleségben
• Irish: Aontaithe san éagsúlacht
• Italian: Uniti nella diversità
• Latvian: Vienoti daudzveidībā
• Lithuanian: Suvienijusi įvairovę
• Maltese: Magħquda fid-diversità
• Polish: Zjednoczeni w różnorodności
• Portuguese: Unidade na diversidade
• Romanian: Unitate în diversitate
• Slovak: Zjednotení v rozmanitosti
• Slovene: Združeni v različnosti
• Spanish: Unida en la diversidad
• Swedish: Förenade i mångfalden

European Union Motto, adopted 2000—https://europa.eu/european-union/about-eu/

symbols/motto_en
For 40 years cultural policy has had close connections with the complex interaction of po-
litical, economic, and socio-cultural dynamics at all levels of society. This relationship has

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Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

placed high and, at times, contradictory expectations on the capabilities and capacities of the
media, the fine, performing, and folk arts, and on cultural heritage.
These expectations are well illustrated by the European Union’s motto, quoted above in
its official languages. ‘United in Diversity’ represents the ways in which culture is assigned
the role of fostering cooperation whilst symbolising and celebrating individuality and differ-
ence. However, this motto, like much of culture and cultural policy, has to do with power,
distinction, and protectionism as well as common citizenship, alliances, and bonds. This
is due to the global context confronting cultural policies: regional unions, nation-states,
and citizens. Consideration, then, of a global sense of cultural policy has much potential to
illuminate the social and political world, and has been our goal with this Handbook.
The Handbook of Global Cultural Policy sets out to explore numerous traditions and his-
tories of culture, policy, politics, and globalization, along with their relationship to one
another. This introduction sets out our position in relation to the endeavour to articulate
a ‘global’ cultural policy. We begin by considering the core terms ‘culture,’ ‘policy,’ and
‘globalization,’ giving them some history, theory, and contour. We then reflect on the hybrid
that is cultural policy studies. The introduction subsequently turns to an explication of the
chapters that make up this collection and the hopes we have for fostering a wider, more
global conversation on cultural policy.

Culture
Culture has a weird and wired heritage. It derives from the Latin colere, which describes sub-
sistence and slave agriculture. Under capitalism, this understanding of culture bifurcated, as
farming and forms of taste took different directions (Adorno 2009: 146; Benhabib 2002: 2).
With the spread of literacy and printing, customs gave way to the written word, and cultural
texts became important guarantors of authority. Anxieties about cultural imperialism also
appeared, via debates over Western domination that occupied intellectuals, politicians, and
moral guardians, particularly in what is often referred to as ‘the Muslim world’ (Mowlana
2000; Briggs and Burke 2003; Kraidy 2010).
The work of Immanuel Kant explains and indexes these changes. He argued that culture
ensured ‘conformity to laws without the law’ and that aesthetics could generate ‘morally
practical precepts,’ schooling people to transcend particular interests via the development of
a ‘public sense, i.e. a critical faculty which in its reflective act takes account (a priori) of the
mode of representation … to weight its judgement with the collective reason of mankind’
(1987; also see Hunter 2008). Kant envisaged an ‘emergence from … self-incurred immaturity,’
independent of religion, government, and commerce (1991: 54).
In other words, if readers could interpret art, literature, and drama in logical, emotional,
and social ways—and comprehend the difference between them—they could be relied upon
to govern themselves. Hence Kant’s renowned blend of anthropology and aesthetics. This
blend has coloured the social-science and humanities dualities of understanding culture:
simultaneously and coevally as custom and text, population and interpretation, number and
noumen, organization and language, laboratory and library.
By the time of an emergent consumer society, culture became valuable as a means of
binding together the social order through custom and keeping people happy through en-
tertainment. However, it was not read or framed as being significant economically, at least
not as directly as it is today. Positive discourses about culture saw it elevating people above
ordinary life, transcending body, time, and place, or settling us into society through the
wellsprings of community, as part of daily existence (Frith 1991).

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 Towards global cultural policy studies

A further transformation has occurred in the past three decades: from social cohesion to
economic contribution. These days, it is close to the heart of that economy, thanks to the
replicable and hence marketable nature of culture via analogue and then digital techniques
of capture and transmission. Nations recognize that a prosperous economic future lies in
selling pleasure and ideology rather than agriculture and manufacturing—seeking revenue
from innovation and intellectual property, not minerals or masses. This is a moment at which
the Global North uses culture as a selling point for deindustrialized societies, and the Global
South does so for never-industrialized ones. Here, governmental and corporate manoeuvres
alike have internationalized the sale of culture as part of the growing trend towards global-
ization, as we explain below.
Thus, culture is now more than textual signs or everyday practices, more than objects of
subcultural appropriation and re-signification. It offers important resources to markets and
nations. Crucial to advanced and developing economies alike, culture can also provide the
legitimizing ground on which particular groups claim resources and seek inclusion in na-
tional and international narratives (see Yúdice 2002 on Latin America; Kraidy 2010; Pahwa
and Winegar 2012 on the Arab world; Yang 2009 on China). This struggle over legitimising
ground and economic value, accelerated by technological change, is a crucial animating
force for policy associated with culture.

Policy
Policy refers to a regularized set of actions based on overarching principles. All entities, not just
governments, make policies, in the sense of regularized plans of actions and norms that they
follow. The authority of a policy is founded in transparent rationality rather than in ancestral
tradition or individual charisma (Weber 1978). Yet, how culture is articulated and opera-
tionalised within policy is historically loaded with socio-political and economic meanings,
beliefs, traditions, and values that find both similarity and difference when considered on a
global scale. This section thus explores the meaning of cultural ‘policy’ in this wider context.
Because culture’s organic law and lore, and their textual manifestations, represent each
‘epoch’s consciousness of itself ’ (Althusser 1969: 108), audiences, artists, cultural producers,
governments, and corporations make extraordinary investments in cultural policy. Across
the globe, states function through two modes of control: an indirect one, which operates
through regulation, taxation, and incentives, particularly of business and markets; and more
formal, direct cultural production.
Cultural policy therefore applies to both private and public concerns. Although a strict
private-public distinction may be problematic, policies are developed and implemented
by businesses as often—if less publicly—as by governments. The same applies to the third
sector. Thus, culture lives a hybrid life as a creature of the state, commerce, and civil society.
In cultural policy scholarship, this has manifested itself as an implicit/explicit division in
characterising cultural policy (Ahearne 2009).
Because culture increasingly transcends both state boundaries and commercial rents, it is
often managed by international organizations. This phenomenon is neither new nor entirely
dissociated from national citizenship. Away from the utopic hopes of world government on
a grand scale, international organizations have been working for a long time, sometimes
quietly and sometimes noisily, to manage trans-territorial, cultural, and culturally related,
issues from postage to religion to sports. Their business is sometimes conducted at the state
level, sometimes through civil society, and sometimes both. This configuration is a core
concern for many authors in the collection.

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Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

Cultural policy and ‘the global’

Cultural policies have informed imperial rapaciousness for a very long time. Spain’s conquista
de América, Portugal’s missão civilizadora, and France and Britain’s mission civilisatrice created
global anxieties about foreign cultural domination. That has never subsided, and it has been
exacerbated by the entertainment dominance of the US over the last century, the co-option
of culture for ‘soft power’ purposes within foreign relations (Nye 2002), and the continued
hegemony of post-colonial powers in their former possessions (Mowlana 2000).
Conversely, and indeed for many authors in our collection, culture still holds the promise
of transformation for citizens, places, nations, and the world. That promise has been an
ongoing feature of the policy discourse on culture—that what may appear to be grounded
in particular spaces can transcend them and make for universal understanding, as per Kant’s
notion of shared critical principles. Despite the equal ability to do the exact opposite, cul-
tural objects, symbols, and processes have thus been imbued with faith that they may foster
greater equality on a global scale.
Between the 1950s and 1970s, this tension found expression in public-policy debates
through such sources as the Non-Aligned Movement and then the United Nations Educa-
tional, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). The Global South (known then
as the Group of 77, after the number of post-colonial states at the time) lobbied for a New
World Information and Communication Order (NWICO) to match the wider search for a
New International Economic Order. UNESCO set up an International Commission for the
Study of Communication Problems to investigate North-South flows and power (1981). It
reported on the need for equal distribution of the electronic spectrum, reduced postal rates
for international texts, protection against satellites crossing borders, and media systems that
would serve social justice rather than capitalist commerce (Mattelart and Mattelart 1998:
94–97). However, UNESCO soon assumed a more problematic status, confronted with US
power, Cold-War stereotypes of freedom, and the contradictions of balancing a universalist
idea of cultural pluralism with the Organization’s basis in nation-states.
The other site for cultural policy and ‘the global’ has been trade. There has been a remark-
able evolution of global cultural trade since the Second World War. The General Agreement
on Tariffs and Trade and its successor, the World Trade Organization, sought to reduce tariff
and non-tariff barriers to free trade. This was in the context of differing versions of culture,
whether as just one more set of tradable commodities or a sui generis human activity. This
latter narrative was associated with a defence of public broadcasting and national cinemas
to express national identity. This position has continued even in the context of laissez-faire
evangelism, because sovereign-states continue to include culture as a vital part of belonging,
for example, relating citizenship to language skills, knowledge of culture and history, or the
embrace of a particular national way of life.
This moment of cultural policy as national identity gestures towards the question of cit-
izenship in a globalised world. The idea of loyalties split through hybrid cultural identifica-
tions has long been difficult for citizenship theory and practice, which tends to require unity
rather than diversity. Multiple citizenships institutionalize split subjectivity. The impact goes
further than querying voting, military service, and diplomatic assistance. It gets to the heart
of an affective relation to the sovereign-state and provides a clue to the fragility of citizenship.
Liberal philosophy long held that the integration of migrants would follow from the ac-
quisition of citizenship and a non-discriminatory, culture-blind application of the law, once
successive generations mastered the dominant language and entered the labour market as
equals with the majority. But, the patent failure to achieve this outcome has seen governments

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 Towards global cultural policy studies

recognizing cultural difference, intervening to counter discrimination in the private sector,

and imposing quotas for minority hiring. Migration, and more substantively the challenges
of the refugee crisis, shows the limits of cultural policy, citizenship, and globalization.

Cultural policy studies

So how can this weird, wired world be understood? How might we theorise and analyse
global cultural policy, if it is both the source of exploitation and the promise of liberation?
Cultural policy studies had a marginal, if safe, life within the arts management side of po-
litical science, represented by the Journal of Arts Management, Law, and Society and an asso-
ciated annual conference, and in economics, as per the Association for Cultural Economics
(now known as ‘International’) and its Journal of Cultural Economics. Then, cultural policy
gained status within the humanities. This was a natural, if problematic, location, thanks to a
tendency within the hitherto anti-statist, social-movement-oriented field of cultural studies.
Stuart Cunningham suggested 25 years ago that:

Many people trained in cultural studies would see their primary role as being critical
of the dominant political, economic and social order. When cultural theorists do turn
to questions of policy, our command metaphors of resistance and opposition predispose
us to view the policy making process as inevitably compromised, incomplete and in-
adequate, peopled with those inexpert and ungrounded in theory and history or those
wielding gross forms of political power for short-term ends.
(1992: 9)

He called for cultural studies to displace its ‘revolutionary rhetoric’ with a ‘reformist voca-
tion’ that would draw energy and direction from ‘a social democratic view of citizenship and
the trainings necessary to activate and motivate it’ (1992: 11). This engagement with policy
could avoid a politics of the status quo because cultural studies’ ongoing concern with power
would ground it in radicalism. Angela McRobbie responded that cultural policy might offer
a ‘missing agenda’ for cultural studies, a pathway to change (1996: 335), and Jim McGuigan
made the case for a counter-public sphere and citizenship rights as core values (2004: 21).
This trend within cultural studies, seeking to propel the field into cultural policy, took
off at various sites. In late-1980s Australia, it involved both locals and scholars who had de-
parted Thatcher’s Britain.1 In Latin America, similar engagements materialized in the work
of Néstor García Canclini (2004) along with many others.2 In Britain, cognate practice was
underway at the Greater London Council (Lewis 1991). In Canada, policy was never far
from the concerns of people who are uniquely placed to value and criticize cultural impe-
rialism and its nationalistic counters and who inherit a rich blend of economic and textual
analysis.3 Numerous prominent figures in US cultural studies were similarly dubious about
safely side-lined critique. They were either supportive of critical developments or autono-
mously involved in equivalent tendencies and operated across anthropology, law, sociology,
education, political science, feminism, and literary, area, and communication studies.4
Cultural policy studies gave rise to the more problematic creative-industries discourse,
which differed radically from cultural studies’ initial theorisation of policy. This discourse
offered those who had been involved in cultural policy a place at the central table of economic
policy-making. Although most governments regarded the arts as outside inner-­cabinet dis-
cussions and quite marginal, communications had always been central. This is due to the

5
Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

vast amounts of money involved in infrastructure and the gravitas of those populating it
(engineers versus the sociologists and literary critics of cultural policy). Creative industries
magically blended these elements and appeared to guarantee a place at the top table. With
the business nous of its intellectual founder, Richard Florida, and the imperialistic export of
its sponsors in the Australian and British governments, creative-industries discourse became
economistic in its claims (Florida 2002; Hartley 2005).
It is perhaps here that one sense of global cultural policy emerges. That is to say, as an
area of cultural policy, the development of creative-industries discourse is a key example of
how policy rhetoric has come to travel and be interpreted, translated, and transplanted across
different nations, languages, cultures, and societies.

Contents
From cultural studies to creative industries is one possible narrative of a series of often-fraught
transformations. We have seen culture blend and transcend its early life in anthropological
and artistic discourse to become a site of international contestation, even as it succumbs to a
wholesale, and far from wholesome, commodification.
The essays that follow offer much greater depth and variety in their account of this
environment, and the eight individual parts housing them explore various research ques-
tions in cultural policy. Not all of them agree, and in selecting them, we have set common
themes alongside longstanding theoretical and political enmities. Indeed, even the most
central term, culture, is contested.
The borders between parts are not exact, and we have endeavoured to approach each
theme in a variety of ways. This is both to reflect the range of possible takes on issues such
as regulation or development and to gesture towards the extension of themes beyond the
current academic frames. Obviously, this is open to the criticism that we have been too
loose in our associations. However, we hope that the strength of the collection justifies the
approach. The approach is an ethos that results in debates, most obviously in our section
on regulation, but also in oblique strategies, for example, on rights and regional responses.
The scope of cultural policy as a field, along with the range of globalised challenges the
world faces, does not fit neatly under one specific theme or idea. We hope to address these
challenges through this eclectic and open approach.

Part I: Situating cultural policy

Part I situates cultural policy in relation to other academic disciplines. Its chapters give us cause
to review not only the history of theoretical developments in cultural policy-­making and cul-
tural policy studies but also how those theories have travelled. Whilst we have emphasized the
lineage of cultural studies in this introduction, we look at politics, economics, sociology, and
arts management in the opening part, thus reflecting the diversity of cultural policy studies.
This range has allowed cultural policy research to grapple with central questions about the role
of research vis-à-vis policy, practice, and the public. Moreover, it has allowed cross-, multi-,
and inter-disciplinary approaches to emerge, which have synthesised the debates and insights
of disciplines grappling with both cultural policy as public policy and cultural policy much
more broadly, and anthropologically, defined. This eclecticism has seen cultural policy strug-
gle to establish and define itself as a discipline, as opposed to a field of study.
Each chapter traces the ways in which cultural policy mingles with other disciplines. For
instance, whilst the relationship between cultural policy research and governments animated

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 Towards global cultural policy studies

cultural studies’ initial vision of the field, this has not been the case in political science, as
demonstrated by Paquette and Beauregard. They differentiate its engagement with cultural
policy from that of cultural studies in several ways by explaining the place of cultural policy
research in political science, identifying traces of cultural policy research within political
science, and specifying the contributions of political science to studying cultural policy.
Searle’s understanding of the history of cultural economics, as well as the case study of the
economist’s understanding of IP (contrasted with a media-studies understanding offered
by Vaidhyanathan in Chapter 8), gives a sense of both the disciplinary boundaries and the
research possibilities of cultural economics for cultural policy. Moreover, the chapter’s case
study demonstrates how policy interpretations of IP have global implications in terms of the
economic power of particular communities, cultures, and nation-states—a common theme
across several parts and chapters.
A much less fractious relationship is found in the final two entries in this opening part,
Wright on sociology and Durrer on arts management. For Wright, the relationship between
nation-state and cultural policy runs in parallel to the relationship between nation-state
and sociology. Indeed, in thinking through the porous boundaries between sociology and
cultural policy, particularly in examples from French scholarship associated with Pierre
Bourdieu, Wright shows the potential, but also the limits, of cultural policy’s relationship to
sociology and to policy-making itself. This relationship is also one bound up with the recon-
struction, or otherwise, of sociology’s attempt to explain the consumption and production
of culture in modernity.
In addition to tracing the contours of cultural policy and arts management, Durrer offers
a first step in empirically assessing the boundaries and bridges between the two, particu-
larly via the socialisation of arts managers into their profession, which is an increasingly
international process. In this context, cultural policy may be viewed as the operational and
regulatory context for arts management, thus leaving the practice and scholarship of the
arts manager open to political and utilitarian influence. At the same time, mutual benefits
between cultural policy and arts management practice do arise, which provide opportunities
for policy influence by the practice and scholarship of the arts manager. Durrer’s exploration
of these issues implicitly calls for greater recognition within cultural policy discourse of the
viewpoints, positions, and experiences of individuals (practitioners and policy-makers) who
traverse policy.

Part II: Regulating cultural policy

Regulation both concerns the rule-making activities of nations and cross-national bodies
and is the site for the emergence and discovery of cultural policy. Part II considers cultural
policy and regulation, most notably in the form of cross-, trans-, and international trade. The
theme provides a useful route into thinking about cultural policy in two ways. In the first in-
stance, it is the most obvious point for state and culture relations, particularly in settings that
have non-institutional, informal, or implicit cultural policies. Second, by thinking about
regulation and cultural policy, we immediately draw attention to a way of understanding
cultural policy that goes beyond state-funded or state-sponsored arts.
Moving beyond viewing cultural policy within those set parameters is important when
conceiving of cultural policy in global terms. We see this immediately in Singh’s contribution,
which focuses on the international trade and exchange of cultural and creative goods. Whilst
much has been done to conceive of culture in international terms, the nation-state is still cru-
cial, as Wright identifies in Chapter 4, to both the meaning and the regulation of culture. In

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Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

this context, regulation is offered in both defence and prosecution of cultural forms, artefacts,
practices, and ultimately identities. Regulation can thus respond to or enable perceived threats
from global competition in cultural production. For Singh, there is much potential in trade,
particularly if it can be allied to regulation that is deliberative and participatory. However,
this form of regulation, perhaps enabled by emerging forms of digital technology, is some-
thing that, in his analysis of institutions such as UNESCO and WTO, has yet to emerge.
Murdock and Choi are much less hopeful than Singh about the role of trade and its
regulation. In examining the relationship between the US and South Korea, they see it
as a vehicle for US interests, rather than for transnational dialogue. They suggest that the
regulation of trade in culture needs a remodelled theory of cultural imperialism to under-
stand properly the dynamics of the US-Korea relationship. Critical to their examination is
the issue of intellectual property, its protection, and its ‘free’ trade. Intellectual property,
according to Vaidhyanathan, is itself cultural policy and represents a hidden cultural policy
regime, particularly in places like the US, which, for Vaidhyanathan, has often marginal-
ised, ignored, or denied the very idea of cultural policy within trade, industrial, educational,
tourism, and economic policy. He adopts a comparative approach to IP regulation, situat-
ing IP-as-cultural policy in terms of the differing regulatory regimes across the world. In
doing so, he develops Singh’s and Wright’s interests in the nation-state as an important, but
potentially frustrating, actor in cultural policy, especially when confronted with traditional
cultural expressions or electronic developments.
Through the lens of cultural diplomacy, Figueira provides much thought regarding the
potential of cultural policy collaboration on a global scale, outside of the formal regula-
tory regimes represented by organisations such as UNESCO or WTO. Her analysis of the
politico-­linguistic Lusophone bloc introduces the literature on cultural diplomacy as a form
of cultural policy and considers the Community of Portuguese Language Countries (CPLP)
as a manifestation of multilateral cooperation and intervention. The study demonstrates
how groups like CPLP may cooperate in ways, however small, that ‘mediate global policy
agendas’ with international policy influence. It is also a case study in the increasing salience
of culture to a range of governmental objectives, a theme taken up in the critical reading of
cultural governance offered by Valentine.
Governance itself is bound up with the neo-liberal project, a hegemonic discourse for
picturing and acting upon social, economic, and political problems. Cultural policy, es-
pecially in its globally transferred iterations as creative industries or creative economy, is
a manifestation of this set of practices. This raises questions not only about the politics of
cultural policy, particularly when enacted in authoritarian settings, but also about the pos-
sibility or potential of culture as a site or source of alternatives and oppositions. This issue is
particularly acute in rights-based discourses and their relationship to cultural policy.

Part III: Rights and cultural policy

Issues of identity—its recognition and marginalisation—are bound up in explorations of
the relationship of rights to cultural policy, and these issues extend beyond the bounds of
nation-states. We take three case studies, of disability rights, language rights, and rights
in post-conflict societies, to explore the role, or otherwise, of cultural policy. We are left
with more questions than answers regarding the promise of, alongside the neglect of rights
within, cultural policies.
Recognition of disabled people’s rights in culture and as culture, emphasised by Callus
and Camilleri-Zahra, is often absent in the literature on cultural policy. Here, rights are

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the source of a transformed, and transformative, cultural policy. A similar line of thought,
framed through the paradigm of cultural sustainability, runs through Uribe-Jongbloed and
Salawu’s comparison of minority language media in Colombia and South Africa. They pres-
ent a dilemma for cultural policy, of how to balance the demands of nation-states seeking
cohesive, often linguistically unified, cultures whilst giving recognition to linguistic, and
thus cultural, difference. Again, cultural policy provides the source of possibility, albeit from
the very same starting point that seems to limit linguistic and cultural autonomy within
the project of the nation-state. What is necessary is an intercultural approach to the state.
However, as Uribe-Jongbloed and Salawu observe, there is much to be done in order to
make sure that cultural policy does not stay only at the policy level but engages with cultural
sustainability practices of exchange and interaction, beyond just awareness and promotion of
minority languages.
In Northern Ireland, Ramsey and Waterhouse-Bradley’s case study, cultural citizenship
has proven to be a mode of oppositional and binary divisions, rather than the exchanges and
interactions identified by Uribe-Jongbloed and Salawu’s consideration. Indeed, the ques-
tion of the rights of communities is superseded by economic development as the core fo-
cus for cultural policy in Northern Ireland, perhaps because the economy is a site around
which political consensus may most easily be garnered. Still, this situation represents both a
missed opportunity and a fundamental misreading of the purpose and potential of cultural
policy itself.

Part IV: Practice and cultural policy

Rights are, of course, grounded in practices. This part on practice is intended to reflect a
diverse understanding of cultural policy as enacted in a range of national and international
settings. These eclectic chapters were commissioned with the aim of illustrating the vast
range of practices that can be associated with the idea of cultural policy. The practices are
intended to bridge questions of disciplinary boundaries, regulation and rights, as well as the
issues, development, and national case studies offered in later parts. They bring to life the im-
portance of global perspectives on cultural policy that can be the basis of a positive academic
contribution and practical intervention.
The chapters presented here show how cultural policies can be representations of global
power. For instance, the practices of gifting and curating the UN’s art collection or the work
of the Confucius Institute promote a particular desired view on the part of the nation-states
participating: one can see that the promise of genuine and equal international cooperation
outlined earlier by Figueira remains unfulfilled. Yet, cultural policies themselves can wield
power—with the notion of the ‘creative city’ being one of the most travelled. Whatever the
differences in local contexts, though, the zero-sum game of competition between cities will
be replicated, as Karvelyte shows in relation to Shanghai and Hong Kong.
The mobility of neoliberal cultural policies has had great impact on (and exploitation
of ) cultural work, despite its limited investigation in cultural policy studies until recently.
Cultural work becomes visible in cultural policy, as education, skills, or labour. In stressing
these connections and moments of visibility, Comunian and Conor unpack the broader
cultural- and creative-industries discourse that dominates much cultural policy, whilst re-
turning to a narrative of potential in cultural policy. The ‘invisibility’ of cultural work is not
a natural product of the business models of cultural and creative industries. Rather, cultural
policy must be open about the problems of cultural work, to challenge explanation and fore-
ground workers too often left out of celebratory policy discourses.

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Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

Case studies from Australian cultural production and cultural audiences develop this area
of practice. Gibson, Moore, and Edmond think through the relationships and transitions
between fringe activities, such as post-punk music, comedy, and film, and commercial or
popular audiences. Traditionally, the opposition between the business facing creative econ-
omy and the more ‘culturalist’ narratives of value has framed that relationship. Rather than
straightforwardly solving this tension by arguing that the fringe provides innovation for
the famous, they engage the seemingly rigid boundaries between culture and commerce, as
well as questioning the linear narrative of innovation. This approach tells us of a much more
complex position for cultural policy, where ideas of ‘excellence’ may produce a static version
of culture, and ‘innovation’ may be equally reductionist.
Novak-Leonard articulates audience research as an important part of cultural policy in the
US, where there is an absence of the more formal traditions of Arts Councils or ministries
of culture found in other nations’ cultural policy systems. This chapter explains the struggle
for a broader definition of ‘the arts’ in academic, state, organizational, and foundation-­based
research, presenting US cultural policy with the question of ‘how, or whether, the current
deeply rooted infrastructure surrounding non-profit arts organizations can serve as bridges
to achieving real equity/diversity of art forms and means of engagement?’
Gordon-Nesbitt’s essay addresses an area that may become an important form of cultural
policy over the next decade, as both medical practice and the cultural sector search for new
ways to deal with the consequences of an ageing population in certain parts of the world.
The chapter is part of a larger debate over the ability of the arts to fit into the current taste for
evidence-based forms of policy-making, which allows Gordon-Nesbitt to reflect on the un-
derlying trends shaping how research is done in this area of cultural policy. Health outcomes
are, of course, related to a range of wider social and economic issues grounded in inequality.
This concept, which demonstrates culture’s inextricable link to socio-economic and political
dynamics, segues into the following part on issues and responses.

Part V: Global issues, regional cultural policy

Part V attempts to connect the global issues confronting cultural policy with various re-
gional responses. It begins with a consideration of inequality, perhaps the defining issue of
our age, encompassing economic, social, and cultural issues, and giving rise to a vast array
of complex policy problems.
Hanquinet addresses inequality and cultural policy through a detailed engagement with
Bourdieu. In assessing the implications of cultural capital, Hanquinet thinks through debates
over forms of cultural consumption, such as omnivorous and ‘emerging’ cultural capital, that
frame the relationship between cultural policy and inequality. Indeed, it is only by knowing
how cultural capital is formed, maintained, and replicates social inequality that cultural
policy can address this pressing issue through cultural diplomacy, transnational cultural co-
operation, and the commercial market.
Creative-industries discourse offered to unify the commercial imperatives of mass culture
with the elite aesthetics favoured by state support. However, this has not proven to be the
case, particularly as commercial cultural forms did not achieve state recognition in the form
of institutions and funding, and neither did cultural elements associated with state legiti-
macy become foci of creative activity. Luckman’s and Ho’s chapters offer two perspectives
on this narrative within creative industries’ influence on cultural policy. They illustrate the
constructed nature of creative industries as a problem for cultural policy, rather than simply
an economic opportunity. These perspectives from Hong Kong and Australia are cognisant

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of the global nature of creative-industries discourse and its impact on specific parts of the
world. Luckman gives a broad overview of creative industries, charting the lines of flight
that this concept has taken across the globe and outlining questions of space, place, gender,
and even the idea of culture itself. This poses a challenge and opportunity for cultural policy:
how to develop new ways to articulate the value of culture to a wider public.5
Ho uses Hong Kong to argue in defence of arts and cultural policies in the face of a global,
perhaps hegemonic, policy framework. He defends culture in the face of a creative-industries
policy that has done much to transform Hong Kong at the cost of marginalising cultural
practitioners. This defence of cultural policy echoes the articulation of values that ends
Luckman’s contribution. It is taken up in the practices analysed by Garcia.
Mega-events are perhaps the highest profile and most visible form of cultural policy, and
often come with a global audience. They are seductive to policy-makers, promising that
the urban transformations that Ho shows are associated with creative-industries discourses,
whilst at the same time seeming to play a role in cultural diplomacy, arts, and health, along-
side more diffuse, but no less significant, cultural impacts. Garcia uses the Olympics to bring
out some of these tensions, notably in the importance of cultural policy to local organisers of
a mega-event versus its lack of significance to global stakeholders and audiences. This is most
notably due to the mediatized nature of the mega-event, a moment of important intersection
between cultural and media policy. Here, cultural policy ‘becomes a tool to condense time
and place into spectacular images and phrases’ to rebrand or reimagine the host city and host
nation. However, this reduces the potential of cultural policy contributing to brand or image
construction and management, which are often at odds with local interests and expectations.
It is only through action by international bodies, regional organisations, and national gov-
ernments, in conjunction with local stakeholders, that the undoubted potential, which is
often left aside in the reductionist form of image-based mega-events, can be realised.
The phenomenon of mega-events transitions the part to two concrete regional examples,
which, in turn, open the discussion of development in Part VI. The first example is a new
translation of a recent piece by Yúdice, focused on Latin America. His chapter sketches a
predominant global challenge—the problem of who will provide the essential public service
of digital connectivity. This is read through the lens of changes in cultural enjoyment, the
bio-politics of those changes, and the political economy of this new media scenario. The
regional issues are framed by the boom in the use of information and communications tech-
nology (ICT) by younger parts of the Latin American population. At the same time, the
embedding of ICT as an essential part of the human experience within an internet of things,
points towards the increasing marginalization of governmental actors in this area of culture
and thus cultural policy. Google and Facebook, core platforms of contemporary capitalism,
demand regional responses as they supplant traditional media and physical infrastructure to
dominate cultural life. However, the demand for a regional response often produces complex
manifestations, as in the case of the EU.
The EU is a pre-eminent example of regional cooperation across a range of economic,
social, and political activities. Yet, as made implicit at the start of our introduction, the
question of culture has often been marginal to the formal operations of the EU, whilst being
essential to the broader project of European integration. The latter is obvious in event-led
activity such as the European Capital of Culture, or creative and knowledge economy dis-
courses, but less apparent if one looks for a formal EU cultural policy. Mattocks grapples
with this question from the perspective of governance, seeking to understand how decisions
over culture are made, as well as offering a cultural understanding of the EU itself. This dual
approach presents a complex task, given the fragmented nature of EU decision-making, and

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Victoria Durrer, Toby Miller and Dave O’Brien

perhaps the Union itself, and the disputed meaning and nature of the term culture. Mattocks’
able route through this complex and fragmented regional assemblage provides an historical
analysis of the EU and cultural policy, examples of specific policy programmes, such as the
2007 Agenda for Culture, and a map of key actors, including the European Commission and
European Parliament. In the course of describing both the institutions and actions of EU
cultural policy, Mattocks demonstrates the need for more attentiveness to regional cultural
policy, its impact at the cross-national level, and the potential of scholarship to shed light on
contested institutions and political programmes. The lack of connection between policy and
practice is made clear.

Part VI: Development and cultural policy

Development has become an important part of both cultural policy practice and research. In
part, this is driven by the assumption that culture can have positive impacts at social, urban,
and national levels that are akin to those on individuals. It is also bound up with the role of
culture in the Enlightenment’s project of colonisation. The contested space of cultural policy
and development thus deserves proper attention in any discussion of global cultural policy.
The part begins with Vlassis’ overview of the politics of culture and development, ad-
dressing four crucial questions: ‘Who seeks to set an international policy agenda on the
‘culture-development’ nexus, for what reasons, under which conditions, and with which
outcomes?’ These four questions are related to four policy agendas, from free trade, through
diversity of cultural expressions and the creative economy, to intangible cultural heritage.
Vlassis shares the concerns of Singh, Murdock, Damaso, and Liu, as to the practices and
ideologies of cross-national institutions. By presenting the history of these four agendas for
development, Vlassis draws attention to the impact of the digital age on the assumptions
underpinning previous cultural policy and development concepts.
A practical manifestation of Vlassis’ reflections comes from Quintero Rivera and
Hernández Acosta. They discuss the Puerto Rican Commission for Cultural Development,
which is centred on a proposed, if not consistently actual, devolution of decision-making
power to citizens. They detail the process of academic engagement in formulating new
cultural policies in a development context. The dilemma posed by their narrative concerns
the struggle to implement recommendations that have emerged from a participative policy-­
making process that might have reframed the social purpose of culture in Puerto Rico.
They emphasize the potential for cultural policy, through participatory methodologies, to
re-imagine development strategies away from the application of cultural policy for linear,
externally imposed, development agendas that emphasise economic gains, towards ones that
see culture as a ‘transversal and fundamental dimension of public policy.’
The part closes with two pieces in which the promise of cultural policy is much more
uncertain and contested. Tsai and Lin offer an explicitly critical position on the role of cul-
tural policy in promulgating creative-economy discourses in Taiwan. The import of British
creative-economy discourses, via a new National Development Fund focused on the profit-
ability of films, failed to develop the domestic film industry. This shows the limits of market-­
oriented forms of cultural policy, whether for development or more general goals. They
assert the need for longer-term policy engagement and planning, and the role of a cultural
exception for films, if cultural policy is to develop Taiwanese film.
The problematic relationship between cultural policy and economic development con-
tinues in the case of Melbourne, Australia, as a ‘music city.’ Strong, Homan, O’Hanlon,
and Tebbutt juxtapose the objectives of the contemporary city and state with community

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production and consumption of music. The question for cultural policy is how to read the dis-
tance between the two sides—whether as a question of balancing competing claims, integrat-
ing oppositional agendas, or, as Quintero Rivera and Hernandez Acosta have demonstrated in
Puerto Rico, transforming cultural policy itself. The remaining question is how to ensure di-
verse voices in a context where, as Strong, Homan, O’Hanlon, and Tebbutt comment, ‘music
is increasingly framed as an economic good rather than as a fundamental aspect of social life.’

Part VII: The nation-state and cultural policy

Our final substantive part addresses the various themes analysed in previous parts at the
national level. Notwithstanding the global focus of the book, and the attempt by many in-
dividual chapters to apply a cross-national lens to their case studies and theoretical insights,
the nation-state remains central to many of the essays. As such, it is appropriate to draw
on individual contributions that look at particular nation-states, both as examples of wider
trends, such as the use of mega-events for cultural policy in Japan, or because those states
have been under-represented in mainstream cultural policy research; Iran and India provide
useful examples of this line of thought. Here, we have chosen to combine nations that have
previously been peripheral to some cultural policy discussions, such as Iran, India, and South
Africa, with countries that have been important to understanding the need for a global un-
derstanding of cultural policy, such as Japan and South Korea. These case studies open up the
possibility of understanding a rich and complex cultural policy landscape.
We set these chapters alongside the UK, a nation that has been important to shared clichés
of cultural policy practice, such as mega-events and the creative industries. It is obviously
difficult to draw together different national experiences of cultural policy. Key themes can
be found in the tensions created by cultural policy’s relationship with projects of nationalism
and state-building. Isar begins the section, looking at the oxymoron of cultural policy in
India. This frame results from the implicit status of much of cultural policy in India. Whilst
this situation results in the fragmentary settlement described by Isar, it also opens the pos-
sibility of understanding a rich and complex cultural policy landscape. This is the backdrop
for the rise of a contested cultural politics, focused on religious cultural policing, allied to
a changing political context in which appointments to cultural institutions are shaped by a
counterattack against secularist and pluralist voices.
Tajmazinani’s chapter on Iran serves to extend Isar’s analysis into a setting where explicit
cultural policy has been vital to national transformation. Indeed, the Iranian situation is
best captured through the concept of ‘Cultural Engineering,’ aligning economic, social, and
political policy with the overall cultural orientation of the Islamic Revolution. This is a strik-
ing contrast to many other cultural policy examples, whereby the dominance of economic
conceptions of culture is inverted to serve the state’s primarily cultural, revolutionary ends.
Kim offers a very different example from South Korea, using K-pop to demonstrate the
impact of a more general neo-liberal turn in Korean cultural and social policy. K-pop has
been a central part of the reimagining of Korea in the democratic era, but it is intertwined
with the gendered exploitation of those seeking commercial and cultural success. There is
an over-determination of the role of cultural policy in the Korean case, resulting in the need
for a more nuanced reading of the national context, the broader political economy of cul-
tural production, and the neo-liberal discourses of individualisation animating the supposed
success of the Korean national brand.
The remaining chapters, by Campbell and Cox, Tamari, and Sitas, locate their national
engagements at the urban level. Campbell and Cox offer a commentary on the rise to

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dominance of a British model for doing urban regeneration with culture, by analysing the
production of evidence of impact. The use of culture for urban regeneration, and the rise of
specific forms of evidence and evidential practice, is one dominant form of cultural policy
shared across all of Britain’s nations. The British case study, we should note, is a warning as
to the limits of evaluations and evidence-based policy-making for culture.
Tamari’s case study of Japan draws together the thinking of several other chapters that
have engaged with the use of mega-events for city and nation branding. Ultimately, Tamari
narrates the promise of cultural policy as an act of consensus making around citizen partic-
ipation in culture. She does so by situating the forthcoming Tokyo Olympics in the broader
sweep of Japanese cultural policy, through initiatives such as Cool Japan, to the emergence of
creative city discourses for Tokyo 2020. In this focus, the chapter reveals historic, colonial,
and geopolitically informed influences shaping how cultural policies travel across the globe.
This movement is a focus of the chapter by Sitas, who situates South Africa cultural pol-
icy within a context of what she describes as ‘global policy mobilities’. In the South African
context, the inequalities associated with cultural-economy practices have a racialised char-
acter, with disproportionate benefits accruing to those who are white. Sitas uses the Public
Art and the Power of Place project, based in Cape Town, as a way of illustrating global and
local cultural policy relationships, alongside the potentially unequal impact of current South
African approaches. The urban setting illustrates the limits of global forms of cultural policy
externally imposed upon communities, whilst gesturing towards a more attentive, place-
based, cultural policy.

Conclusions
The collection concludes with two essays that address fundamental challenges for cultural
policy. On the one hand, we are confronted with the issue of what is successful cultural pol-
icy, in a context that seems to eschew formal cultural policy; on the other, the meaning of
culture itself. These contributions offer an unsettling question for cultural policy, as to the
limits of success and the need for its existence.
Miller’s essay on ‘Nollywood’ concentrates on the development of the alternative, pop-
ulist Nigerian film industry as an example of cultural production in the absence of cultural
policy, notably intellectual property protection and formal arts funding, two important pil-
lars of the discussions of cultural policy throughout this collection. Transformations in the
technological basis for cultural production suggest that there will be much to learn from the
Nigerian experience if we are to answer the question of what is a successful cultural policy.
Bennett, who has done much to shape cultural policy research, returns us to the question
at the heart of cultural policy studies and practice, which is the meaning of culture itself,
who determines that meaning, and in what context it is interpreted and promulgated. He
offers a powerful critique of the idea of culture in contemporary cultural policy through
analysing what he describes as ‘a distinctive episode in the political career of the cultural
concept.’ This episode is a theoretical period in time, if you will, that ranges from Franz
Boas’ impact on American anthropology, through British cultural studies. He demonstrates
how aesthetics may reflect global issues of power and, particularly, racial exclusion. This ar-
gument presents a challenge to those of us, as researchers, authors, and editors, who seek to
defend the potential of cultural policy. Bennett demands a new agenda for an emancipatory
cultural policy that considers culture’s relationship to ‘questions of power, history and value’
(Hesmondhalgh and Saha 2013: 179).

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 Towards global cultural policy studies

As editors, we write from particular standpoints, reflecting our location within the Brit-
ish, Colombian, and Australian academic systems. Taking a global perspective on cultural
policy studies has been a humbling and incomplete task. Absences and blind spots are in-
evitable, but we trust that it will help to build a picture of how—to borrow a term from
Bennett’s chapter that closes the collection—cultural policy has been ‘patterned’ across the
globe, whether in international or global versions. With this Handbook, we aim then to de-
velop a conversation about the need for global scholarship. This scholarship will emerge from
political, social, and environmental contexts in which understanding the interconnected-
ness, alongside the difference, of cultural perspectives is essential.
The chapters presented here show the inter- and transnational mobility of cultural poli-
cies; instances in which policies have been normalised, but also altered, through their global
mobility. As a result, cross-cultural policy movement and influence are not just about the
application or transplantation of a particular policy—with creative industries being the most
obvious example—to a new location. Differences are recognisable. One instance is the the-
oretical approaches underpinning how cultural policies are varyingly and individually artic-
ulated and formed within and between different nations. Language and meaning are part of
the story of a global cultural policy—one that is continually forming. What emerges from
the collection is that many cultural policy concerns are shared across the globe. These in-
clude issues related to rights: identity, diversity, heritage, and belonging, as well as marginal-
isation and inequality—social, cultural, spatial, and economic. The potential of regional and
cultural collaboration and cooperation is made evident alongside historically based geopolit-
ical domination. Overall, however, the chapters reveal a sense of optimism for the potential
of cultural policy studies itself.

Notes
1 Apart from Cunningham, key figures included Tom O’Regan, Tony Bennett, David Saunders, Ian
Hunter, and Colin Mercer.
2 We’d mention Rosalía Winocur Iparraguirre, Ana Rosas Mantecón, Daniel Mato, Ana Maria
Ochoa Gautier, Bianca Freire, Alejandro Grimson, João Freire Filho, and Eduardo Nivón.
3 They include Will Straw, Rebecca Sullivan, Jody Berland, Ric Gruneau, Charles Acland, the
late Paul Attalah, Michael Dorland, Clive Robertson, Bart Beaty, Ron Burnett, David Taras, Ira
Wagman, Vincent Mosco, Serra Tinic, Yuezhi Zhao, and Catherine McKercher.
4 A quick list would feature the late James Carey, Manju Pendakur, Larry Grossberg, Andrew Ross,
Bill Grantham, Paula Chakravartty, Jennifer Holt, Fred Myers, George Marcus, Lisa Parks, Ellen
Seiter, Cameron McCarthy, Paula Treichler, David Kennedy, Rob Nixon, Arvind Rajagopal,
Cristina Venegas, George Yúdice, Tom Streeter, Larry Gross, Kelly Gates, Herman Gray, Rick
Maxwell, Faye Ginsburg, Michael Hanchard, James Hay, and Michael Curtin.
5 We note that this is a typical anxiety of the Global North. This value is pretty much taken for
granted, for example, across Latin America.

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 Part I
Situating cultural policy
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 2
Cultural policy in political
science research
Jonathan Paquette and Devin Beauregard

Introduction
Academic disciplines are, for better or worse, characterised by a certain sense of unity. They
often share a common core of literature and – if only minimally – definition(s) of their
object(s) of study. When students join a field, they subject themselves to a number of activ-
ities aimed at giving them the basic knowledge and essential references to that field. The
socialisation process at play in a student’s education also conveys a number of competencies
and dispositions that are seen as essential for progression in the field. When reflecting upon
academic disciplines, the narrative of unity is important; it is a belief we entertain about
the social world – especially when we approach the world through the lenses of education,
training, and socialisation. When we introduce the narrative of research into the equation,
academic disciplines – as social worlds – appear less homogeneous: less consensual and more
competitive. A sociological look at academia reveals a paradoxical juxtaposition of unity and
diversity, of divisions or fractures. These divisions can serve to shape the identity of a disci-
pline; they act as both topography and map. In economic sciences, for instance, the divide
between orthodox and heterodox economists is a key element to understanding the structure
of theory development. In sociology, similar theoretical and methodological divides can
be observed, though divisions in sociology can also come in the form of new objects and
specialisations (e.g. a sociology of family, a sociology of labour, a sociology of art and culture,
etc.), that reveal the proteiform nature of the discipline.
When it comes to divisions in academic research, it is striking how political science has
institutionalised some of its divisions as a way of organising its discipline. Political science
has been structured by many subfields or subdivisions, wherein students and researchers
specialise based on personal preferences. These subdivisions often require or make use of
methods and basic theoretical literature that can vary significantly from one subdivision to
the next. While these subdivisions may vary depending on one’s national context, they re-
main, in most cases, a federation comprised of, at the very least: political philosophy, political
sociology and electoral behaviours, comparative politics, international relations, and public
administration. These subdivisions evolve in different institutional contexts and, historically,
have even been the subject of secessionist ambitions in some cases. In North America, public

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Jonathan Paquette and Devin Beauregard

administration is often thought of as a political science – this, despite the fact that, since the
1920s, public administration programs have developed separately, with disciplinary ambi-
tions of their own. A similar evolution has occurred for international relations, which is now
increasingly thought of and taught as separate programs (i.e. international relations or public
affairs). Additionally, the fact that disciplines are influenced and defined by national cultures
is reflected in the shape and orientations of their subdivisions. In Anglo-Saxon traditions of
political science, for instance, it is common to specialise in a country’s politics (e.g. British
politics, United States (US) politics, Canadian politics, etc.); while in many other traditions,
such forms of specialisation are seen as part of the field of comparative politics. This is just a
sample of the myriad of institutionalised divisions that characterise political science.
In this context, how can we understand the place of cultural policy research in political
science? Where can we find cultural policy research’s traces in political science? How do we
identify or recognise the contributions of political science to the study of cultural policy?
Are these contributions distinctive? The aim of this chapter is to provide answers to these
important questions. Of course, we could simply answer, right from the start, that for polit-
ical scientists today, the study of cultural policy is a subfield of public policy research, and,
when compared to other subfields – such as environment policy, health policy, or educational
policy, to name but a few – is not an extremely important one. That being said, by offering
greater nuance, not to mention a little bit of historical background, this chapter intends to
provide answers that offer a greater account of cultural policy research in relation to political
science – answers that are a great deal less pessimistic than what one might expect from a
political scientist.
Moreover, this chapter reflects upon the greater political implications of studying cul-
ture: while this chapter aims to chart the contributions of political science to cultural policy
research, it is done with the understanding that this presentation is debatable. As a result,
what we are presenting is a discipline whose contribution to the study of cultural policy is far
less critical and much more politically liberal than what is offered by other traditions such as
cultural studies. For its part, the field of cultural studies has evolved contextually, in a similar
fashion to other political science fields: in its narrowest of scopes, cultural studies can be said
to be British in both origin and tradition. This tradition has been decidedly critical in nature,
in large part as a response to sociologists who saw the field of cultural studies as “too soft”
and too reliant on quantitative interpretations (Gray & McGuigan, 1993, pp. vii–viii). As a
result, this criticalness has often taken on a political dimension, with many cultural research-
ers feeling the need to critique dominant political, economic, and social orders (Miller &
Yúdice, 2002, p. 29). In this respect, one might conclude that cultural studies and cultural
policy studies go relatively hand-in-hand given that policy studies invariably involve polit-
ical, economic, and social considerations. Yet, cultural studies researchers have often ques-
tioned the need and importance of studying policy, let alone cultural policy (O’Brien, 2014,
p. 1). The prevailing assumption has been that cultural policy – regardless of its intent – has,
in some way, been compromised by political and commercial agendas. The logic follows a
relatively Marxist critique that if one can answer the question of who controls the production
of mass media and culture, then one can invariably understand the process of cultural poli-
cymaking (Cunningham, 2003, p. 17). Despite this critical appraisal of cultural policy – or
perhaps because of it – cultural policy studies have sought to strike a balance between critical
and practical policy studies, in the process exploring the relationship between government
and culture (Bennett, 1998, p. 285). By contrast, political science has been more liberal in
its treatment of culture and far less critical as it is primarily focused on institutions and their
functions.

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 Cultural policy in political science research

Culture and political science

Culture and political science intersect in three different ways. In a first intersection, political
scientists often approach culture from either aesthetic or anthropological registers. With the
aesthetic register, culture is understood in the context of artistic output and is used to qual-
ify or mark “differences and similarities in taste and status within social groups” (Miller &
Yúdice, 2002, p. 1). The anthropological register takes culture a step further and articulates
it as a way of life, grounded “by language, religion, custom, time, and space” (p. 1). Much
in the same way that culture in the aesthetic register is understood as a question of taste, so
do the elements of culture-as-a-way-of-life – that is to say the language, customs, etc., that
go into a culture – represent tastes and choices – albeit “unconscious canons of choice” that
have gradually evolved and come into being, sometimes over spans of hundreds and even
thousands of years (Benedict, 1934 [2005], pp. 47–48). The common trait of both these
registers is the notion that culture can and does serve as a foundation in the development of
identity and/or a sense of community. Both provide elements around which people come
to identify – both personally and collectively. A country and its citizens, for instance, will
identify under the banner of that country’s name and symbols; those same citizens will often
express a sense of comradery and community – a sense of nationalism and national pride –
towards each other in recognition of their shared nationality. Yet this sense of community
that comes from culture is often superficial in nature; the community is imagined because
the bonds that hold it together are, more often than not, built on arbitrary and often circum-
stantial factors (i.e. the fact that two people were simply born in the same country or geo-
graphic region or were raised in the same religion) and not on the basis of personal relations
or familiarity (Anderson, 1991, pp. 6–7). In this respect, culture takes on a more substantive
form and can refer to a national culture, a regional culture, or local culture for that matter; it
is a signifier used to identify and distinguish people based on any number of factors (e.g. race,
ethnicity, language, class, religion, sexual orientation, gender, age, status, and distinctive life
experiences) (Rosaldo, 1993).
The second understanding of culture in political science has to do with “political culture.”
This notion is crucial for the field and refers to different types of political behaviours. A po-
litical culture, in a nutshell, is a “conceptual umbrella” that covers a “wide and apparently
homogenous range” of political issues and areas and sits in the proverbial “vanguard of the
behavioural revolution in political science” (Dittmer, 1977, pp. 552–553). Emerging from the
literature on nationalism – and strongly influenced by the “psychocultural approach” to study-
ing politics – political culture is used to describe the ways in which a political system has been
“internalized in the cognitions, feelings, and evaluations of its population” (Almond & Verba,
1966, pp. 13–14). The focus, with political culture, is largely on the sets of values, attitudes,
and beliefs that give a political system meaning and structure; it is the political orientation of a
political system (p. 13). Broadly, the famous work of Almond and Verba (1966) outlines three
political cultures based around the degree to which citizens have a say in the inputs and out-
puts of government: parochial, subject, and participant. In a parochial culture, there are “no
specialized political roles” and little expectation of change from the political system. In many
respects, a parochial culture is emblematic of pre-democratic and tribal societies where citizens
have no input and receive no output (pp. 17–18). In a subject culture, there is an awareness of a
specialised governmental authority, but there is little impetus from the general public to evoke
change at any given point; there is an awareness of the output of government, but there is no
input. The subject culture is likened to a French royalist who “is aware of democratic institu-
tions” but chooses not to “accord legitimacy to them” (p. 19). Finally, in a participant culture,

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Jonathan Paquette and Devin Beauregard

citizens are active both in the input and output of government: they have a say in what the gov-
ernment does and how it does it. Where the concept of political culture has been most salient is
in comparisons between existing and emerging democracies (Denk et al., 2015, p. 359). While
this second understanding of culture in relation to political science has little to do with what
many cultural policy researchers look for or have in mind when researching art and cultural
policy, it nevertheless touches on the overall malleability of culture as a concept – particularly
in the broader context of political science.
Thus far, we have insisted on presenting these two notions of culture in an effort to
demonstrate the diversity of meanings of culture in political science. More importantly,
however, what we have tried to evidence is how the discipline’s most important notions of
culture are, in fact, unrelated to the definition of culture that has been most salient to the
study of cultural policy. This brings us to the third understanding of culture: as both art
and heritage. When it comes to historically situating the first fundamental contributions of
political science to the study of cultural policy in the context of art and heritage, it would
be difficult not to start with the contributions of political philosophy and its philosophers.
The linkages between arts and politics are as ancient as Western philosophy, and Plato’s
Republic is one of the innumerable works1 in which such links (and the questions they raise)
are offered in analytical reflection. While the boundaries of philosophy, aesthetics, and po-
litical philosophy (in political science) are fluid in nature and open to debate, it remains that
political scientists have incorporated these considerations – these works and authors – into
their academic landscape. Today, political philosophy remains actively concerned with the
political dimensions of the arts, with contributions such as Jacques Rancière’s (2001, 2008,
2011), for instance, showing how political philosophy can address cultural (policy) issues
with a much-needed critical eye.
In sum, apart from political philosophy, the vast majority of work done by political scientists
with respect to cultural policy rests on definitions of culture that have more to do with identity
(national, regional culture) or behaviour (political culture) than with arts or heritage. While
this may have little if nothing to do with cultural policy’s relevance, it should be stated that
cultural policy research – as the study of governmental action in arts, culture, and heritage – is
relatively marginal in political science in comparison to other research agendas. To better
characterise cultural policy research, we should also state that – within the tradition of po-
litical science – it is mostly rooted in two subfields: it is an object of interest for international
relations and for public policy and public administration researchers. With this in mind, the
following subsections present the evolution of cultural policy research in political science from
disciplinary, historical, and global perspectives. While this chapter has endeavoured to be as
comprehensive as possible, we must acknowledge that there is a prominent Euro-American
bias in our references to political science. Consequently, while there are obvious and unavoid-
able asymmetries, this chapter, nevertheless, sheds some light on how cultural policy research
has evolved through time and from different significant turning points.

Political science and the arts (1930s–1960s)

Political philosophy has engaged with questions related to arts and culture for millenniums;
unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the rest of political science’s subfields, nor can it
be said for the discipline in general. In other subfields, interest for cultural policy developed
timidly in the 1930s. Over a period of roughly three decades (1930s–1960s), political sci-
ence’s interest in cultural policy gradually developed around four main themes: the study
of political regimes and totalitarianism; international relations and cultural diplomacy; the

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development and regulation of mass communication; and the rationalisation and bureaucra-
tisation of the relationship between state and culture through the development of agencies
and ministries of culture across the globe.
Interest for cultural policy in political science first grew through the study of political
regimes. As with many other interests in political science, the influence of Max Weber
undoubtedly played a part in political scientists’ first engagements with cultural policy. In
particular, Weber’s (1895–1919) political essays on the German State and on cultural impe-
rialism in Europe (Beetham, 1985) inspired a number of scholars, in the 1930s, to further
his work by exploring the evolution of the German State (Salomon, 1935). This work em-
phasised the importance of culture as a tool for power in service to the State’s aspirations.
Cultural policy, in turn, was defined as an instrument that fashioned many social and polit-
ical aspects – from citizenship to foreign policy (Schuman, 1934; Hartshorne, 1938). Since
then, the incorporation of cultural policy in comparative politics and in the study of political
regimes has become relatively common. In the 1950s and 1960s, cultural policy became one
of the many dimensions studied in relation to understanding the consolidation of the totali-
tarian Soviet regime and the cultural imperialism employed in its sphere of influence. Many
of the works that came out in this period were concerned with either the (Soviet Union’s)
political influence on the Arts (Slusser, 1956; Gömöri, 1958; Johnson & Labedz, 1965) (what
was valued, permitted by political elites) or by the use of culture as a tool for social regulation
(Byrnes, 1958). The advent of the Cultural Revolution in China also contributed interest in
the mobilisation of culture by political regimes (Gupta, 1970).
Not only did arts and cultural policy research inspire the political science’s interest in po-
litical regimes, it also provided insights into the inner-life of European political parties. The
work of Jean Touchard (1967) on the cultural and intellectual life of the French Communist
Party is a good case in point; it illustrates how the study of arts, the cultural aspirations of a
party’s members, and their engagement with culture can provide insightful material for the
study of political parties. A collected edition by Ralph Croizier (1970) on the Communist
party’s cultural policy also points to the importance of studying culture in the inner-life and
history of political parties.
Perhaps the second most important contribution to cultural policy research in this era
also stemmed from the era’s social and political conditions. Cultural diplomacy, as an object
of study – which has, in recent years, reconquered its place in academic research (e.g. Singh,
2010) – is, first and foremost, a product of academia originating from the Cold War. Cultural
diplomacy broadly refers to the different programs and methods used by states to conduct
their politics on a cultural front. In other words, cultural diplomacy is seen as an additional
tool in the conduct of foreign affairs. In the 1950s and 1960s, political scientists developed a
keen interest in “cultural exchanges” and “cultural relations” as they were seen as tools for
enhancing a state’s global sphere of influence (Barghoorn, 1958; 1967; Malik, 1961; Merritt,
1965; Spiller, 1966; Frankel, 1969). Frankel’s (1965) book on cultural diplomacy – A Neglected
Aspect of Foreign Affairs – was one of the first major works on the topic, and his views were
welcomed by academics and practitioners alike. This is to say, this research was not only seen
as policy-relevant for foreign affairs, it also attracted interest from an audience well beyond
academic circles. Interest in cultural diplomacy, however, was not unique to US academics;
Italian, French, and Canadian academic journals all published in abundance on the cultural
dimension of foreign affairs – though, with a strong emphasis on bilateral relations and the
role of cultural institutes (Magistrati, 1958; Schroeder-Gudehus, 1970).
A third stream of academic contributions that characterises this era’s cultural policy re-
search in political science concerns the development of mass communication. The freedom

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Jonathan Paquette and Devin Beauregard

of the press, censorship, and the development of radio and television (Harris, 1955) attracted
the attention of political scientists who tried to chart the political issues and intricacies that
were relevant to these channels of artistic and cultural expression. On the one hand, these
researchers were planting the seeds for a deeper subsectoral (e.g. radio, television, publi-
cation, performing arts, etc.) understanding and paving the way for the kind of subsector
research that we are accustomed to today. On the other hand, political science was also
heavily under the interdisciplinary influence of communication sciences. In Canada, for
instance, following the Canadian tradition of political economy, the works of Harold Innis
(1946, 1950) emphasised the inter-relations of power and communications as a means of
exploring culture as a space where power could be expressed and performed. This style of
research – with its strong emphasis on communications – had an enduring and definitive
effect on Canadian cultural policy research orientations up until the end of the 1990s; it gave
Canadian cultural policy research its strong emphasis on subsector issues as they relate to
publishing and (radio and television) broadcasting.
Finally, the development of governmental institutions (arts councils and departments and
ministries of culture) devoted to supporting, promoting, and funding cultural initiatives
has created conditions in which the question of cultural policy has become evidently more
salient. The foundation of the British Arts Council in 1946, the Canada Council for the Arts
in 1957, France’s Ministry of Culture in 1959, Québec’s Ministry of Cultural Affairs in 1961,
and the United States’ National Endowment for the Arts in 1965 all attracted the attention
of political scientists (Harris, 1969; Morin, 1969) interested in the political intricacies and
inner-functionings of these new public sector institutions.
Thus, with respect to political science, we can conclude that this era of cultural policy research
was characterised by a quantitatively limited, albeit diverse, range of works focused on specific
cultural issues – though works that do not necessarily recognise cultural policy as their research
object. Apart from some notable works and essays that sought to raise awareness of the impor-
tance of cultural policy – such as Ralph Purcell’s (1956) Government and Art, André H. Mesnard’s
(1969) action culturelle2 in France, Arthur Schlesinger’s (1960) essay on National Cultural Policy, or
even Alvin Toffler’s (1967) conceptual piece that laid the grounds for a systemic style of cultural
intervention – there were relatively few published works in political science that substantively
addressed broader cultural issues (or cultural policy, for that matter). Simply put, political science’s
contributions to the study of cultural policy were not nearly as ground-breaking or rich as those
made by researchers in the fields of sociology or cultural studies – though that should not discour-
age scholars from exploring the limited offerings of political science from this era.

Cultural policy: the definition of an object of study

(1970s–1990s)
One of the first attempts to define the field of cultural policy research by a political scientist
came from Canadian researcher John Meisel (1974). Elements of Meisel’s views with respect
to culture and cultural policy can be found in his 1974 presidential address at the Annual
meeting of the Canadian Association of Political Science. For Meisel, political science had,
for too long, neglected the importance of “leisure culture” as he called it, because ultimately
this leisure culture has an effect on “political culture”:

In urging political scientists to lift the darkness which surrounds the political aspect of
leisure culture, I admit to starting out with something close to an act of faith. Underly-
ing my comments is the unproven assumption that certain relationships between culture

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and politics in fact exists. But I find inconceivable that the programs children and adults
see on television and at the cinema or hear on the radio, the games they play and watch,
the comics, books, magazines they read, the town and architecture which surround
them, do not exercise a strong influence on their political culture. (p. 604)

In other words, Meisel tried to articulate the importance of cultural policy research for
political science by defending the idea that culture was not an end in itself, but its research
could further important disciplinary themes such as “political culture.” In doing so, Meisel
presented the idea that cultural policy can cultivate good citizenship – an idea that has since
taken root in academia and in the ideologies of many policymakers and activists. Moreover,
from Meisel’s perspective, we can conclude that cultural policy was beginning to be seen as
a broad area of governmental action that includes many subsectors.
The conceptual developments and influence of public administration and public policy
research in the 1970s and 1980s had seminal effects on the development of cultural policy
research in political science. The basic definition of policy that most political scientists will
refer to, as a last resort, takes root in notions developed in public policy research: it is defined
as what a government “chooses to do or not to do” (Dye, 1995, p. 2) – a government’s ac-
tion or inaction. For others, the importance in researching policy comes from its outcome;
it is about uncovering the pressures, resource mobilisation, and strategies for obtaining rare
resources that have shaped or influenced the policy itself. In other words, and in the classical
definition of policy offered by Lasswell (1936), policy is about “who gets what, when and
how.” How political scientists engage with cultural policies is often a product of one or both
of these basic definitions of public policy.
In a plea for the development of cultural policy research in political science, Paul DiMaggio
(1983) offers a poetic definition of cultural policy as the policies that regulate “the market
place of ideas” (p. 242). However, in plainer terms, DiMaggio suggests that, in this instance,
he is using “the term ‘policy’ loosely to include unintended but systematic consequences of
government actions as well as action towards identified [cultural] ends” (p. 242). More re-
cently, Clive Gray (2010) has offered a definition of cultural policies as “[…] the range of ac-
tivities that governments undertake-or do not undertake – in the arena of culture” (p. 222).
In this context, cultural policy refers to government action (or inaction) in and as it relates to
the cultural sector – which broadly includes the arts, communications, and heritage, though
it is often defined in more restrictive terms and applied to specific areas of cultural practice
(publishing, performing arts, visual arts, etc.).
Over the years, attempts have been made to add or expand on these definitions of cul-
tural policy as a means of encompassing new elements of culture and/or to delineate cultural
policy’s territory vis-à-vis other policy fields. One such example would be the definition of
cultural policy developed by Margaret J. Wyszomirski (2002), which suggests that cultural
policies are “[…] a large, heterogeneous set of individuals and organizations engaged in the
production, presentation, distribution, preservation, and education about aesthetic, heritage,
and entertainment activities, products and artifacts” (p. 186). This definition emphasises
the diffused nature of cultural policy development and echoes the division of labour that is
commonly seen as part of cultural production. Perhaps one of the most helpful definitions
of cultural policy comes from Kevin Mulcahy (2006), who posits that cultural policy should
not be restricted to the confines of arts policy, but should also include areas of activity
such as heritage and the humanities (p. 321). Ultimately, however, in all of these cases, the
underlying elements of Dye and Lasswell’s classic definitions of policy are evident – albeit in
a distinctively cultural vernacular.

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Jonathan Paquette and Devin Beauregard

To say, however, that a definitional awareness of cultural policy led to a greater appre-
ciation of the policy field in the 1980s and 1990s would be misleading. For sure, cultural
policy is – alongside environmental policy, tax policy, health policy, and transportation
policy (etc.) – a public policy sector like any other. Political scientists, however, will often
and unapologetically suggest that, compared to other fields, the cultural policy sector is not
considered important – whether that is from the perspective of government interventions
(Gray & Wingfield, 2011) or from the perspective of the discipline itself (Eling, 1999).
Despite this dismissal, the 1970s and 1980s had more to offer cultural policy research
than simply to define its object of study – though defining an object, it should be noted,
is of fundamental importance. The first kind of cultural policy research contributions this
era of political science saw relate to detailed analysis, with an emphasis on institutional
elements, of national cultural policies – in places such as Great Britain (Green & Wilding,
1970), France (Mesnard, 1974; Wengermée & Gournay, 1988), Canada (Fortier & Schafer,
1989), the US (Mulcahy, 1987), Nicaragua (Ross, 1990), and Norway (Dahl, 1984). This era
also saw academics engage more thoroughly in policy analysis and program reviews as they
related to cultural policy (e.g. McCormack, 1984; Handler, 1985). In French-speaking coun-
tries and areas, studying cultural policy also meant analysing the effects or capacities of the
state in terms of “cultural development” (Dumont, 1979; Girard & Gentil, 1982; Pascallon,
1983) – a logic of governmental action in culture that finds its origins in the creation of the
French ministry of culture.
Finally, some of the works from political scientists of this period took the shape of es-
says, wherein academics assumed the role (and voice) of public intellectual more than that
of technician – though most of these writings pertain to the orientation of cultural policies
rather than their applications. In North America, the notion of “public culture” (Mulcahy,
1981; Joyce, 1984) and the role of the government in the arts was a dominant theme; while
in France, cultural policy debates materialised as critiques of the national cultural policy
(Giordan, 1982; Ritaine, 1983) – especially its allegedly failed (forced) attempts to democra-
tise culture. Acting as social critics and public intellectuals, many political scientists favoured
an alternative logic of cultural policy that was more inclusive and respectful of the diversity
of tastes. Despite their structural commonalities, both of these debates – North American and
French – evolved in parallel on their respective sides of the Atlantic, never meeting though
raising a number of the same questions, albeit in largely different contexts (Mulcahy, 2006).

Policy theories and new fieldworks (1990s–2000s)

The 1990s marked a turn for political scientists and public administration scholars engaged in
cultural policy research. Cultural policy research had gained currency because it could cir-
culate in academic journals that were (and remain still) largely interdisciplinary. The Journal
of Arts Management, Law and Society attracted its fair share of cultural policy analysis – mostly
comparative work – while other journals – such as the European Journal of Cultural Policy
(eventually the International Journal of Cultural Policy), and Cultural Trends – offered new plat-
forms for debates where political scientists were welcomed to contribute. While disciplinary
journals of political science and public administration were also seen as viable outlets for
research, these new cultural policy-driven journals opened platforms for creative interdisci-
plinary discussions that had hitherto been unavailable to cultural policy scholars. Given how
political scientists approach cultural policy, and their (at least minimal) agreement on the na-
ture of the object, debates on issues such as the instrumentality of cultural policy or the im-
plicit or explicit (e.g. Ahearne, 2009; Throsby, 2009) nature of cultural policy – reminding

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 Cultural policy in political science research

us of the direct or indirect effects of governments (or their influence) through their actions
or inactions – opened avenues for rich intellectual encounters where political scientist could
step in and contribute to the discussion. More importantly, this period saw the full influence
of the intellectual tradition of public policy research (“policy sciences”) – that had developed
in political science throughout the 1950s and 1960s – take hold; it consolidated the texture
of what political science contributes to cultural policy today: namely, the policy cycle and
comparative research.
From a theoretical perspective, the policy cycle results from the influence of systems
theory on political science and public policy research; it is an adaptation of the basic prin-
ciples of these models to the world of public policy; and it is, for good or ill, the backbone
of policy research (Lerner & Lasswell, 1951; Brewer & DeLeon, 1983). The role of political
science in policy studies often resides in attempting to explain policy change and policy
transformation – and this is usually approached through a study of the policy cycle. The policy
cycle is typically approached through four (sometimes five) basic – often overlapping – steps:
the emergence or recognition of an issue/problem; the formulation of a policy(ies) to address
the issue; the implementation of the policy(ies); and, finally, the evaluation of the policy(ies).
While political scientists studying cultural policy have been interested in the interaction
among these different steps, the tendency has generally been to focus, specialise, and/or pro-
vide an in-depth analysis of one individual step. In the context of cultural policy, the first step
of the cycle, issue-emergence, often begins with (various social and political) actors express-
ing a social or cultural demand that, in turn, is recognised and placed on the government’s
agenda. Researches focusing on this stage will typically emphasise the configuration(s) of
actors and their capacity to mobilise and exert pressures on government (e.g. Barbieri, 2012).
The second step of the cycle, policy formulation, involves the development and selection of
policy option(s). While the line between the emergence of an issue and the formulation of a
policy may be thin at times, the formulation process is often a more formal stage of the cycle,
where the issues are discussed and often (re)defined in political arenas (e.g. Stevenson, 2013),
and research of this stage tends to focus on the contributions of the various actors involved.
The third stage, policy implementation, involves the study of strategies and means put
in place (i.e. administration, plans, and funds) and their mobilisation for the delivery of
(cultural) policy. Implementation research is the poor cousin of cultural policy studies and,
as such, is no different from other fields (health, environment, etc.) or applications of pub-
lic policy theory. That being said, beyond the strict confines of the discipline, researchers
in cognate fields – such as urban studies, urban planning, or regional development – who
have researched cultural policy often rely on public policy concepts and have carried out
significant research on policy implementation, with an emphasis, of course, on local cultural
policy implementation involving themes such as the creative city (e.g. Kovacs, 2010). Finally,
political scientists are also interested in cultural policy evaluation – and by evaluation, we
mean the practice of evaluation and its technical aspects – but without being restricted to the
technical aspects alone. With policy evaluation, researchers are also interested in the social
reception of the policy; they are interested in what the communities (i.e. artists, profession-
als, advocates, users, amateurs) and media have to say about the policy(ies). The notion of
policy evaluation in policy research should not to be mistaken for analysing the policy itself,
or serving as evidence-based policy; it refers simply to a conceptual part of the policy process
that is both technical and social.
While these stages have been defined and used for a long time in public policy research,
it is only in the 1990s that they truly became analytical categories commonly used in cul-
tural policy research. Thus, the cycle provides a useful, yet minimalistic, cartography of

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political science’s main contribution to cultural policy studies. Beyond these broad catego-
ries, researchers often apply or test some conceptual frameworks (i.e. institutional theory,
advocacy-coalition framework, rational choice theories, narrative theories, referentials, etc.)
or focus on a distinct phenomenon that adds an additional level of analysis – such as policy
instruments, path dependencies, policy diffusion, or policy transfer. Like other political
scientists, those who seek explanations of cultural policy formulation, implementation, or
evaluation often base their analysis on theoretical frameworks that privilege interest-based,
ideas-based, or institutional-based explanations (Palier & Surel, 2005) to make sense of cul-
tural policies.
The other main legacy of political science in cultural policy research has to do with com-
parative research, a core intellectual tradition in political science that seeks to understand
the evolution of political regimes and institutions through a comparative focus on the ad-
ministrative structures, institutional features, and functioning of political systems or policy
subsystems such as cultural policy. This kind of research tends to be either descriptive or ty-
pological in nature. Different national, regional, or local cultural policies are compared and
juxtaposed with the goal of distilling patterns and, eventually (or potentially), types. With
that being said, it should be noted that the comparative tradition in political science does
not always involve systematic comparisons. This may sound confusing, but researchers spe-
cialising in understanding the structures of a single country or region over time – engaging
in what some may label as “area studies” – commonly belong to a comparative tradition of
research from the point of view of a political scientist.
Belonging to this research tradition, the vast majority of cultural policy research conducted
by French political scientists since the 1990s has focused on the study of local cultural policy.
Issues of system development and cultural decentralisation have occupied a central role in ac-
ademic production. The works of Guy Saez or Emmanuel Négrier (Négrier et al., 2007) are
representative of the comparative orientations of French cultural policy research. In Belgium,
the work of Genard (2010) also focuses on local and regional cultural policies in relation to the
country’s linguistic communities. In Canada, the work of Saint-Pierre and Gattinger (2010)
surveyed the development and variation in subnational (provincial) cultural policies. Another
important theme of comparative research concerns the development and evolution of cultural
agencies around the world. The works of Gray (2000) on Great Britain or Bordat (2012) on
the evolution of cultural policy in Mexico and Argentina offer a good sample of this outlook
from a political science perspective. While the number of comparative cultural policy works
is much greater than what has been presented here, research of this nature remains relatively
limited compared to works that focus on (a step or steps of ) the policy cycle.

Cultural policy research in political science: today

and new orientations
From this historical survey, it becomes clear that political science has made a contribution
to the study of cultural policy – albeit relatively limited by comparison to its contributions
to other issues (e.g. the study of political regimes, democratic transitions, or political ideolo-
gies) or policy subsectors (e.g. health policy, education policy, or social policy). Nevertheless,
while political science’s impact on the cultural policy sector – as a whole – is smaller, its
reach via global and interdisciplinary communities of cultural policy researchers remains
significant. Recently, some of the notions stemming from the conceptual apparatus of public
policy research seem to have had a direct or indirect influence on how the object of re-
search is approached by researchers in cognate fields. The policy stages can also be said to be

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 Cultural policy in political science research

implicitly contributing to the organisation of cultural policy research in disciplines such as

urban studies, regional development, or, in some cases, communications.
From the outside, then, the relationship between political science and cultural policy
research would seem somewhat tacit: the relationship exists, most definitely, but is often
left unspoken in political science discourse. In recent years, even with a seeming surge in
cultural policy research’s popularity in political science literature, cultural policy is often
contextualised as an element of another policy sector’s strategy or as a piece of a much
broader policy program. An emphasis on the instrumentality of art and culture – that is to
say, an emphasis on its usefulness in non-traditionally cultural sectors or fields, such as the
aforementioned urban studies and regional development, for more than just aestheticism
(e.g. Belfiore, 2002) – has allowed for a more tangential use of cultural policy research in
political science studies, though it arguably does so in a diluted fashion. Questions of culture
and cultural policy are being broadly applied in political science disciplines but often only
in conjunction with other policy fields – and often only in the context of their potential for
fostering socio-economic growth or as an element of arts management (most notably in US
cultural policy literature, re: Paquette & Redaelli, 2015). In other words, while significant
strides have been made in political science towards the development and understanding of
cultural policy and cultural policy research, there remains an inherent stigmatism towards
using it as the primary thrust of a political science research program. Rather, the default has
seemingly been to “pepper” cultural policy into a larger narrative as a means of adding a new
or unique flavour to an otherwise well-treaded discourse. Thus, to a certain degree, cultural
policy research has become political science’s moped: everyone enjoys riding them, but no
one wants to be seen on one.
Looking back at the evolution of cultural policy research in political science – considering
its current state, and contemplating its future orientations – a number of questions emerge
regarding cultural policy research, in general, and for political scientists, in particular. A first
observation has to do with the contributions of US scholars to cultural policy research. Apart
from their constant contributions to subthemes such as cultural diplomacy and local cultural
planning, the US political scientists’ presence on broader debates of cultural policy has be-
come far less important than it was in the 1980s, in comparison to British, Canadian, Aus-
tralian, and French scholars. Consequently, has arts management become the new home for
cultural policy research in the US, with the broader field of political science serving as only
an occasional backdrop for cultural considerations? There are obvious structural and con-
textual issues at play in the US – most notably the structure of government support for the
arts – that might explain the managerial turn in cultural policy research. Nevertheless, the
question of whether US cultural policy research remains the purview of arts management is
salient – especially considering that most of political science’s public policy vocabulary has
been inspired by the US policy discourse. Similarly, will the current fascination with French
policy theories (e.g. policy referentials, cognitive approaches, or French conception of policy
instruments) over the last decade in English-speaking and global academic spaces eventually
have an effect on how we approach cultural policy theories and cultural policy research?
Finally, how will the relationship between political science and cultural policy research
continue to evolve? Are political scientists simply conducting cultural (policy) research in
“passing,” before moving on to another field or policy subfield – to the new “flavour” of the
day? While it is unlikely that cultural policy research is entirely a “passing fad” for political
scientists – as they seem to exhibit less of a desire to reorient or mobilise around other policy
objects compared to researchers in different fields – this concern does raise obvious questions
about the structure of political science collaborations – especially with other researchers

29
Jonathan Paquette and Devin Beauregard

who more broadly work in the global community of cultural policy research. Are political
scientists working on cultural policy more attached to culture? Or are they contributing to a
trans-disciplinary space, with its own issues, objectives, debates and its own symbolic capital?
While it would be simple to conclude that cultural policy research will almost invariably
hold a place of ambivalence in the minds of many political scientists, the truth is that as our
world has become progressively more globalised, the role of culture and cultural policy, in
turn, has become progressively more politicised. The place of cultural policy is changing,
and so too is its appreciation by scholars from political science fields who might otherwise
have snuffed their noses it at. Does this mean that cultural policy research will assume a place
of prestige and reverence in the annals of political science research and discourse? Unlikely.
But given its ubiquitous nature, it is relatively safe to say that culture (and cultural policy
research) will always be omnipresent in political science research.

Notes
1 Cultural policy researchers interested in these issues can access a comprehensive survey of political
philosophy’s contribution to the field in Eleonora Belfiore and Oliver Bennett’s remarkable work,
The Social Impact of the Arts: An Intellectual History, published by Palgrave in 2008.
2 In French, cultural policy is commonly referred to using “politiques culturelles” and even “action
culturelle.”

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 3
Cultural economics, innovation
and intellectual property
Nicola C. Searle

Introduction
The combination of economics and the cultural and creative industries is compli-
cated. The intangible nature of the cultural and creative industries does not lend itself
to ­standard economic analysis deploying the utility and profit-maximising empha-
sis of neoclassical economics. Despite this awkward matching, the economic analysis of
the ­c ultural and creative industries, and the role of creativity, is a vibrant and growing
area.
This chapter examines themes in what is known as cultural economics, with a particular
focus on innovation, creativity and intellectual property (IP). It details emerging trends in
the economic analysis of the cultural and creative industries and highlights challenges that
mainstream, neoclassical economic analysis faces when confronting characteristics of the
creative industries.

Terminology
A great deal of energy in academic studies of the creative industries (CI), and related terms,1
is spent on their definition. These are important discussions as the classification of industries,
primarily through Standard Industrial Classifications, reflects political and social constructs
of industry. While these nuances are important to wider debates, for the purposes of the
chapter, this chapter focuses on five key terms: the creative industries, creativity, innovation, cul-
tural economics and cultural policy and largely adopts the terminology as detailed in Towse
(2014) and Towse (2010).
Creative industries indicates the UK government’s Department for Media, Culture and
Sport 19982 definition consisting of advertising, antiques, architecture, crafts, design, fash-
ion, film, leisure software, music, performing arts, publishing, software, and TV and radio
(antiques has since been removed, DCMS (2015)).
Creativity, discussed in Towse (2010), refers to ‘artistic creativity,’ described by UNC-
TAD (2008) thus, “artistic creativity involves imagination and a capacity to generate
original ideas and novel ways of interpreting the world, expressed in text, sound and

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Nicola C. Searle

image (Economy, 2008, p. 9).” This chapter focuses on creativity as related to the creative
industries. Towse (2010) notes, “Creativity has thus come to be seen as the contemporary
equivalent of innovation in the industrial age” (Towse, 2010:105). This chapter adopts
a Shumpeterian approach to innovation as a wider concept than creativity. ­Schumpeter
(1942:83) approaches innovation as ‘creative destruction’ in a, “process of industrial
­mutation–if I may use that biological term–that incessantly revolutionizes the economic
structure from within, incessantly destroying the old one, incessantly creating a new
one.” Schumpeter further describes examples of innovation as the launch of new prod-
ucts, opening of new markets, application of new methods, acquiring of new supply
sources and new industry structures. In the singular as opposed to the general process, an
innovation is typically described in economics as an applied invention. The emphasis, like
with creativity, is on the idea of ‘new.’
Finally, this chapter will use cultural economics as the branch of economics concerned with
the application of economic principles to the study of the cultural and creative industries.
This is in line with the Towse (2010) definition, but excludes the cultural economics sub-­
disciplines as defined by the Journal of Economic Literature ( JEL) codes of the economics of
religion, economic ideologies and social economy. Likewise, the use of the term cultural policy
is broadly in line with the Towse (2010, 2014) definition of cultural policy to include policies
related to the creative industries, including funding, taxation, measurement, regulations,
and, to explicitly reflect recent trends in scholarship, IP.
This approach is not without its critics as Garnham (2005:16) notes. He adopts “arts and
media policy” instead of “cultural policy,” as the latter is not neutral. Indeed, “arts and me-
dia policy” may be a better descriptor of the economic definition, but one that has not been
adopted by the literature. Hesmondhalgh (2005) also argues for including media policy as
part of policy; tensions between these policy definitions are detailed in Hesmondhalgh and
Pratt (2005). In short, an economic approach to cultural policy examines government policy
related to the cultural and creative industries.
To summarise, this chapter focuses on the creative industries as part of cultural policy, the
economic study of the creative industries, and relates these analyses to innovation and creativity.

Cultural economics: evolution and critiques

Whenever economists study areas outside their traditional field, the economy, they run
the danger of misperceiving what contribution they are able to make. Only if the choice
of which aspects to study is carried out carefully can a useful and novel contribution on
the part of economics be expected.
(Frey 1994:3)

Cultural economics as a discipline, in its current form, 3 gained currency in the 1960s with
the works of William Baumol and William Bowen and their analysis of cost structure in the
arts (Throsby, 1994). Despite the half century that has passed since Baumol, many econ-
omists still argue that economics continues to neglect, or fails to adapt to, the creative
industries. Arguments of this sort can be found in Howkins (2002); Throsby and Throsby
(2001) argue the outputs and structures of the creative industries do not fit into the neo-
classical economic classification of goods and services; Caves (2000) argues economics has
largely neglected the creative industries; and, finally, Stoneman (2010) argues economics
has largely excluded creativity and ‘soft’ innovation in studies of innovation, amongst
others.

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 Cultural economics, innovation and intellectual property

The category of “Cultural Economics” was introduced under the “Miscellaneous” classification
of JEL codes in 1991, following a move amongst economists to, “claim an independent category
for their field” (Cherrier, 2014:35). JEL codes reflect mainstream economic disciplines and are
in keeping with their North American origins. The structure of JEL, like with Standard Indus-
trial Classification (SIC), deliminates intradisciplinary boundaries. The bulk of what would be
considered cultural policy or creative industries by the literature discussed in this chapter, falls
under the JEL Z11, “Economics of the Arts and Literature” which is described as, “studies about
economic issues related to the arts and literature, including demand, supply and pricing analysis.”
AEA (2016) and Z18 “Cultural Economics; Public Policy,” described as, “studies concerning
public policy on art, religion and other matters in Z1 [the top level classification for Cultural
Economics].” This, however, is an awkward fit for some of the definitions of cultural policy and
creative industries discussed earlier, which are perhaps better encompassed when including codes
from other areas, such as L82 “Industry Studies: Services: Entertainment; Media (Performing
Arts, Visual Arts, Broadcasting, Publishing, etc.),” 03 “Innovation; Research and Development;
Technological Change; Intellectual Property Rights” and other codes addressing trade, interna-
tional agreements, production and industrial organisation.
Written soon after the 1991 inclusion of cultural economics in JEL codes, Throsby
(1994:1) describes, in JEL, the cultural industries to mean, “the arts, motion pictures, radio
and television, and printing and publishing,” which, very loosely, could be interpreted to in-
clude publicly funded arts organisations. He identifies the key focuses of cultural economics
at the time as markets and public funding for art.
Since the formal recognition of cultural economics, there remains significant scope for
the expansion of cultural economics. Blaug (2001) and Caves (2000) suggest that the areas
of publishing and contracts, respectively, are under-addressed. Both areas are now garnering
further attention as in Ghose et al. (2006) and Baker and Evans (2013). More recent argu-
ments, Throsby (2012), Müller et al. (2009), and Towse (2010, 2014), suggest that cultural
economics is coming into its own.
In the last decades of cultural economics, key themes of economic analysis have emerged.
Both Rushton (2003) and Throsby (2012) suggest that the starting premise of cultural
economics is that the creative industries are a case of market failure. Frey (1994) suggests
that analytical approaches progress in two main categories: the first being the relationship
between sectors of spheres of society, and the second type being the rational choice approach
to characterise the economic framework. He notes that cultural economic analysis typically
combines the two approaches and uses the rational choice approach to analyse the effect of
economic factors on the arts.
The application of these approaches is often concerned with cultural policy, industrial organ-
isation, welfare economics, economic geography, economic growth and development, amongst
others. In 1994, Throsby details the development of cultural economics from the 1960s and its
adoption of neoclassical interpretations of taste, markets, demand, supply and labour markets
to inform public policy. He predicted cultural economics would develop empirical insights to
solve ‘nontrivial theoretical and empirical problems’ (Throsby 1994:26) both in cultural policy
and in economic methodologies in general, which, more than two decades later, continues to
be thwarted by poor data. Towse (2010) describes a brief history of cultural economics as start-
ing with subsidies for the arts, then moving through art markets, the development of theoretical
models, the economics of museums, the introduction of the concept of the creative industries in
the late 1900s, contractual and labour approaches, and a more recent focus on IP.
IP has recently become a more dominant theme in cultural economics, and econom-
ics in general, as interest in innovation and creativity lends itself to analysis of IP. In the

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Nicola C. Searle

1990s, economists largely used IP to define the creative industries. As noted by Throsby
and Throsby (2001), IP as an industry’s output was so central to meeting the definition,
to the point that the ‘copyright industries’ and ‘cultural industries’ were virtually synony-
mous. In 1996, the Journal of Cultural Economics devoted an edition to IP. Since then, cultural
economics is turning its attention further to IP. Of four key books published by cultural
economists in 2000 and 2001, Caves (2000), Frey (2000), Throsby (2011) and Howkins
(2001), Frey and Throsby have only cursory mentions of IP, Caves offers one chapter, of 22,
and Howkins’s text is devoted to the topic. As Towse (2006) notes, there is a wealth of areas
to be explored in the application of cultural economics to IP. These themes are developed
later in the chapter and highlight the insights that may be gleaned from combining econom-
ics, culture and IP.

Audiences for economic analysis

Several reviewers of the progress of cultural economics over the years have observed
that many writers have begun their books or papers with an apology for presuming that
economics might have anything useful to say about art.
(Throsby 1994:26)

The demand for economic analysis of cultural policy varies. In the Baumol days of the 1960s,
arts funding changes provided a ready audience. However, the interaction between economics
and cultural policy has not enjoyed a smooth ride. Peacock (2004), reflecting on three decades
as an economist in arts and arts policy, details the challenges of economic analysis4 in creative
industries and their use in policy. He notes the reluctance of vested interests, and special plead-
ing by stakeholders, to admit that, “government support for the arts involves an opportunity
cost” (Peacock, 2004:177). In particular, he argues that economics is widely accepted in policy
for broadcasting, but that in preservation of works of art, buildings and the like, “there appears
to be implacable opposition to the application of economic analysis designed to produce a ra-
tional system of pricing and investment which takes account of consumer interests” (Peacock,
2004:175). He notes that institutions in publicly-funded parts of the cultural industries (e.g.
museums) view themselves as ‘guardians of public interest’ and consider themselves to know
better, or be more likely to know, what is in the interests of future generations. However,
Hesmondhalgh (2005) suggests that economics enjoys a favoured position in UK politics start-
ing in the late 1990s. Instead, he argues economic analysis had a ready audience in being a
malleable tool to legitimise political stances. However, he repeats Peacock’s argument and
notes that, “Cultural policy has usually been strongly associated with the subsidised arts sector,
whereas media and communications policy has tended to be analysed in terms of economics
and politics” (2005:95). Whereas media and communications policy has traditionally been
amenable to economic analysis, cultural policy has largely not. This again speaks to an on-
going debate on the economics of the creative industries as part of cultural policy analysis.
Similar developments are to be found in the growing interaction between management
and media studies. As with economics, the literature addressing the interaction of cultural
and management perspectives has noted the general reluctance of traditional media studies
to the use of market or industrial terminology (McDonald, 2013). Media studies are also
expanding into interdisciplinary work under the term “media industries studies” (Schatz,
2014). Pick et al. (2015) also note a tension between creative industries and management
studies, and suggest that ‘creative industries management’ is both an oxymoron and an
opportunity. This points to a general frustration over on-going tensions between media

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 Cultural economics, innovation and intellectual property

economics and political economy approaches to the study of media industries and cultural
products (Wasko and Meehn 2013).
A concerted attempt to persuade reluctant audiences of the importance and potential
of economic analysis can be found in Bahkshi et al. (2007). The authors seek to persuade
stakeholders in cultural policy that economics can, and should, bolster the case for the arts.
The authors, along with O’Brien (2010), provide critiques of economic methodologies and
note the measurement challenges the intangible nature of culture creates. Bahkshi et al. make
their case on the basis that the special pleading of the arts/cultural policy implies that, “arts
funding choices should be made independent of their effects on society” (2007:19). Economics,
instead, offers a means to avoid this ‘arts exemption’ and strengthen the case for the arts.

Tensions with neoclassical economics

The reluctance of policy audiences for cultural economics speaks to a wider critique of neo-
classical economics. Neoclassical economics has long been criticised; this criticism experi-
enced a sharp uptick in the 1990s as detailed in Thompson (1997). Noted critic McCloskey
(1998) condemns ‘the rhetoric of economics’ and the utility maximising approaches influ-
enced by Ayn Rand’s objectivism. McCloskey’s critiques are directed at the discipline as a
whole, and cultural economics and neoclassical economics are not mutually exclusive. The
McCloskey school of thought, when combined with the policy scepticism noted by Peacock,
means that cultural economics is prone to external and internal criticism. Rational choice
theory is a particular target of condemnation and, as noted by Throsby (2001), leads to the
expectation that all behaviours can be fully accounted for in economic models, without re-
gard to social, cultural or historical factors. O’Brien (2014), using the tensions between the
humanities and economics as an analytical framework, largely confirms this view and details
oppositions to economic constructs of individual rationality in UK cultural policy. Throsby
(2001, 2012) also notes this tension, which he suggests stems from economics’ emphasis on
the individual in contrast to the, by definition, collective emphasis of culture. He also argues
(1994) that neoclassical views of tastes (the utility function) accommodate taste for the arts,
but that this may fail to account for the irrationality of demand for art. However, he also
notes that, “the aggregate behaviour of consumers and of artists can be modelled in ways that
are mostly consistent with economic theory” (1994:4). To summarise, scepticism and criti-
cism of the neoclassical economic approach abounds and is particularly sharp in the creative
industries and in cultural policy as a whole.

IP, innovation and creativity

Creativity and innovation

While cultural policy has struggled to hold the attention of its intended audience, analysis
of innovation has an eager audience. In developed economies, politicians, policy makers
and economists have a collective obsession with innovation in the hopes that it contrib-
utes to economic growth. These obsessions, and the associated economics of innovation,
benefit from neoclassical, mainstream economic roots. While critics of the approach exist
(e.g. feminist critiques as detailed later), the innovation-development-growth narrative is
firmly entrenched in the political economy. A long-term trend of developed economies
moving away from manufacturing-based to service-based economies has led to a greater
emphasis on knowledge and the emergence of the “knowledge economy” as discussed in

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Nicola C. Searle

Garnham (2005). The focus on this new knowledge-based paradigm has promoted further
analysis of innovation, which has led innovation-focused economists to look at creativity.
Examples are, Lee and Rodríguez-Pose (2014), who examine the ‘innovativeness’ of the
creative industries and creative occupations, and The Work Foundation’s 2007 report that
argues, “creativity and innovation are overlapping concepts. In the main, creativity … is
about the origination of new ideas … while innovation is about the successful exploitation
of new ideas.” Similarly, Doyle (2016) notes a growing emphasis on innovation in the cre-
ative economy and media studies. This innovation approach follows a path dependency from
the neoclassical understanding of innovation, particularly from an industrial organisation
or economic development foundation. As cultural economics also begins to look further at
innovation and creativity arguments, with a focus on the creative industries, analyses from
both neoclassical and cultural perspectives are meeting. This section discusses these perspec-
tives, and their reflection in IP debates.
Economists link innovation to the creative industries – often done with the intent of
proving the economic value of the creative industries – and implicitly discuss creativity. For
example, Bakhshi and McVittie (2009) detail how the creative industries enable other in-
dustries to be more innovative. Müller et al. (2009) note three innovation impacts from the
creative industries: creative industries contribute to the innovative potential of an economy;
they may create inputs for innovation elsewhere in the economy; and may serve a pull func-
tion as consumers of innovation. Howkins (2001:x) argues that creativity is not an economic
activity but can become so when transformed into an “idea with economic implications or
a tradable product.” This goes part way to fitting the classic definition of an innovation as
an applied invention.
Concepts of creativity, as detailed in Towse (2006), became more popular within cultural
economics with Frey (1997). Howkins (2001) devotes his entire book to the role of creativity
and the concept of the creative economy. Previously, economics flirted with the concept of
creativity by combining psychological research on creativity with economics. This approach
often took the form of the examination of creativity in the marketplace in the form of entre-
preneurship and management (e.g. works in the Journal of Creative Behaviour such as the 1988
Volume 22 Number 3 special edition including Fernald (1988) “The Underlying Relation-
ship between Creativity, Innovation and Entrepreneurship,” or the Creativity and Innovation
Management Journal for example Jeffcut and Pratt (2003) “Managing Creativity in the Cultural
Industries”) or in the analysis of human capital (e.g. Rubenson and Runco, 1992, whose
theories were taken up more by psychologists than economists). Recent years have seen, as
discussed earlier, creativity to be associated more with innovation and the creative industries.
However, Garnham (2005) argues that the addition of creativity, rather than a critique
or extension of the economics of innovation, is instead an attempt by cultural policy to
capture the prestige of innovation. Like Hesmondhalgh and Pratt (2005), Garnham notes
the cultural policy tensions between creators (the purveyors of creativity) and rightsholders
(typically large corporations), arising from innovation/creativity approaches. These tensions
can be seen in intellectual property policy, as discussed in the next section.
This relationship between creativity and innovation is an evolving one and highlights
the challenges faced by cultural economics. The economics of innovation, particularly as
related to economic growth and development, are well established and reflect a distinctly
scientific focus. This focus on science, and the narrow definition of innovation, is sometimes
construed as a bias and challenged by proponents of the creative or knowledge economy
(e.g. Rushton (2003) and feminist critiques of innovation and measurements of economic
growth).

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 Cultural economics, innovation and intellectual property

Intellectual property
The interaction of creativity, the creative industries and innovation has become more obvi-
ous in recent years with the rise of interest in IP policy. Major changes in the legal structure
of IP have been marked by a step change introduced by the World Trade Organisation’s
1995 Trade-Related Aspects of IP (TRIPS) agreement, which harmonised and strength-
ened IP across the world. This, along with changes in markets and technology, dominated
by the advent of the Internet and the digital era, have challenged existing IP structures, in
particular that of the right most relevant to the creative industries, copyright. The relation-
ship of the creative industries and copyright is so strong, that at various times the term ‘the
copyright industries’ has served as a synonym for creative industries. Towse (2006) makes
the case for copyright as falling within the realm of cultural economics. IP, which by defi-
nition only protects original contributions, also reflects the infinite variety of Caves (2000)
and “extreme case of a heterogeneous commodity” of Throsby (1994:4), by which each unit
of the creative industries output is unique. As a result, IP policy has become a string in the
cultural economist’s bow.
The predominance of IP is not without its critics. Potts (2009) notes that the DCMS
definition of the creative industries rests on a connection between creativity and IP that
emphasises, “creativity as an input and IP as an output, a view that implicitly presumes that
the value of the creative industries is ultimately in consumption of these creative outputs.”
Müller et al. (2009:39) also note that IP is considered the main output of the creative indus-
tries, as opposed to goods and services. Potts is critical of this approach, as he argues that the
outputs of the creative industries play an important role in innovation as a whole, rather than
being defined by the production and consumption of end outputs.
Feminist interpretations of IP provide a further critique of IP and neoclassical economics.
Bawra and Rai (2002, 2004) argue that IP denies the contribution of women to knowledge
by taking a narrow approach to knowledge and assigning it to realms that have traditionally
excluded women. Halbert (2006) notes the lack of IP protection for the outputs of female
knowledge. Halbert in particular relates this discussion to the creative industries by provid-
ing case studies on quilting and knitting, two creative practices dominated by women, as
lying predominately outside the IP framework. Santhosh and Sengupta (2011) argue that IP
undervalues the ‘gendered science’ of traditional knowledge. Collectively, the development
of ‘creativity’ in the cultural economics sense, along with the feminist perspective, suggests
that the definition of innovation, as protected by IP, is too narrow. This plays into wider
critiques of neoclassical economics’ core assumption of rationality and utility; however, as
Bakhshi et al. (2007) note, this critique is often directed at bad economics rather than at a
systematic failure of economic approaches.
Economics’ love of innovation and subsequent focus on IP pre-dates the cultural eco-
nomic analysis of IP. As a result, discussions on creativity follow a path dependency into
innovation and specific constructs of IP. The next section highlights this by detailing the
evolution of the economic analysis of trade marks, in contrast to the analysis of the relatively
newer rights of Traditional Knowledge (TK) and related rights.

Creative industries and IP

Having established the relevance of IP policy to cultural economics, this section of the
chapter uses examples of IP to further illustrate the challenges facing cultural economics as
a critique of neoclassical economics.

39
Nicola C. Searle

Approaches to IP
IP policy and the laws that create it generally exist to solve the problem of intangibility.
The intangible nature of creativity and innovation means that ideas can easily be appropri-
ated, and, in contrast to physical property, this appropriation is difficult to control. This can
undermine creators’ ability to recoup their investments or profit from their creations. For
simplicity, I shall use the term ‘creator’ as being more inclusive to the creative industries than
the more common ‘innovator’ used in general economics. IP policy seeks to create property
rights over the intangible to bolster ownership and control of innovation and creativity.
Justifications for why societies should have property rights over the intangible are domi-
nated by two5 main approaches. These are, IP rights as intrinsic rights and IP as an incentive
to innovate. Granstrand (2000) refers to these, respectively, as deontological approaches
based on the intrinsic, moral rights and arguments that fall outside the economic perspec-
tive; and consquentialist approaches founded in the economic implications (e.g. incentive to
innovate) of the legal structure of IP. These two approaches are often incompatible, with the
incentive-to-innovate theory gaining traction in recent decades.
Approaching IP rights as intrinsic comes from a Lockean perspective in which individuals
own the fruit of their own labour (Hettinger 1989; Granstrand 2000). Using this framework,
the creativity and innovation stemming from an individual’s application of his or her labour
should be owned by said individual. IP rights allow individuals rights over their outputs. This
approach is also known as labour-dessert theory and is an approach popular with lawyers and
existing owners of IP rights. The focus rests on the benefits to the individual creator.
In contrast, the traditional economic approach to IP is to construe it as an incentive to in-
novate (Scotchmer 2004; Lemley 2005). In this model, often referred to as the social contract
theory, the creator is rewarded with property rights in the form of IP. These rights allow the
creator to appropriate the returns to their efforts and serve as an incentive to innovate. While
society may incur higher costs and lower quantities because of the monopoly conditions gen-
erated by IP rights, society is rewarded with long-term innovation. This approach, crucially,
also requires the expiration of IP rights so that, on expiration, the knowledge contained falls
into the public domain where it will spur further innovation. The incentive-to-innovate
theory is focused ultimately on economic growth and the benefits to society, and assumes
innovation leads to economic growth and development.
The incentives-to-innovate theory of IP has served economics well in analysing the IP
rights of patents and copyright. Economics is largely comfortable with viewing patents
and copyright as economic policies. The same cannot be said, however, for trade marks,
traditional knowledge (TK), and Geographical Indications (GI), all three of which are
relevant intellectual assets for the creative industries. These rights are heavily linked to the
creative industries by way of branding, arts, textiles, design and advertising. Economics
tends to be wholly uncomfortable with these rights as serving economic purposes as they
do not fit the social contract. This tension between the neoclassical, incentive-to-­innovate
theory and these noncompliant rights highlights the challenges cultural economics con-
tinues to face.

Incompatible IP: the cases of trade marks, TK and GI

Patents have dominated economists’ analysis of IP, which is likely due to the relative wealth
of data in this area and patents as fitting the science bias of constructs of innovation. Recent
decades have seen an expansion of economic analysis to copyright, trade marks and design

40
 Cultural economics, innovation and intellectual property

rights. In the case of the former, because of the dramatic changes in technology and its
market consequences, and in the case of the latter two, likely due to the trend in national IP
offices publishing data in these areas. However, trade marks, along with TK and GI, do not
easily fit the social contract theory and remain an awkward fit as an economic policy.

Trade marks
Trade marks6 are an important intellectual asset for most firms, in particular as a means
of protecting the creative outputs of the advertising and graphic design sectors. However,
trade marks lack two key characteristics of the social contract theory: they do not expire as
long as renewal fees are paid, and they do not necessarily qualify as innovation. Assuming
the owner of a trade mark pays his or her renewal fees, a trade mark can potentially last
forever. Trade marks are traditionally not considered a form of innovation, a topic discussed
further below.
Two foundational papers on the economics of trade marks are those of Landes and Posner
(1987) and Economides (1998). Both of these papers argue that trade marks exist primarily
to promote economic efficiency rather than innovation. Landes and Posner further posit
that trade marks serve to incentivise linguistic innovation. Economides (1988), however, is
critical of the role of trade marks in distorting competition and market equilibria. The bulk
of subsequent analysis has taken a neoclassical approach, and the economic scholars here do
not self-identify as cultural economists.
A standard economic interpretation of trade marks is their role in promoting efficiency
by reducing information gathering costs via signalling consumers. A trade mark is an exclu-
sive mark that signals a brand’s reputation (or lack thereof ). This reputation will consist of
a variety of factors influencing consumer decision-making. The mark is an efficient way of
signalling quality, an important factor to the consumer. This signal reduces search costs as,
at a glance, the consumer will have information about the quality of a good, such as taste,
provenance, etc. Thus, trade marks reduce the information asymmetries between consumers
and producers and promote efficiency.
Initially, economic analysis suggested that branding was useful for a brand owner to
increase market share, but at the expense of another’s (discussed in Putsis 1998). Using
this approach, the branding protected by trade marks operates in a zero-sum game. Fol-
lowing this line of thought, trade marks do not promote innovation because they operate
in a zero-sum game. Lemley (2004a:143) is particularly scathing on justification of trade
marks:

Unlike patents and copyrights, trademark law and the right of publicity do not exist
to encourage the creation of new brand names, personal names, or likenesses. There is
no affirmative social interest in encouraging their proliferation, and, in any event, the
fixed costs invested in creating a new name are so minimal that it is hard to imagine that
creating one would require incentive.

However, starting in the mid-90s (Putsis 1998), economists explored the relationship of
branding, promotions (temporary discounts or details) and sales of a particular category of
goods, particularly in Fast Moving Consumer Goods (FMCG). This research, and further
discussions (Corrado and Hao 2013), suggests that the branding incentivised by trade marks
can result in innovation. Additionally, there are discussions on trade marks and branding as
a good indicator of innovative activities7 and branding as facilitating the introductions of

41
Nicola C. Searle

innovations to markets. Greenhalgh and Rogers (2007:24), adopting a Schumpeterian ap-

proach to innovation, examine the relationship between trade mark and innovation activities
in firms and find that, “applications for trade marks are suggestive of product innovation.”
Thus, if trade marks can promote or embody innovation, there is room for them to fit in an
incentive-­to-innovate interpretation of IP.
Other economic analysis of trade marks extends to their role in facilitating the firm’s
appropriation of the returns to their investments in reputation. The leads to the conclu-
sion that brands are often a firm’s most valuable asset (discussed and critiqued by Klein
(2010)). Other analysis examines the role of trade marks in conspicuous consumption,
a la Veblen. The use of trade marks and trade mark policy have also been examined
in competition discussions and policy-specific analysis such as the optimal structure of
trade mark registration processes and registries (e.g. Von Graevenitz 2013). A rare ex-
plicitly cultural economic analysis by Cuccia et al. (2008:1) looks at the role of collective
trade marks in the San Gregorio Armenio district of Naples. Known for its hand carved
nativity scenes, the authors examine, from a creative cluster and regional government
perspective, the potential use of trade marks to, “promote market incentives sustaining
local development and preserving or enhancing the common knowledge.” The authors
conclude a collective trade mark would increase prices of the nativity scenes by 10%.
Generally, economics finds trade marks to be an important intangible asset for firms and
collectives.
Trade marks illustrate the evolution of the economic analysis of IP. Whereas early focus of
analysis focused on the signalling and efficiency aspects of trade marks, more recent analysis
has incorporated creativity and innovation aspects of branding. These contemporary argu-
ments are not incompatible with neoclassical economics and suggest that development of
cultural economics does not necessarily require departure from the mainstream, neoclassical
perspective that is so often the subject of critique. The same cannot be said of the current
state of economic analysis of TK and GI.

Traditional knowledge (TK) and geographical indications (GI)

Both TK and GI are relatively new types of IP as they have only existed in law and policy
in the last century. Zappalaglio (2013) describes the origins of TK in international policy
debates as starting in 1948. Montén (2005) notes that GI was largely unrecognised until the
mid 1990s in TRIPs. TK, however, exists legally in predominately nonbinding agreements,
whereas GI is enshrined in law in many jurisdictions (e.g. the EU.) The relative youth of
these types of IP goes in part to explain their absence from cultural economics. However, in
both cases, these IP are based on cultural and creative goods and services.
Yudice (2009) notes tensions between IP regimes and anthropological approaches to cul-
ture. He argues that uses of culture cluster around two main poles: anthropological approaches
that focus on values and symbolic uses and a creative element that focuses on innovation. IP
falls under the latter and leads to discordant cultural policies where IP impinges on cultural
policies, such as those promoting access to cultural goods. Akin to this anthropological de-
scriptor, Doyle (2016) explains policy interventions in indigenous content media production
as acting on ‘socio-cultural grounds.’ Garnham (2005) argues that the creative approach and
its policies, under the knowledge economy focus, are now inseparable from Information
and Communications Technology (ICT) policy. However, ICT, which is a relatively new
phenomenon, clearly does not interact with the bulk of issues regarding TK, which is long

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established. The tension between these anthropological and creative approaches can be seen
in TK and GI policy.

Traditional knowledge (TK)

TK, which covers all manners of intangible assets of a community, speaks to the collective
emphasis of culture. At present, economic analysis, with its individual, innovation focus, is
at odds with the collective, traditional focus on TK.

The World IP Organisation defines TK as,

Knowledge, know-how, skills and practices that are developed, sustained and passed
on from generation to generation within a community, often forming part of its cul-
tural or spiritual identity. … TK in a general sense embraces the content of knowledge
itself as well as traditional cultural expressions, including distinctive signs and symbols
associated with TK. TK in the narrow sense refers to knowledge as such, in particular
the knowledge resulting from intellectual activity in a traditional context, and includes
know-how, practices, skills, and innovations.
(WIPO 2015)

A subset of TK is Traditional Cultural Expressions (TCE),

Also called “expressions of folklore”, [TCE] may include music, dance, art, designs, names,
signs and symbols, performances, ceremonies, architectural forms, handicrafts and narra-
tives, or many other artistic or cultural expressions. … Their protection is related to the pro-
motion of creativity, enhanced cultural diversity and the preservation of cultural heritage.
(WIPO 2015)

TK is a very awkward fit for a neoclassical, incentive-to-innovate analysis of IP. To start, the
rights are poorly defined, as TK itself lacks a clear definition. Further, TK is most often not
expressed in any fixed way, and its ownership is unclear, both of which make identifying
the protected knowledge difficult. TK itself is unlikely to be traded in a monetary fashion,
and thus arguments in favour of recouping rewards to innovation are thin. Additionally, by
definition, TK is traditional, and any rights may actively discourage innovation. However, the
codification of the knowledge contained in TK may promote its diffusion and subsequent
innovation; thus, TK may encourage further innovation.
A common economic argument in favour of innovation is the economic growth and
development of indigenous communities. These communities are often rural and economi-
cally poor. Protection of TK ‘owned’ by these communities could foster local development.
However, the development of a thriving market is dependent on many factors other than
IP protection. The introduction of an IP right merely provides the right to exclude others
from using the IP. The capabilities to translate TK into economic success may require skills
(absorptive capacity) not present in the community, and the community could license to a
third party. In this case, the TK may function as the equivalent of a natural resource with
no long-term development impact. Dutfield (2005) is less pessimistic than this analysis but
notes that the development of goods and services incorporating TK exposes communities
to the vagaries of the dominant economic system surrounding them. Yudice’s concept of

43
Nicola C. Searle

the ‘anthropological’ approach to culture, by focusing on a social, value-driven side of

­culture, neither introduces nor addresses this economic doom, which the ‘creative’ ap-
proach does. In short, TK fails to fit the social contract, incentive-to-innovate economic
interpretation of IP.
Stronger arguments in favour of TK lie outside the domain of neoclassical economics in
the social, cultural and historical context described by Throsby (2001). As noted in a WIPO
fact-finding mission report, the value of TK is in the community’s cultural benefits. Discus-
sions on IP frameworks in the Caribbean suggest that communities view their TK, “as an
economic asset and as cultural patrimony…. [and] did not separate “artistic” from “useful”
aspects of their intellectual creations and innovations” (WIPO 2008:6).
Economics is ill-equipped to incorporate measurements of TK or cultural patrimony
into its analysis. Financial valuations are difficult in any form of intangible asset such as IP,
but cultural patrimony is even more ethereal. One possible angle for inclusion would be to
consider cultural patrimony part of the community’s utility function. This might capture
some of the value and decision-making but would be subject to the same market failures
that form the basis of many approaches to cultural economics. This points to a contingent
value methodology and choice modelling as potential solutions (O’Brien 2010). It may also
be that the costs of creating such empirical, quantitative measurements are disproportionate
to the benefits. This combination of methodological challenges and practical costs suggests
that a theoretical or qualitative, rather than empirical or quantitative, analysis may be better
deployed to inform TK policy.
Current economic thinking does not allow for TK to fit into an innovation approach to
IP. The same could be said for trade marks; however, recent analysis, adopting a wider defi-
nition of innovation, suggests trade marks can fit. The analysis of TK may follow a similar
path. As a cultural policy, TK suffers from this lack of positive economic interpretation,
in addition to its already tenuous position in international policy debates. This suggests
Yudice’s anthropological approach is at the core of justifications for TK and that attempts
to fit TK into an overarching creativity and innovation approach are inappropriate. This is
not to say that economic analysis cannot inform cultural policy, but that a standard social
­contract/incentives-to-innovate approach is incomplete in its current form. Revisiting the
scope of economic analysis of the benefits of creativity and innovation to capture social
values may introduce needed flexibility into social contract theory. This might benefit from
beginning economic analysis of IP for a cultural economics perspective rather than an in-
dustrial organisation/growth perspective. In short, adopting an intradisciplinary economic
approach. Further analysis is required.

Geographical indications (GI)

GI, which overlaps with TK, suffers from similar challenges in fitting social contract the-
ory and innovation arguments. Unlike other rights, they confer no freedom to contract or
freedom to license. Instead of incentivising innovation, GIs can actively discourage innova-
tion. A GI provides legal structure to the branding and quality of a product associated with a
particular geographical region. The neoclassical economic justification for GI is additionally
undermined by the overlapping coverage of other rights (for example, collectively owned
trade marks serve a similar purpose).

A geographical indication (GI) is a sign used on products that have a specific geograph-
ical origin and possess qualities or a reputation that are due to that origin. In  order

44
 Cultural economics, innovation and intellectual property

to function as a GI, a sign must identify a product as originating in a given place. In

addition, the qualities, characteristics or reputation of the product should be essentially
due to the place of origin. Since the qualities depend on the geographical place of pro-
duction, there is a clear link between the product and its original place of production.
(WIPO 2015)

Like trade marks, an economic argument for GI is to protect producers from free riding by
competitors. However, the long-term economic benefits conferred on producers and these
regions remain unproven. The introduction of a GI may benefit producers through legal
protection, economic development and environmental concerns, but, like TK, these impacts
are unclear. Furthermore, the GI may distort incentives and affect both the quality and
quantity of the product.
The economic rhetoric focuses heavily on GI’s role in economic development of rural
areas (Bramley 2011). However, these arguments are weaker if individual producers are
owned by larger businesses where profits may not develop the local economy. Indeed, the
production of wines and spirits has undergone significant consolidation8,9 in past years and,
in these markets, the majority of production of GI goods is owned by large multi-nationals.
This stands in contrast to the local, rural rationale for GI.
As with the impact on indigenous peoples with respective to TK, the long-term im-
pact of GI on producers is uncertain. Existing producers may initially benefit from the
price premium and reduced competition from products outside GI protection, but cost
inputs and distorted incentives may mean that the economic distribution of these benefits
changes over time. Thus, the original economic goals of the introduction of a GI may not
be realised.
GI have become more contentious as some countries seek to expand GI to non-­
agricultural products. These products are typically textiles such as pottery or woollens
that still are strongly influenced by the environment in which they are produced. As a
relatively new right,10 non-agricultural GI are still developing; further refinement of both
the right and the economic understanding may occur. Yet to be fully considered by the
literature is the appropriateness of government resources to protect rights not available to
the general public.
While neoclassical economic analysis of trade marks has evolved to incorporate a wider
understanding of the economic contribution of branding, the same cannot be said for TK
and GI. However, cultural economics, with its well-developed understanding of cultural
policy and creative industries, can contribute to this development and highlight the short-
comings of an incentive-to-innovate social contract approach to IP.

Conclusions
Cultural economics continues to evolve as analysis of the creative industries, intellectual
property policy and economics, both in economic literature and policy development,
merge. As this chapter has detailed, discussions on innovation and creativity have led
both innovation-focused and cultural economists to examine IP as a cultural and inno-
vation policy. However, analysis of IP highlights the restrictions that traditional eco-
nomics faces when examining the realm of cultural policy and creative industries. While
long-­standing IP such as patents and copyright fit a neoclassical, incentive-to-innovate
approach and are satisfied with rational choice theory and the maximisation of profits
and utility, emerging IP rights are not. Economics’ focus on the individual falters when

45
Nicola C. Searle

faced with the collective approach of rights such as TK and GI. However, the evolution
of economic analysis of trade marks suggests that economic tools and analysis have the
potential to adapt.
Given the progression of IP as a topic of international negotiations, cultural economics’
interest in IP is likely to continue. IP as a cultural policy merits further examination. Areas
to consider for future research are examination of the impact on economic development
stemming from IP such as TK and GI. Progression of the understanding of innovation, to
include ‘soft’ innovation and creativity, will likely reformulate innovation policy. Copy-
right, only mentioned in passing in this chapter, is very poorly understood empirically; it
may benefit from the growth in data availability stemming from the digital era. Ultimately,
these investigations may lead to a departure from, or further developments of, incentive-to-­
innovate approaches to IP.

Notes
1 Including, but not limited to, the creative economy, the copyright industries, the creative indus-
tries, the cultural industries, cultural-political economy and the creative classes.
2 The list of these industries, shown in “Creative Industries Mapping Documents 1998,” is available
at www.gov.uk/government/publications/creative-industries-mapping-documents-1998.
3 Thorstein Veblen’s seminal work, “Theory of Leisure Class” in 1898, could be classified as cultural
economics. Works by Adam Smith (1700s) also consider the market for arts.
4 He also notes, unfortunately for your author, the challenges of a career as a cultural economist are
many. He argues that foundations favour funding research building on well-established areas of
economic analysis, one-off funding is rare, the opportunity costs of such careers are high, and the
audience for economic research in the arts is limited.
5 There is an emerging third nexus, which involves a near or total rejection of IP, which is not
discussed here.
6 Defined by WIPO (2015), as “A trademark is a distinctive sign which identifies certain goods or
services as those produced or provided by a specific person or enterprise.” Available at www.wipo.
int/trademarks/en/.
7 Further information on the use of trade marks as a complementary measurement in industrial and
innovation analysis can be found in Mendoca et al. (2004).
8 Emler, R. (June 13, 2012), “Spirits Firms Poised for Further Consolidation,” The Drinks Business,
available at www.thedrinksbusiness.com/2012/06/spirits-firms-poised-for-further-consolidation/.
9 Morss, E. ( January 14, 2012), “The Future of the Global Wine Industry,” Morss Global Finance,
available at www.morssglobalfinance.com/the-future-of-the-global-wine-industry/.
10 The first formalized system of GI is that of France which was put into law in the early 1900s. The
European Commission began a consultation on NAGI in 2014.

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 4
Sociology and cultural policy
David Wright

Introduction
In this chapter, I examine the relations between sociology and cultural policy. Such an
exercise requires some careful de-lineation, not least because, at a distance, these ob-
jects might both appear to be more ‘solid’ than they actually are close up. The chapter
proceeds first with some brief working definitions of these terms. The story sketched
here reflects the shared historical processes, from the nineteenth century onwards, and
a shared geography, of Western Europe and North America, in which the discipline of
sociology and the problem of culture for the modern state have been formed. While so-
ciological analysis is increasingly post-national in its orientations, the problems of policy
are almost inevitably located in specific territories. In exploring the relations between
sociology and cultural policy below, I focus on the UK, where the development of the
discipline of sociology was bound up, in the early twentieth century, with a changing
conception of the role of academic knowledge and of culture in the practice of govern-
ment. The discussion then moves to France, where the work of Pierre Bourdieu in the
mid-twentieth century helps to bring a particular version of the problem of culture,
produced through the techniques of social science, under the lens of ‘modernising’ gov-
ernments in Europe. We return to the UK, via a brief sojourn to the United States, as the
research infrastructure that might underpin sociological analysis of patterns of cultural
participation continues to be refined and integrated into the practices of policymakers.
Any attempt to identify the relations between these objects of analysis is likely to be
partial and strategic. Accepting that other stories can be told from other national and
regional perspectives, these examples are chosen to highlight particular moments of in-
tersection between sociology and cultural policy that continue to resonate, rather than
because of their universal applicability. The chapter concludes with some reflection on
why, despite a brief flowering of the empirical techniques of gathering evidence about the
cultural lives and practices of populations, if not the theoretical mode of analysing such
evidence, sociological perspectives on culture might have become less useful to cultural
policymakers in these places than they once were.

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Defining the terms of debate

Both sociology and cultural policy have histories that reveal much about the shifting intel-
lectual landscape of the ‘advanced’ democracies of the global North, in which the develop-
ment of academic disciplines and their institutional location on university teaching curricula
are bound up with the development of the state itself. A working definition of sociology might
emphasise a genealogy that incorporates specific, foundational, theoretical accounts and
combines them with a set of methodological techniques that can be applied to help under-
stand social life. The theoretical accounts would most likely include the range of eighteenth-,
nineteenth- and twentieth-century European and North American thinkers (Max Weber,
Emile Durkheim, Mary Wollstonecraft, W. E. B. Du Bois, Georg Simmel, Auguste Comte,
Gabriel Tarde, Karl Marx, Thorstein Veblen, Beatrice Webb) who are credited, sometimes
retrospectively, with defining and giving some shape to the concept of ‘the social’ through
work that engaged with the emerging problems of modern, urban, industrial, patriarchal,
market-oriented democracies. As Michael Burawoy describes it, the early manifestations of
what we now call sociological modes of thinking were bound up with narratives of social
reform and struggles for civil rights, such that sociology could imagine itself as an ‘angel of
history, searching for order in the broken fragments of modernity, seeking to salvage the
promise of progress’ (Burawoy, 2005: 5).
The methodological techniques applied to this significant task include the identification
and production of social statistics of various forms, often in this formative period produced
in direct relation to, and on behalf of, the emerging modern state and through such mecha-
nisms as population censuses and, later, the sample survey. These techniques are shared with
other social sciences developing in the same period, such as economics and psychology, and
they can also be contrasted with and complemented by other methods, including ethnogra-
phy, participant observation and interviewing, which also overlap with anthropology. Like
these other social sciences, sociology privileges the observable, empirical world in making its
claims to knowledge, and it is from some combination of these empirical ways of capturing
the social world and the theoretical lenses through which it is examined that a disciplinary
identity of sociology – the ‘sociological imagination’ of C. Wright Mills’ (1959) definitive
statement of professional intent – begins to emerge.
A working definition of cultural policy for this purpose might identify an intriguingly sim-
ilar geographic and historical period in which civic and national institutions associated with
various forms of cultural and artistic production begin to be established and in which the
organisation and management of such institutions become a concern for the modern state,
in regard to which forms of cultural expression should be displayed or preserved, whether
a given population should or should not access them and how, if at all, such institutions
are to be supported and financed. A more recent history, from the early to mid-twentieth
century concerns the formation of specific ministries of culture, or equivalents, which are
given responsibility for the strategic management of the various forms of cultural production
within a particular national territory, e.g. through the re-distribution of some proportion
of public funding or taxation. This more recent phenomenon is the culmination of older
inter-relations between the ideals, and indeed anxieties, that governments have about artistic
and symbolic forms of expression, democracy and self-realisation and their spread within and
across the developing public spheres of modern nation states.
This working definition of cultural policy itself depends on a working definition of cul-
ture. In the developing history of cultural policy, such a definition can be initially associated

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with those cultural forms that are becoming institutionalised in the civic spaces of ­eighteenth-
and nineteenth-century Europe and North America, such as fine art, sculpture, orches-
tral forms of music, opera, theatre, literature and poetry. The establishment of these forms
and the venues in which they are cultivated, performed and exhibited can be seen as part
of a process of the formation of distinctive national identities, which have been of inter-
est to sociologists (e.g. Anderson, 1991). The creation and management of such identities
through the circulation of national cultural forms is one imperative of developing cultural
policies to establish the legitimacy of modern states over their territories (Alasuutari, 2001;
­Parkhusrt Clarke, 1987), to sustain national identities in the context of supra-national pres-
sures ­( Robins, 2007) and, more recently, to promote the nation on a global cultural stage
(Kwon and Kim, 2014; Minnaert, 2014). In their more recent iterations, questions of cultural
policy also variously take account of a widened conception of culture, including commer-
cial culture; they have come to incorporate concern with all aspects of the symbolic life
of a nation. This includes national and international debates about film, broadcasting, the
regulation and management of intellectual property, the strategic definition of and public
support for ‘the creative industries’. In early-twenty-first-century UK, the field even incor-
porates a concern with questions of national technical infrastructure inasmuch as the British
Department of Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) is responsible for the implementation of
government policies relating to the maintenance of the UK’s broadband Internet network.
In this latter version, cultural policy perhaps completes a journey from being a distinct set of
concerns about a relatively discrete set of special cultural ‘things’, towards being implicated
in a far more dispersed set of social and economic processes.
If sociology’s early project was to explain and moderate the forces of modernity and
the shifting relations among people in new urban contexts, new forms of workplace and
new forms of family life, then questions of ‘culture’ can be understood as part of this
project, too. Durkheim’s The Elementary Form of Religious Life (2001[1912]) and Simmel’s
reflections on fashion (1997 [1905]), for example, both emphasise the symbolic aspects of
social life and the importance of meaning-making to the maintenance of social relations in
modernity. A more specific sociological concern with the restricted definition of culture
as associated with cultural policy – meaning initially ‘the arts’ and latterly the cultural and
media industries – is a more recent development. The elisions and collisions created by the
general ‘cultural turn’ within the social sciences create, by the end of the twentieth century
and early twenty-first, a variegated set of research territories including a distinct sociology
of artistic forms (e.g. Wolff, 1993; Zolberg, 1990) and a somewhat antagonistic distinction
between a ‘sociology of culture’ – in which cultural forms and practices are the focus of
analysis – and ‘cultural sociology’ – where ‘cultural’ describes an approach privileging the
symbolic in analysing a wider range of social phenomena (see Inglis (2016) for useful sum-
mary discussion of what is at stake in these territorial battles). A more restricted focus on
culture as an object of analysis itself also became difficult to sustain in the light of the rise
of Cultural Studies towards the end of the twentieth century, itself an accommodation be-
tween sociology and literary studies. This approach’s influential insistence on the relations
between culture and everyday life drew concerted attention to forms of cultural produc-
tion and consumption that went beyond the legitimated, institutionalised forms that had
been the preserve of the state or its variously constituted elites. The project to identify and
explore the ideologies of popular cultural forms as sites of domination, resistance and sym-
bolic expression of identity, especially for previously marginalised groups, plays a significant
role in re-shaping the sociological imagination for the late twentieth century (e.g. Hall and
Jefferson, 1975; Hebdige, 1979).

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This brief historical story at least indicates that the barriers around sociology and cultural
policy are rather porous. With this proviso in mind, the chapter now goes on to discuss in
more detail how and why questions of culture have been important to the development of
the discipline of sociology, first with a particular focus on the UK and then with some dis-
cussion of how sociology has helped to bring the problem of culture into being for cultural
policy, with a focus on France.

The sociology of culture and cultural policy

in the twentieth century
If questions of ‘culture’ were always implicit in the development of the discipline of sociology
and its commitment to explaining modernity, the emergence of more identifiable ‘sociology
of culture’ was bound up with specific anxieties about mass society and mass culture and their
consequences. Such anxieties begin in the late nineteenth century as adult suffrage, universal
models of education and the possibility of industrially produced symbolic forms became in-
creasingly cemented. They are deepened in post-war Europe and the US, when sociological
work emerges focussing on the products of the cultural industries (Adorno and Horkheimer,
1944) and the potential influence of ‘mass’ forms of broadcasting and entertainment on social
life (Lazarsfeld and Merton, 1948). In the UK, in this period, these concerns were part of a
general re-alignment in which the rise of the social sciences, as a specific aid to the workings
of the modern state, was itself a direct challenge to the primacy of the kinds of knowledge that
emerged from the arts and humanities, i.e. from those forms of academic knowledge that had
previously held the primary responsibility for understanding ‘culture’ in its more restricted
sense. In his account of the cultural significance of the rise and spread of social scientific forms
of knowledge across the twentieth century, Savage (2010) identifies a fissure within the British
elites of the post-war years between a more traditional ‘aristocratic’ intellectual for whom au-
thority was a product of family and social networks, but legitimised through humanistic forms
of education, and a more technically oriented intellectual concerned with the gathering and
analysis of evidence to identify and address social problems. The difference between these two
‘sides’ is perhaps felt most acutely in relation to questions of culture where the relative value or
worth of cultural artefacts was assumed to rest with established artists, writers and their largely
elite scholars and audiences who had neither reason nor inclination to test or question their
judgement about such matters or to recognise that forms of cultural life outside this purview
had anything substantive or valuable to contribute to national life, beyond keeping ‘the masses’
entertained or distracted. It is a difference that is evident in higher education at the time in the
relative presence of chairs in social sciences and the arts in British universities in 1939, as re-
vealed by the Clapham report. Only five percent were in the still nascent social sciences (cov-
ering sociology, economics, psychology and a range of cognate disciplines) compared to 42
percent in the arts and humanities – and 27 percent in the natural sciences (Savage, 2010: 120).
The story of British intellectual life in the post-war period is arguably of a slow shift in
dominance from the former kind of intellectual to the latter, at least in terms of their relative
influence over the workings of the modern state. The tensions between the positions can be
neatly embodied, in the story of British cultural policy at least, by the figure of the economist
John Maynard Keynes who was both a co-architect of the post-World War II global eco-
nomic order and a major proponent of the value of public investment in the arts and culture,
culminating in his role in the establishment of the British Arts Council (Upchurch, 2004,
2011). Keynes represents both the rise of the technocratic social scientist at the heart of gov-
ernment, and, through his association with the influential Bloomsbury group of writers and

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intellectuals, retains an association with a more gentlemanly and ‘aristocratic’ conception

of culture as a set of things of intrinsic value. Keynes’s own interest was arguably to preserve
this conception of culture in the light of the rise of mass forms of society, with the modernist
intellectuals of the Bloomsbury group more usually exhibiting deep ambivalence towards,
and occasional outright loathing of, the masses themselves (Carey, 1992) and deep scepticism
of their ability to appreciate culture.
As well as the kinds of theoretical perspectives and methodological tools outlined in
sketching a distinct sociological approach, disciplines also need places, institutions and
people in order to establish themselves. In Savage’s account, the growing influence of the
social sciences in the UK – including sociology – is nurtured and sustained away from
the traditional centres of humanistic, aristocratic forms of knowledge (the universities of
Oxford and Cambridge) in newer institutions, including the LSE, Kent and Manchester,
with expansionist ambitions that reflected the widening access to higher education in the
mid-twentieth century and in which new forms of technical, social science knowledge could
be encouraged in people from a wider range of backgrounds. These forms of knowledge
were self-consciously promoted as an explicit challenge to the legitimacy of inherited forms
of authority, and possessors of these ‘progressive technical identities’ (Savage, 2010: 85) con-
ceptualised themselves as an alternative to the aristocratic modernist establishment, able to
apply the tools of social science to the problems of national life. This included attention to the
lived experience of the population and the collection of evidence of various kinds, through
censuses, surveys and initiatives such as the Mass Observation program of diary-keeping, in
which the everyday lives and cultural practices of the broader population could be captured
and analysed. This principle of attention to empirically identifying the thoughts, behaviours
and activities of a population, rather than assuming to know what is best for them – the call
to ‘make things transparent, to refuse myth, to tell it how it really is and to understand or-
dinary lives’ (Savage, 2010: 90) – is central to the cultural influence of the rise of the social
sciences in general. The particular contribution of sociology, which becomes more formally
established as an academic discipline in the UK in the 1950s, and reaches particular promi-
nence in the 1960s, is to conceptualise the population as more than ‘just’ economic agents,
knowledge of whom could be valuable in shaping a new kind of government and a new
kind of inclusive national story. In this period sociology became, as Steve Fuller describes it,
‘the science of and for the welfare state, the political rubric under which society travelled’
(2006: 17), and we can perhaps see how sociologically inspired research into urban life, fam-
ily life, the workplace or understanding patterns of health and illness could be directly useful
to policymakers concerned with managing complex societies. Sociologists in this period
could have imagined themselves as part of a progressive, democratising project in which the
evidence emerging from the identification and measurement of the life experiences of the
population was brought directly into the process of governing.
In the UK, the apparently fading aristocratic mode of governing was perhaps most stub-
bornly attached to questions of culture – even though such questions are precisely defined
by the rather opaque, taken-for-granted and unexamined forms of authority that were the
target of the technical-democratising project of the social sciences. In his short history of
the rise of community art – itself a movement that attempted to challenge elite notions
of art and culture –Owen Kelly describes the disquiet expressed, as late as 1976, by Lord
Gibson, chair of the Arts Council, at the notion that, because the finer arts had tradition-
ally been enjoyed by a select group of the population, public funding entailed a pressure to
make artistic producers more accountable to or accessible by the wider public. He expresses
scepticism that there is a ‘“cultural dynamism” in the people that will emerge if only they

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can be liberated from the cultural values hitherto accepted by an elite’ and outright hostility
to ‘one European “cultural expert”’, who referred to such values as ‘the “cultural colonialism
of the middle-classes”’ (Gibson, quoted in Kelly, 1984: 21). Neither Kelly nor Gibson reveals
precisely who this parenthesised expert is, but it is a notion that resonates most strongly with
the work of Pierre Bourdieu, whose contribution provides a key moment in the relations
between sociology and cultural policy as it was emerging in the same period in France.

A useful sociology?
Bourdieu’s sociological analysis of European museum attendance, conducted with Alain
Darbel, was published in France in 1969. This study, The Love of Art, employed the estab-
lished empirical techniques of sociology, based around survey-interviews, with audiences at
a range of art museums across Europe (including France, Greece, the Netherlands, Poland
and Spain) and used the statistical analysis, and other forms of observation and measurement
(including length of time of visit and qualitative analysis of the language used to describe the
visit) to examine how the experiences of museum visitors were socially patterned. With the
application of these techniques to this subject, the study provides a significant set of meth-
odological and theoretical templates for subsequent relations between sociology and cultural
policy, focussed upon the policy ‘problem’ of cultural inequality, i.e. the differential engage-
ment of the populace of a particular country or territory with its public cultural resources.
Laurie Haniquet (this volume) gives a fuller discussion of the theoretical and empirical con-
struction of this problem in Bourdieu’s work. For my purposes here, Bourdieu embodies a
particular moment in the overlapping histories of sociology and cultural policymaking in
that his emergence as the predominant sociologist of culture of the late twentieth century
began in the 1960s and was given momentum and impetus through a research programme
directly connected with the apparatus of the French state.
As Ahearne (2004) and Dubois (2011) relate, the late 1950s and early 1960s, i.e. the same
period in which sociology was establishing itself as an influential social science discipline in
the UK, was a key period in the formation of modern cultural policy in France, culminat-
ing in the formation of the Ministry of Cultural Affairs under the leadership of the novelist
Andre Malraux in 1959. As in the UK, this is a period characterised by an increased concern
with modernisation, and the possibility of corralling and applying various emerging forms of
technical and scientific expertise to achieve that modernisation. While in the UK the field
of culture remained rather insulated from these imperatives, in France, the aspiration to
modernise extended to questions of culture and meant that, according to a key civil servant
in the Ministry of Culture, ‘Cultural policy must no longer be commanded by aesthetic and
moral motives but must be conceived on the basis of objective data and be scientifically based
on social needs’ (quoted in Dubois, 2011: 496). The Ministry’s funding of the project that
eventually becomes The Love of Art reflects this impetus.
There was, then, a mutually reinforcing rationale for a relationship between sociology
and matters of cultural policy in this period in France. On the one hand was a state, similar
to that previously identified in the UK, increasingly influenced by technocratic concerns
with evidence, and on the other was a discipline’s attempt to cement its status as a science
through the application of its techniques and technologies of data gathering and analysis.
Social scientific forms of knowledge were used as a ‘mode of legitimation’ (Dubois, 2011:
496) for policy initiatives, while, ‘state commissioned research was a means to promote
a renewed sociology which, having gained social and scientific legitimacy thanks to sup-
port outside academia, could subsequently assert its position in the academic field’ (Dubois,

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2011: 495). These conditions also proved especially fertile for Pierre Bourdieu in his own
attempts to mark a distinct place for himself in the French intellectual field. The use and
application of the methods of social science were important in this task. While his early
work is more closely associated with the techniques of ethnography, based on fieldwork in
Algeria, and most usually identified as anthropological in its orientation, upon his return to
France in the late 1950s, Bourdieu embarked on a series of works that drew explicitly on
survey questionnaires, beginning with The Inheritors (1979), but including The Love of Art
(1991) and culminating in his most enduring work, Distinction (1984). As Robbins describes
it, in this formative period, ‘he was opting for self-presentation in terms of social and cultural
anthropology or sociology so as to present himself as a scientist rather than a speculative
philosopher.’ (Robbins, 2005: 22) The use of these forms of empirical quantitative methods
was not without controversy, given that this was also a period in which such evidence, with
its strong associations with the mechanisms of the state, was beginning to be critiqued. For
Bourdieu, though, these methods were precisely the basis upon which he could construct
his sociology in contrast to the abstract philosophical theorising that dominated French
intellectual life and build up the discipline’s self-belief that it was rigorous in its claim-­
making. One consequence of a commitment to such forms of evidence, as described by
Lebaron (2009), was the use of its ‘scientific’ authority, more usually attached to economistic
explanations for social life, to generate convincing counter-explanations, which could be
taken equally seriously.
The combination of these impulses – from policymakers for evidence, from social sci-
entists for official recognition and from Bourdieu himself for a place in the intellectual
landscape – perhaps explains the on-going significance of The Love of Art in setting the
terms of the relations between sociology and cultural policy. It also gives some indication
as to why, at least for Bourdieu, such relations proved untenable. If the aim of applying the
technologies of contemporary social science to the operation of cultural policy through the
support of empirical research like The Love of Art was to re-shape cultural policy towards a
more modern, accountable, democratic mode and away from an aesthetic, moral one, then
the evidence presented by Bourdieu could indeed have been useful. The establishment of
statistical relationships between social groups and the extent and nature of their attendance
of museums seems likely to be a productive basis for initiatives that alter or shape the nature
of exhibits or venues to make them more attractive to broadened audiences – and indeed this
approach proves remarkably resilient, as we shall see. Bourdieu’s interpretation of this evi-
dence, though, and his more nuanced engagement with the nature of the museum audience
generated a different set of solutions.
For Dubois, Bourdieu’s interpretation of the ‘problem’ of accessing culture comes down
to four interlocking points. First, the ability to choose whether to visit a museum or not
is determined by previously acquired dispositions; second, the appreciation of art in the
museum depends on codes that, again, are acquired elsewhere; third, the meanings of works
of art are not always self-evident or obvious; fourth, the cultural institutions themselves are
potentially intimidating spaces for a significant portion of the population. The last two points
reflect what Bourdieu later refers to as the ‘cult of the work of art’ (Bourdieu, 1984: 53) and
the belief in its charismatic power. The former two points imply that solutions to the prob-
lems of cultural institutions do not lie with the institutions themselves but in other spheres
such as the family or school. Both positions challenged the very legitimacy of the Ministry
of Culture itself. Moreover they ‘de-sacralised’ legitimate culture, making Bourdieu’s in-
tervention problematic for those individuals, institutions and policymakers most invested in
maintaining the special place ascribed to culture in social life.

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While under Malraux cultural policy was explicitly evoked as a means of using the arts
to re-invigorate the kind of social ties and bonds associated with religious life for a mod-
ern, secular society, the Ministry and the cultural institutions themselves were to remain
guardians of the faith and therefore complicit in maintaining art’s charismatic ideology.
For Bourdieu, a democratic cultural policy really demanded that this ideology be revealed,
subverted and even over-turned. More pragmatically, but no less damning, was the impli-
cation that the cultural institutions, and the Ministry, were actually rather marginal to the
problem of cultural inequality, at least compared to the equivalent department for education
with responsibility for the position of various forms of culture on curricula and for how the
codes of appreciation were taught and learned. This made Bourdieu’s findings something of
anathema to a new Ministry at a time in which it was trying to establish and legitimise its
role within government.
Although this experience raised questions for Bourdieu about the potential relations
between an objective ‘science’ of sociology and the pragmatic demands of policymakers,
Swartz (2004) reveals it did not end these relations, as Bourdieu was involved in producing
two reports on the role and future of education in France under the socialist Mitterand
government of the 1980s. Bourdieu’s interventions can be seen, in retrospect, to have done
much to help define the field of the sociology of culture and to have set the terms of the
problem of cultural policy inasmuch as it is focussed on questions of cultural ‘inequality’.
The coincidence of forces (the forming of a ministry, the development of a discipline, the
pressures of the academy) which underpins these interventions, though, also reflects a high
water mark in direct relationships between sociology and cultural policy that has prefaced
a more general parting of the ways. In the years since the Love of Art and especially Distinc-
tion sociology, certainly in Europe and North America, became more interested in culture,
especially as informed by the popularity and influence of Cultural Studies. Direct dialogue
between sociologists and policymakers though has become relatively rare.
Notable exceptions to this include the role of Richard A. Peterson and in the US and
Tak Wing Chan and John Goldthorpe in the UK, contributions that both engage directly
and critically with Bourdieu’s applicability beyond France. A key figure in the development
of the sociology of culture in the US, especially in relation to the ‘production of culture
perspective’ (Peterson, 1976), and one of the co-founders of the ASA’s sociology of culture
section in 1986, Peterson joined the research division of the National Endowment for the
Arts (NEA), the primary policy body with responsibility for federal funding of the arts, in
1979. There he was directly involved in the production of a national survey instrument on
cultural participation, the Survey of Public Participation in the Arts (SPPA). He undertook
this work in the light of abiding caution over research enterprises that ‘focus on the manip-
ulation of people’s tastes, attitudes and behaviour’ (quoted in Santoro, 2008: 50), and with a
specific aim of helping those who were interested in increasing participation in the arts, as
opposed to aiding market researchers. The analysis of findings from this instrument was used
as the basis for Peterson, together with a range of collaborators (Peterson, 1992; Peterson and
Kern, 1996; Peterson and Simkus, 1992), to develop the concept of the ‘cultural omnivore’
based on the empirical discovery of the relatively wide-ranging musical taste preferences of
educated professionals, contrasted with the less varied ‘univorous’ tastes of the relatively less
affluent with fewer educational qualifications. This concept – conceptualised as something
of a challenge to the kinds of relationships identified by Bourdieu in the France of the 1960s
and 1970s – emerges as one of the most significant in the sociology of culture in the early
twenty-first century. Its growth and spread (see Peterson, 2005; Wright, 2016) also reflects
the bringing of culture under the lens of modern government, inasmuch as that can be seen

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in the development of equivalent forms of survey to the SPPA in other territories as measure-
ments of cultural participation are seen as worthwhile indicators of national policy success.
A similar relationship occurs in the UK with the work of John Goldthorpe (himself a key
figure in the establishment of the technical identity of the sociologist in Savage’s account)
and his work with Tak Wing Chan examining the UK Arts Council’s Taking Part survey and
its predecessors (Chan and Goldthorpe, 2005, 2007a,b). This work, undertaken in a signifi-
cant period in the recent history of UK cultural policy to be discussed below, used findings
from surveys about participation in arts and cultural activities to engage directly with policy
debates about cultural participation but also to contribute to the scholarly debates instigated
by Richard Peterson about the omnivore. In relation to the latter, Chan and Goldthorpe’s
analysis points to some tentative support for the omnivore thesis, in that, as they describe,
‘higher status, higher educational qualifications and a higher income all increase individuals’
chances of being an omnivore rather than a univore’ (Chan and Goldthorpe, 2005: 208).
Work from this project (Chan and Goldthorpe, 2007a) also raised direct challenges for policy
in questioning the extent, given that non-participation in the arts was common across social
strata, that such ‘self-exclusion’ from the arts should be conceptualised as a policy concern at
all. Later work emerging from the direct collaboration with policymakers includes the 2008
report From Indifference to Enthusiasm (Bunting et al., 2008), which found some 84 percent
of the surveyed population of the UK engaged with little or no publicly funded arts activity
and that education and social status were strong influences on the likelihood of participation.
Qualitative work integrated into this analysis also identified strong barriers to participation,
including those that were practical (relating to caring responsibilities for potential partici-
pants’ children and to geographical proximity to the UK’s cultural offer, concentrated in
cities, especially London) but also ‘psychological’, relating to discomfort or unfamiliarity
with the spaces and settings in which the arts were exhibited and performed. If these latter
points contain echoes of the kinds of findings that emerge from The Love of Art, then the
conclusion that, ‘there does not appear to be any evidence of a cultural elite that engages
with ‘high art’ rather than popular culture’ (Bunting et al., 2008: 62) resonates more with
the omnivore thesis. Such findings also suggest that the ‘problem’ of access to culture is one
that is solvable by cultural organisations themselves through, for example, improved market-
ing messages or information about ‘dress codes or etiquette’ (Bunting et al., 2008: 12). This
latter point offers the starkest contrast with the insights of Bourdieu – although one that is
in keeping with Goldthorpe’s established and clearly articulated suspicion of the conceptual
and empirical basis of this position (Goldthorpe, 2007).
These differing intersections between sociologists and policymakers reflect recurrent
tensions in relations between academic forms of research with apparent commitments to
disinterested ‘discovery’ or ‘truth’ and those forms of research that are more instrumental
in nature and directly oriented towards and sympathetic with the pragmatic problems of
policymakers. In the specific field of cultural policy studies, this was a debate played out
productively in the 1990s between McGuigan (1996) and Bennett (1998) about the possibil-
ity of a pure, critical Cultural Studies. For McGuigan, suspicious of any direct engagement
between the state and scholarship,

knowledge that is produced solely for official use and funded accordingly rarely questions
the fundamental aims and objectives of the client organization. Under such conditions,
it is very difficult for a policy-oriented research programme to observe the critical aims
and responsibilities that have characterised a ‘disinterested’ cultural studies.
(McGuigan, 1996: 14)

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Such a position, for Bennett, is unsustainable in a context in which culture itself is a site of
government, and in which universities, and intellectuals working within them, are part of
the state’s own infrastructure. Recognition of this belies a distinction between critical and
‘practical’ or ‘technically’ oriented intellectuals and suggests that the former should directly
engage with the latter rather than preserve their – somewhat mythical – status as ‘disinterested’.
This division maps nicely onto a general divergence in the field of sociology identified
by Michael Burawoy for whom early twenty-first-century sociology exists in public, policy,
critical and professional forms. A policy-oriented sociology can ‘provide solutions to prob-
lems that are presented to us, or to legitimate solutions that have already been reached’
(Burawoy, 2004: 9). A critical sociology, by contrast, has to ‘supply moral visions’ (Burawoy,
2004: 16). Both are united by the principles of ‘professional sociology’ underpinned by com-
mitments to the set of methods, epistemological assumptions and the inherited theoretical
perspectives that define the discipline. The relative usefulness of sociological knowledge
for cultural policy, or any policy for that matter, is always likely, in this light, to reflect the
varying priorities of both sociologists and policymakers.

Sociology, reflexivity and the ‘creative industries’

The last decades of the twentieth century were a period in which the discipline of sociol-
ogy and the technocratic states of the global North were both re-imagining the nature of
social life. The oft-quoted assertion from former UK Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher
that, ‘there is no such thing as society. There are individual men and women and there are
families’ (quoted in Fuller, 2006: 12) was likely to cause greater problems for those social
scientists more invested in the ‘social’ bit of that label than economists or psychologists, for
example, whose epistemological assumptions worked outwards from the level of individual
actors or agents. At least the economic and political context of the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s,
in which successive governments in the UK, Europe and the US attempted to re-draw the
terms of the social contract and re-evaluate the role of government in managing it, meant
that the ‘science of the welfare state’ became a less influential voice. The dominant economic
and political philosophies of the day no longer looked to the kinds of solutions that sociol-
ogy provided because the problems of policy had, so the story goes, moved beyond the
provision of basic needs and services, the management of the economy and the construc-
tion of a coherent national cultural space in which these other goals could be located and
achieved. Instead the body politic could be re-conceptualised as being made of individuals
(and families) concerned with the creation of self-directed lifestyles in a consumer-led econ-
omy and a globalised world.
Sociology was complicit in this shift, given that influential sociological thinkers of this
period, such as Anthony Giddens (1991) – himself a key figure in the development of the
intellectual rationale for the Tony Blair-led Labour governments post 1997 – Ulrich Beck
(1992) and Zygmunt Bauman (1990), were also concerned with re-imagining the texture of
the social life, emphasising, in different ways, the relative decline of traditional social struc-
tures such as class and nation with the resulting possibility of new forms of ‘reflexive’ free-
dom in which individuals could potentially take control of and shape their own lives, rather
than accept the roles that were assumed to be inevitable to earlier generations. Cultural
Studies arrived at a similar point from a different direction, emphasising, in its re-appraisals
of popular youth subcultures and inspired by an emancipatory identity politics, the ability of
individuals to craft meaningful identities for themselves in spite of the conditions with which
they were faced. Both the rise of the notion of ‘reflexivity’ and the attention to the everyday

59
David Wright

forms of creative expression evident in Cultural Studies’ accounts of the cultural world
served to de-privilege – or to de-sacralise, to revisit Bourdieu’s terminology – the position
of the sociologist. In its place were empowered, self-aware individuals with less immediate
need of the authority of experts to interpret their own life experiences.
If questions of culture came late to sociology, the selective application of sociological
concepts and techniques also had a late flowering in UK policymaking – in ways that perhaps
reflected the incorporation of these broader changes to the ‘social’ and their application to
the ‘problem’ of cultural policy. The New Labour government post 1997 placed considerable
emphasis on ‘the creative industries’ as potential drivers of economic growth in the emerg-
ing symbolic economy (Hewison, 2014). It also emphasised the importance of evidence in
underpinning cultural policies, whether in terms of mapping the extent and measuring the
success of these industries or in providing legitimation to the funding of its flagship policy
of free admission to museums and galleries (see Hesmondhalgh et al. (2015) for a criti-
cal reappraisal of this direction in policymaking). This latter strand of cultural policy was
strengthened by a new belief that culture – and especially ‘the arts’ could contribute to the
resolution of a range of abiding social problems (from the integration of migrant communi-
ties, to improving health, to tackling crime) and indeed that the cultural sector should make
such contributions in return for funding.
Sociological techniques and theories can be detected in relation to this strand of
policymaking. First the empirical methods that sociology helped refine – including the
survey and various forms of qualitative data-gathering – formed a major part of the
infrastructure of ‘evaluation’ that underpinned work in the cultural sector, assessing
the relative success of projects or events against criteria established by policymakers
or funders (including diversity of the audience, as in the Chan and Goldthorpe/Arts
Council research referred to above). Theoretically, the catch-all New Labour policy
concept of ‘social exclusion’ draws on conceptual language that emerges from influential
sociological studies of the multi-dimensional nature of late-­t wentieth-century poverty
(Townshend, 1979), incorporating understanding of the roles of gender, ethnicity and
disability in compounding the experience of poverty, even in contexts of what appeared
to be, from a historical perspective, relative material comfort. The career of this problem
in New Labour discourse, though, as Levitas (2005) explains, re-­i magines it as one that
can be solved through supporting individuals in their aspirations to make better choices
–including the choice to participate in publicly funded forms of culture – rather than
one that requires attention to the ‘social’ and its structures and arrangements in a more
fundamental sense.
In relation to the more diffuse conception of the creative industries, the place of sociology
is rather more ambiguous. While rhetorically at least this aspect of cultural policy has be-
come more significant as these industries, widely defined, are conceptualised as strategically
significant to economic success, sociological accounts are less welcome than other academic
contributors to the formation of policy. This might reflect the dispersion of the profession
of sociology itself, which has seen researchers trained in sociological ways of knowing and
researching finding institutional locations away from dedicated departments. These might
be in more generic applied social science or law or business schools or portmanteau research
centres with specific interests in aspects of policy, such as urban regeneration, all of which
exist in a more variegated inter-disciplinary academic field with significant competition
for research funding. It might also reflect that despite – or perhaps because of – the critical
reflexivity of the re-imagined social landscape, sociological accounts sound old-fashioned

60
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in the apparently dynamic world of the cultural and media industries. For McRobbie this
reflects the broader, entrenched political climate and its

successful discrediting of the political vocabulary associated with the left and with fem-
inism including equal opportunities, anti-discrimination, workplace democracy, trade
union representation etc. The only site for the dissemination of these values is actually
the academy, the place of training or education of the creatives.
(McRobbie, 2016: 24)

Sociology itself, though, is a less welcome presence ‘on the guest list’ of official conversations
within the creative industries and between these industries and policymakers.
Here, in conclusion, we hear an echo of the ‘moral’ mission of Burawoy’s critical sociol-
ogy and indeed of the foundational aspiration to reform a ‘broken’ modernity that under-
pinned the early establishment of the discipline. We can also hear something of an admission
of defeat, or at least a potential retreat, from the aspiration of a progressive sociology provid-
ing the evidence base for policy as an integral part of a democratising empirical mission such
as that underpinning the discipline’s rise to prominence in the 1960s. Culture and cultural
policy may have been quite marginal to that rise, but the specific tension between social
scientific forms of knowledge and the kinds of authority they produce, and the forms of
authority that, in Savage’s account, had previously attached to forms of aesthetic or literary
knowledge, means the historical relationships between the development of the discipline and
the development of the problem of cultural policy are revealing.
The experience of Bourdieu in France suggests sociology could be influential, at least
in identifying the nature of policy problems if not in determining their solutions. So-
ciology does not speak with one voice, politically, but it can, as in the case of Bourdieu,
come up with answers that are challenging and complex, albeit immediately impractical,
for institutions concerned with the pragmatic process of governing. At the heart of this
tension is sociology’s status as one of a range of academic disciplines – but also as one of
a range of voices beyond the academy – that attempt the ambitious and frustrating task
of identifying, explaining and reflecting on human experience itself. Other, sometimes
louder, voices emerge from other social sciences, politics and the policymaking machin-
ery of the modern state but also, significantly in term of this discussion, from artists,
writers, film makers and other cultural producers themselves. There is, then, something
of a complex matrix of perspectives and priorities in which sociology and the objects
and makers of cultural policy are best seen as occasional collaborators and equally likely
as  competitors or even antagonists in understanding the role of culture in the social
world.

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 5
The relationship between cultural
policy and arts management1
Victoria Durrer

For some scholars within cultural policy and arts management studies, the relationship
between the field of cultural policy and arts management practice seems an obvious one.
Whilst there is some academic work that makes this connection explicit or even visible, there
is little scholarship that develops our understanding of how these two areas interact, how
ideas are exchanged and implemented, and where the power is located within this relation-
ship. This chapter is a start at building such understanding.
The chapter explores how the relationship between arts management and cultural policy
is articulated within two main sites where arts managers are socialised into the assump-
tions, traditions and norms of their profession. These are the realms of education/academic
study and vocational practice, both highly interconnected, epistemological domains for the
discipline. Drawing from a review of academic and practice-based, or vocational, research
literature within Europe and the UK and interviews with UK-based arts managers and arts
management educators, the chapter shows that the relationship between arts management
and cultural policy is both symbiotic and fragmented. The relationship is in one way trans-
actional, with cultural policy viewed as a heavily influential and sometimes constraining
structure in which arts management practice operates. This interpretation places valuations
of art and culture as utilitarian to political issues and raises questions about the arms’ length
principle upon which the relationship between the state and arts and cultural bodies have
been founded. At the same time, this connection is perceived as providing opportunities
for mutual benefit. This interpretation places agency in the hands of arts managers to drive,
influence and uphold policy objectives. These findings have implications for how we under-
stand what individuals, networks and institutions structure the governance of cultural policy
as well as how and why. Such knowledge would enhance our understanding of what, and
how, value becomes attached to particular forms of arts and culture, as well as how those
forms are legitimated as types of goods, services, practices and/or symbols in society.
The chapter focuses on arts management and cultural policy in relation to publicly funded
arts and culture in the UK. Within the UK, public – or State, funding – of arts and culture
follows an arm’s length principle. The principle is argued, in theory, to keep Arts Councils
at a distance from government in order to minimise state intervention into the arts and
foster artistic autonomy. In practice, it means that bodies in the UK regional executives

64
 Cultural policy and arts management

(Creative Scotland in Scotland and the Arts Councils of England, Northern Ireland and
Wales respectively), are intended to make funding and policy decisions in relation to arts
and cultural practice (and management) that are independent from government influence
upon receiving their own annual grants from the (devolved) state. As a result and as will be
discussed further in the chapter, this principle directly impacts how arts management and
cultural policy interact in the UK.
Typically, ‘arts management’ relates to the working practices of a profession compris-
ing the protection, preservation, distribution, marketing, mediation and financial organi-
sation of arts and cultural objects and experiences. Here, arts management is interpreted as
encompassing both arts and cultural management with a particular focus on the fine and
performing arts and heritage, including museums. While it is acknowledged that individual
arts organisations have their own policies, this chapter focuses on state, government or public
policy. In doing so, the chapter defines ‘cultural policy’ as “whatever governments choose to
do or not to do” (Dye 2005, p. 1 cited in Mulcahy 2006, p. 320) in relation to art and culture.
The chapter begins with an analysis of how the relationship between arts management
and cultural policy is described in academic and practice-based, or vocational, research lit-
erature within Europe and the UK specifically. Followed by a more detailed explication of
the research method and rationale, the chapter presents findings from an initial audit of arts
management programmes at the postgraduate level within UK universities and qualitative
interviews with UK arts managers. As this is a collection of work with a global inflection,
the chapter concludes with a broader discussion of questions raised and what lessons can be
learnt about the relationship of arts management to cultural policy at an international level.

Academia and practice: what relationship

does the literature reflect?
As the sites in which arts managers are socialised into the profession, ‘practice’ and ‘educa-
tion’ are where the historical, institutional and social assumptions and traditions of arts man-
agement and cultural policy are exchanged, enacted and reproduced. As a result, this chapter
begins by investigating how the relationship between arts management and cultural policy is
expressed in vocational and academic literature. Paquette and Redaelli (2015) have provided
a thorough and most up-to-date analysis of the interrelations of the research from both fields.
While focused on the North American situation, their findings are relevant to the UK. They
argue that numerous agents, institutions and groups, including academic institutions, arts
organisations, government bodies, quangos and private foundations as well as specific practi-
tioners, consultants and researchers, shape knowledge in and about both disciplines. All have
differing levels and varieties of interest, knowledge and stake in the economic, social, political
and aesthetic dimensions of arts and culture ranging from, for example, international tourism
to local community development (Chong 2009; Vuyk 2010; O’Brien 2013). What results are
epistemological viewpoints that are currently not equally valued or mutually recognised in
either academia or professional practice. This disjoint contributes to a perception that the two
fields are fractured parts of a whole. It also impacts the perceived and actual level of agency
arts managers have, in shaping not only their own practice but also policy decisions.
This section further explores this imbalance. It is argued that the multi-discipline nature
of both fields and the variety of actors and agencies involved in knowledge production has
precipitated studies from multiple theoretical frameworks and fostered varying views on
what forms of knowledge should be privileged over others. Cultural policy is often viewed
as a space for critical discourse on the role of arts and culture in society and arts management

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as an applied discipline. The involvement of state bodies in the establishment of arts and cul-
tural management courses and educational networks in the UK and Europe has helped facil-
itate this view. This positioning has led to thinking, which confines arts management as an
instrument for public policy. Yet, it could equally be argued to position the cultural practice
of arts managers within potentially influential roles in social, economic and political spheres.
This dissimilitude is not argued here to be a – or rather ‘the’ – problem, per se. Instead, in re-
stricting our study of each as an individual field, we have limited our understanding of their
relationship. In actual fact there is much interaction between the two, particularly in the
arena of education and professional practice. The disparity in how the two fields are perceived
to interact, has stunted our understanding of who makes policy, how and for what ends.

Multiple voices and viewpoints

First, as realms of both academic and vocational knowledge, arts management and cultural
policy are complex. A number of scholars have demonstrated how their interdisciplinary,
trans-disciplinary and/or cross-disciplinary nature – depending on one’s viewpoint – has
presented challenges to the legitimacy of both as professional practices, study and research
areas (for example, Scullion and Garcia 2005; Paquette and Redaelli 2015). For instance,
research is produced by both academic and practitioner-based circles, involving a range of
actors from higher education institutes to consultancies who have different perceptions of the
validity of one another’s findings and approaches (Paquette and Redaelli 2015). Furthermore,
as disciplines of practice and study, neither is wholly focused on, for example, the arts and
culture, aesthetics, management, social interaction, public policy or political and economic
processes, but draw on all of these in varying ways (Brkić 2009; Chong 2009). In fact, arts
management and cultural policy courses in universities are housed in a variety of different
departments (Sternal 2007).
Arts management and cultural policy are thus influenced by epistemological approaches
from, for instance, political science, cultural studies, sociology, economics, management
and the arts and humanities. Each discipline frames arts management and/or cultural policy
differently, presenting unique vantage points from which to critically investigate the fields
(see preceding chapters in this collection, which illustrate this point). At the same time,
their relationship to multiple disciplines means that neither arts management nor cultural
policy rests solely within any particular boundaries of knowledge formation (Scullion and
Garcia 2005). What can result is the disparaging of different theoretical frameworks from
one discipline to another. This disfavour is evidenced in some discussions within both arts
management and cultural policy research where approaches to ‘management’ studies are
described as ‘out of touch’ with approaches in the arts and humanities (Belfiore and Bennett
2008; Brkić 2009). So, even though arts management and cultural policy share disciplines
of interest and common stakeholders and agents involved in building knowledge, their flex-
ibility in scope presents challenges to their perceived validity as areas of practice and study.
With these blurred distinctions, it has been difficult to fully appreciate and articulate their
relationship to one another.

Different forms of knowledge

Differences in emphasis between the two are also evident in the literature. Cultural policy is
often articulated as a space for critical discourse on the values society places on (or espouses
with) arts and culture. Arts management, on the other hand, is often articulated as a space

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for exploring applied management approaches to arts and cultural practice. This division,
which has undoubtedly impacted the ways in which the relationship to one another may be
perceived within academic and education circles, will be explored further here. Much arts
management research and education has tended to privilege what are often seen as ‘transfer-
rable’, “utilitarian” and/or toolkit approaches for ‘how to’ fund, manage and share the arts
with audiences and participants (Bennett 2001; Devereaux 2009, p. 65; Ebewo and Sirayi
2009, p. 282; Paquette and Redaelli 2015). As a result, arts management education in Euro-
pean third-level institutions has tended to value applied skills in business management and
entrepreneurialism as well as the more technical aspects of producing artwork (Brkić 2009,
p. 270, see also Dewey and Wyszomirski 2004; Suteu 2006).
The rationale for this emphasis has not been greatly researched, but some reasons will
be advanced here. For one, arts management as a field of study developed from practical
training needs that emerged in Europe in the 1960s when an increase in arts and cultural
infrastructure there required professionals with new expertise to staff them (Suteu 2006;
Paquette and Redaelli 2015). In addition, the development of the Bologna Process, which
has allowed the transfer of qualifications from higher education institutes between European
countries, has likely influenced a weighting of ‘transferrable’ skills within arts management
degrees (for more discussion see Sternal 2007). Since that time, there has been a breadth of
development of third-level and professional development courses outside of Europe (Boylan
2000; Dragićević Šešić 2015). Many of these programmes in arts management and cultural
policy have involved the engagement of practitioners in design and teaching (Suteu 2006;
Paquette and Redaelli 2015). These are individuals who:

have developed their expertise ‘on the job’ …[For them,] learning through experience,
be it by trial and error or with and from colleagues, has been the norm.
(Summerton 2009, p. 115)

It is thus not surprising that ‘real world’, practical experience is highly valued in educational
programme content. As a result, such programmes tend to position the relevance of cultural
policy to arts management as the context (political and spatial) for actions and behaviours
within arts management practice (Suteu 2006).
In this vein, educational study of cultural policy in relation to arts management has been
shown to “highlight the role of public governance as a higher principle” against which
arts management practice is situated (quote from Brkić 2009: 270, see also Bennett 2001,
Schuster 2003, Dragićević Šešić and Dragojević 2005). Sternal (2007, p. 69) explains:

Many [arts management and cultural policy] programmes, even if they do not mention
cultural policy in their names, devote substantial space to issues concerning this topic,
with courses such as European/national/regional cultural policy; local and regional
cultural development policies, cultural policy instruments, historical development of
cultural policies in Europe; and cultural policy: study, analysis, action.

This assessment has implications for how the relationship between arts management and
cultural policy is reviewed, critiqued and understood within arts management research. In
fact, cultural policy is still relatively absent in much published work presented in academic
journals and conference proceedings dedicated to arts management. Topics instead focus on
operative, professional issues; those related to marketing, audiences, consumer behaviour,
institutional governance, strategic management and planning (Evrard and Colbert 2000;

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Pérez-Cabañero and Cuadrado-García 2011). Though networks like ENCATC (European

network on cultural management and policy) have been addressing this gap. As a result,
Paquette and Redaelli (2015, p. 10) argue that the “research discourse around arts manage-
ment is still relatively weak”, while Devereaux (2009, p. 68) has found that the discipline
lacks critical discourse around the “assumptions” and “traditions” from which the field op-
erates. So, when viewed as the frame in which arts management practice exists, examination
of cultural policy is often held as the purview of theoretical, critical and “intellectual” re-
flection, with study and research in arts management appearing to serve more functional or
technical purposes (Suteu 2006; Devereaux 2009, p. 68). This delineation has tended to posi-
tion cultural policy as a more legitimated field of academic study to that of arts management.

Perspectives on agency
These perspectives further imply that cultural policy has an inherent power over arts man-
agement practice. They place the arts manager as a passive delivery agent of specific and fixed
approaches to practice that serve policy goals. Such an interpretation may not be surprising
when considering the strong involvement of state bureaucrats and policymakers in the de-
velopment of many European arts management and cultural policy training programmes.
In fact, Dubois (2016) has pointed out the correlation in changes in cultural policy and the
professionalisation of arts management. Suteu (2006), Sternal (2007) and Dragićević Šešić
(2015) remind us of the influential roles both UNESCO and the Council of Europe have
played in the development of arts, cultural policy and cultural management training world-
wide. The UNESCO Chairs Programme has led to the evolution of a number of higher
education programmes in places such as Serbia, Lithuania and Spain. Work by the Council of
Europe helped initiate the establishment of the European Network of Cultural Administra-
tion Training Centres in 1992 as well as a number of networks for professional development
and training (Suteu 1999, 2006). Dragićević Šešić (2015, p. 102) details the many networks
at play today, including, but not limited to, Trans Europe Halles, Culture Action Europe and
the Soros Art and Culture Network Programme. With regards to cultural policy, there is the
International Federation of Arts Councils and Culture Agencies (IFACCA), which connects
a global network of arts councils and ministries of culture in over 80 countries.
The involvement of policymakers in establishing higher education training of arts man-
agers is also seen in the UK, particularly England, where the Arts Council partnered with
City University in establishing what is largely regarded as the first arts administration train-
ing programme in the late 1960s/early1970s (Sternal 2007).2 This relationship, in particular,
is an example of how changing requirements for efficiency and effectiveness in public sector
accountability for state funding had a direct impact on the training and development of arts
managers in Europe. These developments have likely fostered the perspective that the areas
of arts management and cultural policy interact as delivery agent and context, respectively.
In fact, this development of arts management as a discipline of study and research in
Europe since the 1960s/70s was also a result of changing impressions of the role of arts and
culture as a resource for addressing social, political and economic challenges in public pol-
icy (Suteu 2006). Since the 1970s, US and European cultural policy has associated publicly
funded arts and culture with urban regeneration and tourism through, for instance, flagship
cultural projects and the Capital of Culture programme as well as international cultural
exchange projects (Bianchini and Parkinson 1993, Garcia 2005). Dragićević Šešić (2015)
explains the increasing social, political and cultural importance of arts managers in parts
of Western and Eastern Europe at local, national and international levels at the fall of the

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Berlin Wall. This focus has been particularly visible in the UK since New Labour came to
government in 1997. While long recognised in community art circles, this period saw the
practice of cultural institutions and in turn, arts managers, in the UK officially ‘attached’
to public policies regarding major societal concerns such as social inclusion, job creation,
education, diplomacy, equality and social justice (Matarasso 1997; Gray 2007). In 2000, the
UK’s Department for Culture, Media & Sport, which focuses much of its work on England,
declared that museums (and presumably other cultural organisations) were now ‘centres of
social change’ (Department for Culture, Media & Sport 2000). Similar policies can still be
found in Northern Ireland’s former Department of Culture, Arts and Leisure (subsumed
into the Department for Communities in 2016) (Department of Culture, Arts and Leisure
2015), with strategies in Wales and Scotland making similar intimations (CyMAL 2010;
Creative Scotland 2014). On an international level, UNESCO policies have argued for the
role of culture in peace and reconciliation, protection of cultural diversity and promotion of
sustainable development (UNESCO 2005, 2013, 2014). It can be argued that this evolution
not only makes the role of policy significant to the work of practice, but also the work of
arts managers significant in shaping policymaking. While still servicing public policy goals,
arts managers are not mere instruments, but, as articulated in the UN’s Declaration of Arc-et-­
Senans in 1972, active “operators and mediators at different levels of action and decision”
(United Nations 1972 quoted in Suteu 2006, p. 21).
Following studies on ‘cultural intermediaries’ (Bourdieu 2000; Maguire and Matthews
2014), reading arts managers as mediators reveals their potential agency in the policymaking
process as shapers of the “use values and exchange values” of arts and culture (Negus 2002,
p. 504) in the political arena. Doing so also highlights the possibility of a more reciprocal
relationship between cultural policy and arts management practice. In fact, some support for
public policies from managers within the cultural sector has been evidenced (see Durrer and
O’Brien 2014; Nisbett 2013; Newsinger and Green 2016). Dragićević Šešić (2015) sees arts
managers as participants in the cultural policymaking process alongside funders, donors and
politicians. Woddis (2014) argues similarly in her study on theatre practitioners. Applying
public policy research, she contends that arts practitioners, including managers, contribute to
cultural policymaking in two ways. For one, they are key actors in state agencies, quangos,
arts development agencies, councils and national cultural institutions that participate in the
design and development of cultural policy directives and strategies (Schuster 2003). They
also influence policy development in their involvement in consultation processes or advocacy
activities and campaigns. This role can take place locally, nationally and internationally.
It is evidenced in both professional and third-level education-based networking groups,
which stress ways to influence policy through advocacy actions and international knowledge
exchange activities and projects (see the work of ENCATC for third-level education net-
working at EU level and Trans Europe Halles for arts and cultural organisations, Suteu 1999;
Dragićević Šešić and Dragojević 2005; Rowntree et al. 2010).
Socialisation processes are critical here, as the opportunity to actually influence policy
may depend upon an arts manager’s disposition, professional status and position, manage-
ment (especially advocacy) skills and network (Woddis 2014). Still, the role, perceptions
and practices of arts managers are often neglected in arts management and cultural policy
research (Woddis 2014; Newsinger and Green 2016). In fact, there appears to be a lack of
understanding of arts management practices and their relationship to cultural policy and
artistic production (see McCall 2012 for some discussion on this). For instance, Gray (2009),
a political scientist by training, has demonstrated that in the six leading political and pub-
lic administration journals, there were only four articles on museums and galleries in a

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collective 347 years of publication. Others researching in the UK have tended to focus on
the impact of policy on practice (such as Kawashima 2000; Belfiore 2004) or have called for
a rethinking of cultural policy agendas for practice (for example, Miles and Sullivan 2012).
Only recently have researchers, educators and practitioners started to consider the power
and agency of arts managers in the policymaking process (see, for example, Newsinger and
Green 2016; Dragićević Šešić 2015; Bell and Oakley 2014; McCall 2012; Rowntree et al.
2010; Nisbett 2013). These studies reveal a need for greater understanding of the institutional
and social dynamics underlying exchanges between arts management and cultural policy.
How the relationship of arts management to cultural policy is perceived and experienced
in the realms of arts management education and practice will shed light on the habits and
assumptions involved in these interactions.

Methodology and data

The literature reviewed demonstrates that the hybrid nature of arts management and cultural
policy as both academic and vocational disciplines makes defining each field, and the precise
relationship of one to the other, difficult. Still, two main perceptions regarding how these
areas interact do emerge from the literature. The first describes cultural policy as an author-
itative context in which arts management operates. This stance positions arts managers as
passive receivers of funding and thus delivery agents for policy directives. Another interpre-
tation emphasises a different degree of interaction between arts management and cultural
policy, one in which arts managers have greater agency in the policymaking process. This
perspective sees arts management practice and individual arts managers as having active roles
in influencing and shaping policy. Such activity tends to occur through the exchange that
takes place in the management of artistic projects, advocacy work and networks.
Inherent in these perspectives are assumptions regarding where power is located in the
relationship between arts management and cultural policy. The frames of arts management
practice and education provide an effective foundation from which to explore these assump-
tions and how they manifest and develop in the socialisation of arts managers. These two
areas are of particular interest because, as the discussion above demonstrates, they are deeply
interlinked with practitioners (policymakers and arts managers) often involved in the for-
mation and teaching of higher educational courses in arts management as well as cultural
policy. More significantly, these realms are where the historical, institutional and social tra-
ditions, principles, habits and values of arts management and cultural policy are exchanged,
challenged, cemented and/or reproduced (Paquette and Redaelli 2015). Gathering an un-
derstanding of the perspectives of the individuals (arts managers, educators, students and
cultural policymakers) involved in these fields of practice will develop a fuller picture of
how the two fields do, and may, relate on institutional and social levels. As such, this study
takes an interpretive approach (Taylor 1971; Geertz 1973; Denzin 2007) to investigate indi-
viduals’ interpretations and their experiences of the interaction between arts management
and cultural policy. While discussions with arts managers focused on their understanding
and experience of policy, those with educators/academics focused on course content and the
placement of cultural policy in relation to arts management within course structure.
Arts management and cultural policy practice and study within the UK provide a good
basis for examining this relationship more closely. O’Brien (2013) has previously illustrated
the position of UK cultural policy research as a valuable international case study. With
respect to arts management, the region has a strong tradition of state funding for the arts, her-
itage and culture with a well-developed cultural infrastructure and a highly professionalised

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management practice that has international influence (Pick 1980; Dragićević Šešić 2003;
Tchouikina 2010). This influence is underpinned by an established framework for training
those who want to enter the field, including everything from university degree courses
to professional development, such as the Clore Leadership Programme. Furthermore, the
dynamic between arts management practice and cultural policy has changed much as a re-
sult of cultural policy since the New Labour government but in ways still in need of study
(Hesmondhalgh et al. 2015).
This chapter draws upon early insights from two data sets, still in formation. At this stage
in the study, these data sets focus on two ‘types’ of participants: arts managers (identified as
AM) and educators (identified as E). Qualitative approaches, employed here, allow research
participants to describe the meanings, beliefs and values they attach to their experiences,
which form the assumptions and traditions of the field (Geertz 1973; Delanty 1997). First is
an audit of seven arts management and cultural policy programmes within UK universities.
These courses are taught by a combination of arts management practitioners and cultural
policy scholars, and all produce research within both areas. All of the institutions offer
courses in either cultural policy or arts management, or both. Some of these were explicitly
labelled as such, for example, ‘MA Cultural Policy and Arts Management’, and others had
more specific titles yet were essentially based on these fields, such as ‘Festival Management’.
As Masters level programmes are more common and longer established within Europe (Brkić
2009), postgraduate rather than undergraduate degrees are the focus here. There are fewer
opportunities and options to study cultural policy or arts management as an undergraduate
degree, which straightforwardly reflects the level of specialisation required and the profes-
sionalisation of the sector (Paquette and Redaelli 2015).
The initial audit and scoping was then followed by email interviews (Mann and Stewart
2000) with academic staff members, where further enquiries about the structures of their
degree programmes and their understanding of the relationship between arts management
and cultural policy were made. These participants are teaching staff, module convenors
and course directors. They were selected on the basis of their involvement in the structure,
design and delivery of their degree programmes. Whilst recognising the key influence of
directors in terms of course design (Suteu 2006, p. 52), it is also understood that individual
staff members shape the content of courses and make key decisions about what materials to
include within their modules and individual lectures and seminars. Some of the educators
participating in the study would have previously worked as arts managers themselves, having
shifted into academic careers.
The second set involves qualitative interviews with arts managers (N = 6) with experience
working in England, Scotland and Northern Ireland. These individuals are involved in all or
some of the following activities: leading, programming, planning, organising and/or mar-
keting publicly funded arts and cultural services and goods for a public audience. Interviews
seek to ascertain their understanding of the relationship between arts management and cul-
tural policy, how they comprehend cultural policy and how political shifts impact on their
daily practice. In order to ensure some exposure to cultural policy, arts managers selected
for study have mid- to higher-level managerial positions. Their status means that they may
manage a number of staff members or volunteers to deliver their programme of work, and/or
they oversee a programme, e.g. education, artistic, curatorial, director and therefore lead in
liaising with social and/or cultural policymakers in a particular area of practice (e.g. arts and
health, youth arts, etc…). Most of the research participants, both practicing arts managers
and educators, would have learned arts management practice ‘on-the-job’, with a few having
received formal training. Thematic analysis (Braun and Clarke 2006), a systematic technique

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within the social sciences that aims to identify prominent themes and provides a complex
analysis of their meaning in context, was applied to both data sets.
Before sharing this data, it is important to put it into context. At the time of collection in
early to mid 2015, austerity culture as part of the global banking crisis and ensuing recession
had fully hit the publicly funded sector. Funding cuts affected all the arm’s length bodies
for arts and culture in the UK with Northern Ireland being the most severe. Arts Coun-
cil Northern Ireland passed an 11.2% cut from the Northern Ireland Executive’s 2015–6
budget on to the sector. This cut was coupled with the announcement that Northern Ire-
land’s Department of Culture, Arts and Leisure would be subsumed into a Department
for Communities in 2016. Within England, recognition and debate about the geographic
imbalance of arts funding between London and the regions was growing alongside blows
suffered by the arts due to major changes in provision from local authorities. These difficul-
ties have emerged aside greater recognition as to the lack of equality of opportunity and thus
diversity reflected in the sector’s labour force, including artists (O’Brien and Oakley 2015).
These circumstances would undoubtedly impact on research participants’ perceptions and
articulations of cultural policy.

Discussion
Emerging findings from the data thus far support both interpretations found in the lit-
erature: 1) that cultural policy is viewed as the operational context for arts management
practice, in which 2) individual or organisational influence is possible. Both educators and
arts managers interviewed reveal that while power seems to reside in the policy arena, arts
management and cultural policy have a symbiotic relationship that is at times compatible
and at times fragmented or oppositional. Cultural policy frames the conditions in which
arts management activity takes place. However, the extent to which such conditions are
viewed as malleable, guiding, directing or restricting differs amongst respondents. The
socialisation of arts managers into the field of practice appears to have a strong bearing on
this perception and an arts manager’s potential role or agency in the cultural policymaking
process. Individual dispositions and beliefs as well as the like-mindedness shared among
managers, policymakers and public service bureaucrats, such as political, social and aes-
thetic values, are factors that may influence the dynamics of policymaking as well as arts
management practice.
These issues are further explored below. The first section, Framing Arts Management
Practice, explores how cultural policy can be seen to structure arts management practice.
Section two details how this approach may infringe upon the arm’s length principle upon
which UK cultural policy is founded. What can result is an arts and cultural sector that is
responsive to the social, political and economic needs of the state with little recourse to be
otherwise. Sections three, four and five highlight how this alignment between policy and
practice is both a social and an institutional process, subject to the professional standing of,
and social relationships between, individuals and organisations within both fields of policy-
making and arts management.

Framing arts management practice

Both educators and arts managers describe cultural policy as the context or “framework”
(AM2) in which arts management practice occurs. At one side of the scale, cultural policy is

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viewed as a set of guidelines for arts management practice; on the other, it is perceived as a set
of strict requirements that legitimise arts (management) practice. Two arts managers explain:

[Cultural policy is where] …a body of people would have collective opinion on what
they would fund [or endorse in some way]… I suppose that’s usually government isn’t it,
who make money available? Or someone like the [national] Arts Council or [the]… city
council. That, I’m assuming they have a policy that they don’t just look at each individ-
ual project in relation to nothing. There’s some sort of guidelines.…
(AM1)

Do you pander to the cultural policy or the… [strategy] of the Arts Council in order
to get funding or do you not do that and continue to do the work that you want to do
and not get funding?
(AM4)

So, for arts managers interviewed, cultural policy is an articulation of ‘why’ government funds
artistic activity (Mulcahy 2006). It can feel “confining” and impact on artistic programming:

There’s an awareness of how cultural policy affects the kind of work that you do and
can affect how venues programme what they programme and when it comes to teaching
and developing projects in education and community context. It’s shaped by that, maybe
because the funding is shaped by that and has been I think really since I started working.
(AM2)

The operational authority of cultural policy is wielded on arts management practice finan-
cially. As a result, the relationship between the two is typically perceived as a transactional
one. An arts manager explains how negotiating policy requirements impacts finances: “We
know that if we resist those [cultural policy] agendas, it is very likely that funding will be
removed.” (AM6). It thus becomes necessary to engage, or “fit in” (AM4) with policy in
order to survive financially with some arts managers perceiving it has little relevance to the
everyday realities of practice.
While educators acknowledge these realities, they tend to place conceptual emphasis
on the contextual connection between arts management and cultural policy. Though not
exclusively, many of the MA programmes examined here seem to stress the applied and
technical aspects of management in modules on marketing, business planning, gover-
nance and fundraising. Teaching and learning involves lectures with professionals and
what Devereaux (2009, p. 67) refers to as “pragmatic, action-oriented issues” – project
based activity and work placements along with written assessments where students apply
knowledge to essays as well as practically, in making their own fundraising and marketing
strategies, for example. While theories of management, leadership, and entrepreneurship
are explored there, cultural policy module descriptions more overtly emphasise “theoret-
ical perspectives” and from diverse disciplines, including political science, cultural studies
and sociology.
In cultural policy modules, arts management is but one “part of the focus of cultural
policy” (E1). In being the context for arts management practice, cultural policy is typi-
cally, though not wholly, described as a wider set of circumstances in which that practice
occurs. From the educators’ perspective it appears that the transactional monetary exchange

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between the two is how that context is realised, though it is but one aspect of their relation-
ship. It also includes consideration of the historical, political, spatial and socio-­economic
conditions surrounding arts and cultural production and consumption as well as their “im-
pact” on arts management in real terms (E1, E2, E5, E6). Lessons and assessments appear
to be less focused on the technical aspects of developing a state policy and more on “in-
tellectual reflection” where students explore the implicit and explicit “traditions”, norms
and “principles” for artistic and cultural activity in society (Devereaux 2009, p. 67), as
embedded in state policy.
As a result, learning about cultural policy provides opportunity for arts managers to,
“evaluate”, “analyse” (E3) and think critically about power relationships and value choices
inherent in the relationship between arts/culture and society and policy rhetoric (regarding,
e.g. cultural participation, creative labour, international practices). Though how this rela-
tionship may play out in practice does not overtly appear to be addressed in modules, except,
perhaps, so far as guest speakers may address the subject. Nevertheless, such engagement
may, as Suteu (2006) implies, foster greater reflective arts management practice for those
having undergone training. Specifically, “critical capacities and empowering competencies”
that can promote one’s adaptability to different political and spatial contexts. Suteu (2006)
indicates that by doing so, arts managers will be enabled to take a more (and perhaps realise
their existing) agentic role in influencing cultural policymaking at local, national and even
international level. What impact this training has in developing agency in the policymaking
process is, however, unclear.

‘Directing the arm’ of arts management

Interviews with both educators and arts managers show that understanding the relationship
between cultural policy and arts management as a transactional one means that cultural
policy operationalises arts management activity – as both ‘goods’ and ‘services – in exchange
for financial support. Within a public policy context these goods and services are recognised
as socio-economic resources for the State. Gray (2007, p. 210) has explained that the low-­
priority set for arts and culture as a dedicated area of public policy by the UK government
has cultivated an “attachment… of arts and cultural policies to other sets of policy concerns”
in order to garner and maintain political and financial support. One arts manager explains,
“A lot of cultural policy is driven by ideas about funding, so very often those policies grow
out of a need to defend cultural spending” (AM6).
As a result, cultural policy has come to address not only creative and artistic expres-
sion, but also wider social, economic and political issues, such as promoting democracy,
celebrating national image, creating jobs, and fostering social cohesion. The manipula-
tion of the arts for tackling other public policy areas was acknowledged by arts managers
interviewed. One illustrates, “You’re aware of certain reasons why you’re doing things
either socially, economically, um, to develop certain things in certain areas” (AM2). In
this regard, it appears as if cultural policy can be interpreted as a ‘utilitarian’ arts policy
(Mulcahy 2006; Gray 2007), which one arts manager describes as being “inflicted upon
artists” (AM4).
Such remarks by arts managers raise questions about the ‘arm’s length’ principle at the
heart of UK cultural policy. In actual fact, valuing the arts and culture in ways relevant
to other public policy areas appears to have fostered a greater level of “intimacy” between
cultural policy and arts management (Quinn 1997, p. 128); a relationship by which cultural
policy can be understood as directing or influencing arts managers in their work:

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“Often where you work is dictated by cultural policy because that funding is targeted to-
wards those areas. You know you might be asked to work with a certain group of people…”
(AM2)

The same arts manager continues: “I have been told by local authority staff to have projects
up and ready, so that they fit in [with funding requirements as they arise]” (AM2).
This intimacy is “politically determined” (Mulcahy 2006, p. 320). Two respondents
explain,

“… I keep abreast of political debate, it’s a specialist political debate … and if you do that
and you’re paying attention to what politicians say and the kind of things they respond
to … you get a better sense of what [policies] might come next”
(AM6)

“The ‘need to know’ about policy is more urgent because of the pernicious things
[funding cuts] that are now going on … if you were working in the arts pre-2008 in a
period of growth and investment and your reality has been that economic bubble, you
might not have engaged with cultural policy in the way that you’ll need to now [during
this time of austerity]”
(AM5)

Arts managers interviewed share Schuster’s (2003, p. 45) perspective from his research on
cultural policy in the United States; specifically that policies respond “to the politics of the
moment.” In other words, the political climate and which party holds government office
has impact on how cultural policy is interpreted and experienced by arts managers (see also
Chaney 2014). These circumstances leave the sector in a state of structural “impermanence”
(AM5), with policies subject to the values and beliefs of changing political parties, politi-
cians and public administrators (see also Belfiore and Bennett 2010). Without a perceived
“coherent narrative” (AM5) for State support for the arts, the sector is left to determine what
types of political alignment might foster their survival. One educator indicated that viewing
policy in such a deterministic way gives it too great a “status” (E1). Both educators and arts
managers reflected on how engaging with and learning about policy, then, becomes about
“crisis management” (E1, AM5) rather than about “self-sufficiency” (E1).
As a result, the arm’s length principle allows bodies like the Arts Council to yield signif-
icant authority over the arts in practice. Agendas can be set without clear accountability to,
or recourse by, the sector (Quinn 1997, p. 154). One arts manager explains:

“…If you feel a policy is not appropriate, you can have that conversation and you can
resist to an extent but if you take it to an extreme or you don’t win that argument then
your funding will be removed so it’s something you have to be constantly aware of and
you can’t let the ball drop”
(AM6)

This perception indicates that informal dialogue and negotiation rather than any for-
malised process is how recourse is achieved. Such an approach means that individual beliefs,
personalities and mutual affinity between arts managers, public service bureaucrats and cul-
tural policy makers may play a large part in shaping policy and funding decisions as well as
practice.

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Alignment between practice and policy

Arts managers appear to recognise and/or accept a relationship between cultural policy and
arts management that is based on social and economic return for investment in the arts.
Where arts management activity must be aligned with policy goals, arts managers appear
to look for mechanisms, which are perceived to be mutually beneficial to the aims of both
policy and practice. One arts manager demonstrates the importance of finding alignment:

“…[Cultural policy goals have] to be really aligned with our artistic vision and it has to
go together… I think probably, it’s about trying to match those two things together over
the next period and see where there’s common ground…. “
(AM2)

Political alignment is perceived to both protect and challenge artistic and creative autonomy.
In describing how policy can hamper arts management practice, one arts manager positions
cultural policy as oppositional to arts management:

“I worry from my organisation’s perspective that it [cultural policy] confines you. Then
I worry about how that affects the work that people are making. You’re trying to fit into
strands [policy dictates] that have come down from…[ministerial department] policies
into the Arts Council’s policy down to the arts organisations. Sometimes I wish there
were no restrictions…I think being aware of it [cultural policy] might be restrictive…”
(AM4)

Another highlights the tensions that result from alignment:

“Of course there is a wonderful impact in terms of developing confidence and skill sets
and citizenship etc… But you can’t lead by the utilitarian argument. The poetry has got
to be there and the imagination and the space for the unexplored and unthinkable. You
cant be too prescriptive… that’s always hovering around as a backlash… I think that’s
something to be really wary of ”
(AM3)

However, politics can also be perceived to help arts managers advance artistic agendas, an
idea that will be explored further in the next section. This support was most widely perceived
to take place at the local level. Arts managers reflected positive relationships with their local
authority funders, both historically and currently. It appears that the shared territorial space
fosters opportunities to find commonalities for two-way dialogue, engagement and learning
through practice, and partnerships through which individuals feel they are being heard and
in ways that may “inform…cultural policy” (AM4). Similarly, local authority arts services
provide opportunities for educators to give students direct, ‘real-world’ perspectives and
experiences of cultural policymaking not necessarily available at Arts Council or ministerial
level. Further research is needed to explore the extent of this impression.

Practice driving policy

The intimacy perceived between policy and practice, particularly the operationalisation of
the arts as resources for social and economic policy concerns, indicates that there is the

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potential for arts management to yield influence on cultural policy. Arts managers and ed-
ucators reflected on the potential role of arts managers in innovating and directing change
in the sector. For instance, one arts manager described how her organistion’s practice in the
1980s and 1990s “ultimately did lead to a shift in cultural policy” (AM3) in the way that it
challenged the expectations of funders and policymakers. She continues:

“We decided [to develop a programme outside our usual activity]… …And the Arts
Council said to us, ‘why are you doing that? We don’t fund you to do that. You don’t
have to do that.’
“…We sort of looked at them and it was like, ‘Do you think we do the work that we
do just because you give us the money to do it?’…
“So … in that sense, cultural policy was lagging behind [arts management practice]
again. People couldn’t really understand what we were doing…
“…[As a result], the practice was a catalyst, which ultimately feeds into cultural
policy. And what is new and different, and there is resistance to adopting at one point
[what] will soon become common”
(AM3)

Examples where arts managers interviewed described they have made an impact on policy are
in areas of public health, international exchange, youth arts, and the establishment of arts and
business partnerships. Whether or not this impact on policy was actual or perceived is a question.
How the tacit knowledge developed from arts management practice might integrate, or
translate, into cultural policies also requires further understanding. The structure of UK
public policymaking is based on a culture of evidence-based policy-making, which has be-
come more prevalent since New Labour government (Sanderson 2002). In this process, pol-
icy sets arguably measurable targets for public service performance based on equally arguable
‘objective’ evidence. Research in the UK has long contended that this linear, deterministic
and reductionist approach is inappropriately applied within cultural policymaking, where
arts and cultural activities rely on risk-taking, flexibility and experimentation rather than
predictability (Selwood 2002; Belfiore 2004; Geyer 2012). Both academia and the profes-
sional arts and cultural sector have produced studies and evaluations that both legitimise and
challenge this method (Newsinger and Green 2016).
Still, policymakers draw on more than these assets for making decisions. Writing in 1978
(p. 304), LJ Sharpe explained the significance of practice, or “accumulated experience” in
shaping the British policymaking tradition. Other sources can include academic research,
consultancy reports, professional publications and activities by interest groups and profes-
sional associations ( Jennings and Hall 2012). Weiss (1995) and Jennings and Hall (2012) have
found that the types of information policymakers consult vary considerably, as does the value
they place on these different sources. In fact, social interaction and personal value systems
have a strong bearing on policymaking and analysis (Bevir et al. 2003). Information can be
communicated formally, via written submission or meeting or informally, in conversations
over lunches and at conferences, for instance.
Within the arts, Suteu (2006) and Woddis (2014) identify network memberships and ac-
tivities aimed at specific advocacy and lobbying goals as ways to impact on policy. While this
work is not necessarily solicited by cultural policymakers as part of any consultation process,
the financial and intellectual resources evident in the collective group make arts managers
part of legitimised “networks and circles [of policy] influence” (AM2). This influence in-
creases when arts networks join into larger coalitions (Beyers and Braun 2014). Nisbett’s

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(2013) research on cultural diplomacy activities carried out by museum professionals goes a
step further in exploring arts managers’ potential involvement in policymaking. Her work
demonstrates how specific arts management activities may foster support for and the develop-
ment of new cultural policies that are mutually beneficial to policymakers and practitioners.
The study sets out a cause to look more closely at the “positive and symbiotic” (Nisbett 2013,
p. 562) nature of the relationship between arts management and cultural policy.

Sites of access
The capacity to influence policy, however, is dependent upon having direct access to pol-
icymakers and civil servants. Access points to cultural policymaking bodies, individual
policymakers and public service bureaucrats may be established in various ways. Policy
studies, including cultural policy specifically, demonstrate that the policymaking process
typically involves the interaction of a network of different types of governmental and non-­
governmental actors that have professional and/or social relationships with one another
(Hogwood and Gunn 1984; Beyers 2004; Woddis 2014). Education in arts management has
become a way in which to make connections to policymakers. In fact, studying arts man-
agement in itself is an opportunity to build one’s professional network (Suteu 2006). For
instance, all of the programmes reviewed so far have policymakers from local authority and
Arts Council levels as guest speakers. Within the profession itself, access (or not) to cultural
policymakers is established based on the following: 1) the art form in which an arts manager
specialises, 2) the arts manager’s position or status within the organisation in which he or
she is based and/or 3) the focus of the work that person does, for instance, as a marketing or
community outreach professional or artistic director. Each contributes to a perceived level
of legitimacy for involvement in a given policymaking venture.
Beyond the obligatory funding application process, an organisation’s position within the
arts and cultural sector, artistically, politically, geographically, spatially and financially can
correlate with the level of access to, engagement in and influence on cultural policymaking
at local and national levels. As mentioned above, the resources available to an organisation or
group play a large part in influencing the access individual practitioners have to cultural pol-
icymakers. These resources include budget, number of staff and status within the art world
(Woddis 2014; Beyers and Braun 2014).
Financial resources, or more specifically the monetary exchange that takes place between
policy body and arts organisation can influence not only awareness of policy, but also access
to policy makers:

If you are a regularly funded organisation, you’re going to understand a lot more [about
cultural policy] but if you are a freelance producer, you’re maybe not going to know… I
do think that when you’re in a small arts organisation, it’s not high on people’s agendas.
(AM5)

Beyers (2004, p. 5) explains that in order to have access to policymakers, “credible and valid
expertise” is required. A “regularly funded organisation” in the UK is one that receives
funding for core operational costs from the regional Arts Council. This award is an ac-
knowledgement that the organisation is conducting itself in a way that matches the regional
Arts Council’s own mission. It is thus a financial validation of expertise within the arts and
cultural sector of a given region, area of practice (e.g. community arts, arts in education)

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and/or artform. The research also indicates that the position of the arts manager within the
cultural organisation is crucial to determining access. Those in leadership positions appear
to have little choice but to engage with cultural policy:

I’m much more aware [of policy], as a director, as I’m having direct conversations with the
funders and in order to be able to do my job well, I need to be on top of those agendas.
(AM6)

For others, engagement appears to be on a ‘need to know basis’, which suggests that there
is little desire to learn about policy for its own sake. Another arts manager reflected on how
during her previous experience working in larger arts organisations she had no engagement
with, or awareness of, cultural policy. Now, working in a smaller arts organisation with less
staff she is acutely aware of the influence cultural policy holds on the arts:

Previously … I suppose I was working with such large organistions, that I, or being a
freelance, I would have had no, nothing to do… but having [now] worked at … a small
organisation and having to deal with all of the funders and things….
(AM5)

Art world status also appears to be a determinant of access to policymakers and decision-­
making processes. Status is typically determined by the commercial exchange, audience
figures and/or critical reception of creative/artistic output (Harris 2004). One arts manager
indicates that the art form in which she works influences her personal and professional access
to cultural policymakers:

I work in the dance sector … where it’s quite a small world, so I would meet people
who work for [the] Arts Council—both people who do the research and the policy
development there.
(AM1)

Her experience resonates with research from political science, which indicates that smaller
territories of practice provide individuals with social and spatial ‘nearness’ to centres of
power and elite decision makers (Bray 1992; Olaffson 1998). Territories of practice could
constitute a geographical area, an art form or a funding relationship, for instance. Regarding
geography, the same respondent continues,

We’re also a regional organisation, so we would have sat on different…[art form specific]
networks which work with Arts Council to develop policy around arts development.
(AM1)

Additionally and as previously explored, direct contact and exchange with local government arts
officers or public servants and local level politicians also appears to be an important access point:

Relationships and trust further down the chain [at local government level] are definitely
strong. But um, why is that, because I think with the council we’re engaged in our local
community more on the ground… We’re not far away sitting [or meeting] in an office
in [national government] or in the [national] Arts Council’s head office.
(AM3)

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As these examples show, access to policymaking is predicated on perceptions of power,

prestige and mutual interest. These perceptions are based on economic circumstances, party
politics and administrative, institutional and art form structures and cultures. As a result,
alignment of beliefs and values, as well as mutual trust, is necessary to develop mutually
beneficial policy objectives (Bevir et al. 2003). Arts managers clearly have a role to play here.
Their ability and capacity to do so is likely related to how they are socialised into and within
the profession. Yet, the extent is not yet fully understood.

Conclusion
This chapter has explored how the fields of arts management and cultural policy inter-
act through the experiences and interpretations of individuals involved in practicing arts
management and teaching arts management and cultural policy courses in the UK. In doing
so, the chapter investigates the manifestation of the relationship in both training and practice.
These areas not only constitute important epistemological foundations for both arts manage-
ment and cultural policy but are also significant sites of socialisation for arts managers. This
section will summarise the findings emerging from this study thus far. It will also point to
new areas of research that could promote better understanding of the institutional and social
dynamics involved in how the value of arts and culture is defined in society and by whom.
While this study has focused on the UK specifically, attention will be paid to what may be
learnt about the relationship of arts management to cultural policy at an international level.
The emergent findings reflect a fragmented yet allied relationship between arts man-
agement and cultural policy. Access to the processes of exchange that take place between
cultural policy and arts management is largely based on financial authority, professional
standing and/or mutual interest. Due to the transactional nature of state funding for the arts
in the UK, cultural policy can no doubt be seen as the framework in which arts manage-
ment practice takes place. Yet, this influence is erratic, dependent upon changing political
interests, individuals’ personal beliefs, dispositions and skills and social relationships. Some
arts managers appear to respond adeptly to the transitory nature of cultural policy directives,
finding ways and means to align their goals to the political interests of the day and beliefs held
by individual actors. Such an approach may simultaneously be a form of “crisis management”
in the face of adverse funding conditions as well as initiative and “self-sufficiency” (E1).
Mutual interests do exist between the two fields. They share too many common stake-
holders for it to be otherwise. In fact, arts managers have been found to match their practice
quite comfortably with public policy objectives and in ways that can be perceived to lead
rather than follow. Still, while there is acknowledgement of the resourceful nature of the
arts for other public policy areas, there is tension around being “too prescriptive” with a
sector that requires flexibility and experimentation. So, while alignment between policy and
practice is not always forced, it can be contentious. Recognising the role and relationship of
arts managers as actors in the cultural policy process locates them as actors in the business of
governance, rather than as passive recipients of funding merely deployed to implement and de-
liver the state’s vision for culture. Yet, how and why they may do so, and what impact these
decisions make, remain unclear (Newsinger and Green 2016).
As a result, a number of new areas of research emerge from this initial analysis. Policy
and public administration studies have demonstrated that individuals and institutional cul-
tures and practices play an important part in public policymaking. Yet there are very few
studies that unpick the roles arts managers and arts organisations play in the cultural policy-
making process. Greater consideration of this role is needed, particularly how specific arts

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management activities may justify existing and/or develop new cultural policies. Further-
more, study of the impressions of cultural policymakers themselves is an important area not
yet explored by this study.
Policymaking is dependent upon a number of variables as yet not fully explored in
the study of arts management practice and cultural policymaking. These include, for in-
stance, the personal beliefs and preferences of individual policymakers for particular issues
or practices; the perceived or actual reputation of the arts management practitioner and/
or organisation within the arts and cultural sector; personal and professional relationships
between policymakers and arts managers and the autonomy and discretionary authority
of policymakers and public sector bureaucrats involved (Bevir et al. 2003; Schuster 2003;
Lipsky 2010; Jennings and Hall 2012). Such investigation would help develop understanding
of how tacit knowledge, institutional dynamics and social interaction may influence policy
decisions and thus the legitimation and privileging of particular forms of arts and cultural
practice and expression.
This study has indicated there may be different impressions and experiences of influence
and alignment between spheres of policy influence at national and local levels. The social
interaction that occurs between arts managers and cultural policymakers through network
activity and the development of funding bids and projects may contribute to shaping new
initiatives in cultural policy at local and regional levels in the UK.
As a result, further study of the interrelation between policy and practice is needed on dif-
ferent regional scales. For instance, comparative examination across different UK executives
(i.e. Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales and England) may yield new insights regarding the
specific role that politics and personalities play in cultural policymaking and funding deci-
sions. At an international scale, globalisation and internationalisation have influenced the va-
riety and number of international exchanges taking place in the arts and cultural sector, both
commercial and publicly funded. Within the publicly funded sector, exchanges have increased
through European networks and cultural-cooperation funding (see Suteu 1999 for the his-
tory) and also through international artist residences, festivals and arts management education.
These exchanges, which happen at personal levels, have broader political implications as they
have been shown to facilitate learning and policy mobility at both organisational and public
policy levels (Rowntree et al. 2010; Bell and Oakely 2014). Yet, very little is understood about
the role of individual practitioners and institutions in this global process (Durrer et al. 2016).
Finally, the field of arts management education is vastly under-researched. The research
presented here shows that studying cultural policy is thought to build arts managers’ capac-
ity for critical and reflective thinking. Suteu (2006, p. 62) goes as far as to say that studying
international models of cultural policy can inspire and “internationalise” the perspectives of
(future) arts managers. Yet, what impact these courses have on promoting greater “intellec-
tual reflection” and “analysis” of policy or of practice in reality is not fully known. Further
comparative research on arts management and cultural policy education at both national and
international levels is needed. Such research requires moving beyond an audit of courses to
exploring how students apply learning.
In summary, it is certain that arts management and cultural policy are deeply interdepen-
dent fields of practice and study. Yet very little research has progressed our understanding of
how the two fields interrelate. Further scholarship would develop our understanding of the
epistemological foundations – the beliefs, values, assumptions and traditions – on which both
fields are based. While focusing on the impressions and experiences of UK arts managers
and arts management and cultural policy educators in academia has furthered such under-
standing, greater knowledge of the complex network of actors involved, how they interact

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and where the power is located among them at personal, institutional and spatial/geographic
levels is needed. In their work with creative and aesthetic expressions, which are inherently
reflective of cultural ideas, knowledge and values, arts managers and cultural policymakers
have a critical role directing, administering and mediating “who gets to ‘consume’ and who
gets to ‘make’ and what is at any time considered legitimate culture” (O’Brien and Oakley,
2015, p. 3). More study would build critical discourse regarding the institutional and social
dynamics underpinning the power structures that determine how and what value becomes
attached to particular forms of arts and culture in society.

Notes
1 The author would like to thank Dr. Melissa Nisbett for her contribution to the development of the
study as well as early stages of the writing process.
2 See also Paquette and Redaelli, 2015, p. 20, who talk about the courses as being separate and Suteu,
2006, who refers to the original situation of the course at the Polytechnic of Central London and
the transfer to City University.

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 Part II
Regulating cultural policy
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 6
Regulating cultural goods and
identities across borders
J.P. Singh

Puzzle
Nation-states often cite safeguarding cultural identity as their chief motive for regulating
international trade in creative products. This essay analyses this motivation in the context
of theories of regulation and international trade. I argue that the shift from naming creative
products as cultural products implicates cultural anxiety, which makes such politics especially
vulnerable to influence from powerful groups. In doing so, cultural identity often becomes
synonymous with national identity and marginalises other cultural voices. Creative products
in this essay mostly refer to those from fine and performing arts and entertainment industries
in broadcasting, film, and music. The term cultural product implies a sense of group identity
and, therefore, the co-option of creative products as symbols of cultural identity.
The efforts to enhance or preserve national cultural identity seem to run counter to the
logic of the information age in which cultural meanings circulate at ‘hyper-speeds’ across
national and other borders. Furthermore, culture – as a way of life or a representation of
this way of life through art – is the most malleable of human formations, forever subject to
syncretism and adaptability. However, we live in an age of cultural anxiety: the fears of the
loss of an identity seem to be almost as ubiquitous as the social media networks over which
cultural politics are discussed. At the end of 2015, there were nearly 1.5 billion active Face-
book users, over one billion unique viewers on YouTube, and 646 million Twitter users.1
While these and other social networks proliferate, or perhaps because of them, the politics
of cultural representation are rife with the idea that identities are becoming homogenised
or worse, dominated with powerful representations circulated through global corporations
(Pieterse 2004; Miller and Yüdice 2002). Add to this the fear of other ‘foreign’ influences
and the anxiety deepens with a diverse list that includes, depending on the context, migrants,
refugees, terrorists, Chinese or Indian capital and products, and religious ideas.2 Until re-
cently, though, the chief culprit named in international cultural debates was ‘Hollywood’ or
the United States media with its global reach. The U.S. entertainment industry exports, col-
lectively the country’s biggest trade item – average above $100 billion dollars when royalty
payments are taken into consideration. Released in December 2015, the global box office
receipts for “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” were over $1 billion within a month, and the

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film was set to break all previous records after garnering more than $2 billion within six
months of its release. Seemingly, viewers vote with their feet while at the same time fearing
the loss of identity.
This essay shows that regulation of cultural identity often parallels pressures from power-
ful political-economic interests to define ‘culture’ in accordance with their needs. In doing
so, the politics of cultural identity often posit the strong against the weak both domestically
and internationally. However, the political economy of cultural expressions does not always
marginalise the voice of the weak. The first section below describes the rise of the politics
of both national and cultural identity, before describing the regulation of cultural content.
Thereafter, the essay describes the interplay of both the politics of national and cultural
identities at the global level. I examine the cultural politics of the global South, often mar-
ginalised from the corridors of international regulation, and then turn to the commerce
versus culture debate in international trade. Regulation in this essay is understood as explicit
rule making through national or international institutions, which shapes the production and
exchange of creative products.

National and cultural identities: a macro picture

The path from everyday cultural anxieties to international regulation of creative products,
in two historical twists, led to the rise of the regulation of cultural products in the first half
of the 20th century and, subsequently, co-joined their fate with social and cultural identity
movements in the century’s second half. What comes through in the cultural identity de-
bates of the last century is a great uptick around the 1980s of the notion of a national culture
along with an awareness of the notion of a group or cultural identity. A rough illustration
of this twin trend can be seen in Figure 6.1, which follows the terms ‘national identity’ and
‘cultural identity’ through Google Books’ n-grams viewer, tracking the use of these terms,
in this case for the 1970 to 2010 period. The two decades of the cultural uptick between 1985
and 2005 are the chief subject of this essay.
‘National identity’ continues to triumph through the current institutional logic of reg-
ulation, but the more interesting logic of the future may rest in the second line of ‘cultural
identity’ in the n-gram figure. While the two lines of uptick run almost parallel, the logic
governing them might be different. The dominant line of national identity is that of the
powerful voices mentioned above, while cultural identity also includes those without a voice
or a representation in a story, song, or dramatization that gets circulated globally. From the
great decolonising movements of the early 20th century to those of anti-racism raging across
the world today, the chief struggle in cultural identity has been the ability of people to tell
their own story and earn a just reward for their labours.
Another empirical suggestion in this essay acknowledges the role of market production
and exchange, at local and global levels, which encourage the parallel cultural movements
of our times: those fostering national cultures and those encouraging cultural diversity and
voice. Most broadcast media, until the 1980s in most countries in the West, were primar-
ily government owned, and here the link to the ‘national interest’ was already quite di-
rect. Thus, the era of market liberalisation since the 1980s produced fears about the fate of
‘national identity’ championed through such media, while at the same time, even if only
marginally providing an impetus to alternative cultural voices. The two politics of cultural
production, that of cultural voices and of their market forms, are as apparent in the great
debates on the creation and circulation of these images as they are in the emergent property
rights, or chiefly economic incentives, that define who will profit from them.

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 Cultural goods and identities across borders

0.000400%

0.000350%
national identity

0.000300%

0.000250%

0.000200%
cultural identity
0.000150%

0.000100%

0.000050%

0.000000%
1970 1975 1980 1985 1990 1995 2000 2005

Figure 6.1  Frequency of terms ‘national identity’ and ‘cultural identity’ in Google Ngrams
Source: books.google.com/ngrams.
Note: n-grams measured on the Y axis provide relative frequencies of word counts in Google Books. For
methodology, see: http://books.google.com/ngrams/datasets.

The regulatory politics of cultural products link back directly to the rise of cultural
anxieties of our times, but favor those with access to the political processes. From the right
and the left, regulation has always been understood as the recourse of the powerful to get
what they want (Lipietz 1986; Stigler 1971). Those with power in global cultural politics
are nation-states, public or private corporations, and elite international bureaucracies in-
cluding intellectual ones. Those contesting the meaning of these politics are groups at local
and transnational levels who seek a cultural voice or, as the educator Paulo Freire put it, the
ability to name their world (Freire 1970).

Rise of cultural regulation

The regulation of creative products offers a unique instance of the elevation of moral and so-
cial reasons, often termed public interest in liberal theories of regulation, along parallel terms
to the political economy of comparative advantage that has regulated international trade. 3
Historically, the logic of regulation of such products within nation-states was informed with
an entirely different rationale than one for their trade across national frontiers.
Royal patronage, historically, defined the terms of regulation of art in Europe. Art
occupied a dubious position in politics, either positioned as antithetical to reason and the
rational art of governance following Platonic thought, or marginalised to being a luxury
for the extremely prosperous but ultimately for the benefit of the crown (Goodwin 2006).
An opera house signified power: the most ornate opera houses, such as those in Paris and
Vienna, were constructed in absolutist monarchies to project power (Cummings and Katz
1987). With growing urbanisation and the rise of the bourgeoisie, art collections expanded,
and art moved from being a luxury dependent on patronage to a commodity that could
now be afforded by a rising middle class as well. Therefore, art became unhinged from pa-
tronage and the prerogatives of the crown in the 19th century, in turn encouraging a class
of creative workers that by the 20th century could earn full-time wages in artistic produc-
tion (Goodwin 2006; Throsby 2001). In other words, art moved from a part-time activity
of the privileged few, and many a starving artist, to full-time employment for many.4 Art

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J.P. Singh

has several types of value, and price is one of them: the movement of art from patronage
to markets has also shifted price fixings of royal commissions to those of art auctions and
royalty payments from copyright (Frey 2000; Singh 2011). The rise of the market system also
allowed a greater number of artists to fetch returns that were available only to a few through
royal patronage (Cowen 1998). This new political economy altered traditional patrimonies
of art even if institutions such as a national museum remain defenders of patrimonial prac-
tices. Most of the London Tate Modern museum’s work since 2000 has been acquired from
the Global South, including Asia, Africa, and Latin America: “The 21st century museum is
evolving into a place of encounter, social nexus, a contemporary agora” (Wullschlager 2016).
Along with shifting patterns of patronage and patrimony, the technological basis of cre-
ative industries has also changed. With the rise of the creative class and associated industries,
especially in entertainment, a new basis for regulation had to be invented. This became
imperative in the 20th century with the ability to record sounds and to broadcast or convey
them over long distances through telephones, radio, and television. Creative products could
earn market returns for sustenance, but entertainment industries also possessed some public
goods aspects: congestion of airwaves or argument about a natural monopoly in telephones,
which necessitated state intervention to ensure that the state and the people had access. Early
universal service regulation in telephony, for example, was meant to ensure that telephones
reached the rural areas (Mueller 1996). This necessitated regulation especially in industries
that were monopolistic (telecommunications) or oligopolistic (broadcasting), in order to
make incumbent providers not just “cream-skim” in urban areas, but also provide access to
less-privileged demographics in the population, for example in rural areas.
The theory of regulation is surprisingly consensual among conservative economists and
radical Marxists, albeit with different policy implications (Horwitz 1991). Economist George
Stigler (1971) notes that regulation is provided on behest of those who are regulated, while
Karl Marx wrote of the state as the committee for the management of the interests of the
bourgeoisie (Poulantzas 1969). Based on this view, public choice economics believes in a min-
imalist role for the state, while radical political economy prescribes either the state’s overthrow
or a maximalist role to thwart the capitalist class. The liberal welfare alternative is an in-­
between position, prescribing regulation on behalf of public interest. The state ownership of
media in the Eastern bloc and many parts of the developing world was an extension of this no-
tion of public interest; the media served the state, which served citizens. In post-war Western
Europe, the state owned most of the means of broadcasting in the name of national interest.
In the United States, ‘public interest’ guided the regulation of the media industries through
the Federal Communication Commission, which applied historically to telecommunication
and broadcasting, and in the last two decades to digital content transmission. Regulation of
airwaves was necessary to ensure that a TV or radio station represented all political opinions
and social stratifications. In practice, this became a question of access to the airwaves: the
famous precedent-setting case of WLBT in Jackson, Mississippi, started with petitions and
lawsuits from the black community in Mississippi to have its voice represented; the case be-
gan in 1955 and settled in favour of the Black community in 1966 (Rabin 1975–6).
While the U.S. notion of public interest historically seemed different from national
ownership of broadcasting in Western Europe, public interest coincided with a somewhat
ill-­defined notion of public welfare based on utilitarian calculations. In practical terms,
therefore, public interest was often conflated with notions of national interest.
Public interest regulation in the U.S., mandating access, or national interest regulation in
other parts of the world now continues to decrease in importance as multiple access chan-
nels proliferate and cost-effective satellite technologies reach rural or far-flung areas. These

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 Cultural goods and identities across borders

developments along with increasing flows of global digital content have contributed to the
rise of both the politics of cultural anxiety and identity. The old regulatory model catered to
a middle ground of national interest. However, just as public interest lawsuits challenged the
old media in the United States, the proliferation of TV and radio channels globally has di-
rected people toward dedicated media. This has increased rather than decreased the politics
of cultural anxiety. One of the unfortunate results is the proliferation of media homophily
effects, with broadcast media viewers or social media users drawn to only those sources and
networks that share their values (Axelrod 1997; Lazarsfeld and Merton 1954). With de facto
universal access for all values and users, the unfortunate side effect has been the inability of
homophilous networks to communicate with each other, further resulting in the degrada-
tion of the public sphere (Centola et al. 2007; Singh 2013).
Enter two great global debates starting in the 1970s that elevated existing national con-
cerns about the creation of cultural content to the international level, and interestingly both
cases featured the United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization as a
central player. The broader legacies of these debates will be discussed in the next two sub-
sections, but a summary is necessary to discuss the broad implications for international reg-
ulation. In both cases, countries pushed back against global information flows, which sought
to represent them, often calling these flows either inaccurate and prejudiced, or destructive
toward local ways of life understood mostly in national ways. The first phase began in the
post-colonial era when developing countries began to consider the role of communication
‘modernisation’ in their societies, which soon led to questioning the role of global media
firms, mostly Western, in their territories. It culminated in the calls for New World Infor-
mation and Communication Order (NWICO) in 1976 in the UN General Assembly and
the publication of The MacBride Commission (1980) report that articulated the importance
of communication and information in the developing world. NWICO sought to correct the
imbalance of information flows between the North and the South and sought to make the
developing world self-reliant with its own communication infrastructures. Nordenstrung
(1983) traced NWICO concerns back to the nationalist movement of the colonies and wrote
of the four D’s of NWICO: decolonization, democratization, demonopolization, and de-
velopment. Unfortunately, UNESCO was unable to prevent NWICO becoming mired in
the Cold War/East-West confrontation, and the developing world leaned heavily on the re-
sources and rhetoric of the Soviet bloc for support in the UN and UNESCO. The NWICO
controversies contributed to the departure of the U.S., U.K., and Singapore from UNESCO
in the 1980s. After the departure of these three countries and budget cuts, NWICO died
in UNESCO. The second great debate on global content flows dealt with the dominant
position of the United States versus the rest of the world. It came to a head in the 1980s as
the U.S. pushed for further liberalisation of trade flows governing entertainment industries.
The liberalisation push started in the General Agreement for Tariffs and Trade and then
moved to UNESCO. In 2005, in a vote of 148 countries for and two against (U.S and Israel),
UNESCO voted for the Convention on the Protection and Promotion of the Diversity of
Cultural Expressions. After ratification by 33 percent of the countries, as required in inter-
national law, the Convention became effective in 2008.
The implications for international regulatory theory can be summarized now. The basis
for international trade has been the comparative advantage of nations in the production of
commodities. The first great debate, namely NWICO, was often portrayed in the West, a
sub-section of the Global North, as the inability of the resource-poor Global South to repre-
sent itself and therefore beholden to global conglomerates and their advantages in producing
cultural and media content (Boyd-Barrett 1977). In conservative parts of the West, especially

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J.P. Singh

in Thatcher’s Britain and Reagan’s United States, NWICO was understood in official circles
as efforts to curtail free speech in the Global South. For its part, the South called attention
to the power of global conglomerates to gather, produce, and disseminate news and enter-
tainment content. In hindsight, both sides were making a partially cultural argument: the
West in citing press freedoms and the South in questioning the representations and cultural
dominance of the West.
In the second debate, the European Community waged a ‘cultural war’ against the United
States, in trying to institute exceptions from free flows of entertainment content. While
most West European states had not supported the Global South in the NWICO advocacy,
in the 1980s, the EC states cited preservation of cultural diversity as a rationale for derogat-
ing from international trade in entertainment industries. The United States merely saw the
moves as protectionist in a trade sense, designed to safeguard entertainment industries in EC
that were highly subsidized or state-owned.
Two important elements of cultural regulation can be shifted from the historical discus-
sion above. First, international and domestic policy makers regularly acknowledged issues of
cultural identity and access to technologies of representation as important issues in regulating
international trade. Second, international regulation privileged national identity. The last
point is consistent with theories of regulation covered earlier. Those opposing and abet-
ting cultural identity issues at GATT’s successor World Trade Organization or UNESCO
generally named their representation in terms of national interest and identity. In fact, na-
tional elites employed debates on cultural identity to further endow meaning to national
borders (Goff 2000). This essay now discusses the history of North-South regulatory issues
during NWICO and thereafter, and then turns to efforts that led up to the 2005 UNESCO
convention on cultural diversity.

Post-colonial cultural politics

The communication and cultural aspirations of the post-colonial world found expres-
sion through the NWICO debates. The influential MacBride Commission report (1980:
254–255), that outlined the historical and epistemic rationales for NWICO, articulated the
aspirations as follows: “The object must be to utilize the unique capacities of each form
of communication, from interpersonal and traditional to the most modern, to make men
and societies aware of their rights, harmonize unity and diversity, and foster the growth of
individuals and communities within the wider frame of national development in an inter-
dependent world.”
While NWICO debates were broader than those of cultural identities and rights, neverthe-
less the precedence is important for both articulating post-colonial aspirations and ran parallel
to UNESCO’s universalism, which often rested on Eurocentric conceptions of national iden-
tity (Singh 2011). Although called by different names, notions of cultural or group identities
and respect for cultural diversity run parallel to UNESCO’s universal ideals, which often rested
on Eurocentric humanistic conceptions. UNESCO’s Eight-­Volume General History of Africa
begun in the 1950s challenged canonical interpretations of Eurocentric views, even if couched
in universal terms. Political controversies in the 1960s and 1970s provide further evidence. The
1966 International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) came at
the behest of the Eastern bloc and many post-­colonial countries that viewed the individualistic
focus of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in Western terms.
In the 1980s, UNESCO began considering the role of culture in development. Here, too,
it reflected broader ideational and transnational movements that spoke to culture. Examples

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 Cultural goods and identities across borders

include the Mayan Rights movements in Latin America (Davis 2004) or the push back
from the developing world on development objectives and instruments framed in the global
North (Escobar 1995). The 1982 World Conference on Cultural Policies, or Mondiacult, in
Mexico forwarded an anthropological view of culture. But underlying it were broad political
and cultural pressures. Group of 77 (G-77) developing countries were behind the move in
1987 to declare 1988–97 the Decade for Culture and Development. In 1993, UN Secretary-­
General Boutros Boutros-Ghali and UNESCO’s Director-General Federico Mayor created
the World Commission on Culture and Development. The first sentence of the Commis-
sion’s 1995 report, Our Creative Diversity, notes: “Development divorced from its human
and cultural context is growth without a soul” (Perez de Cuellar 1995: 15).
The most relevant example of international regulation for this essay may be UNESCO’s
efforts to recognise non-Western ideas of cultural heritage. Just as indigenous rights move-
ments began to circulate in the world, UNESCO adopted this cause. In the 1970s, the
Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC, and UNESCO organised a series of sympo-
sia on folklore and cultural life that are now regarded as the beginnings of the moves that
eventually led in 2003 to the Convention on the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural
Heritage (Aikawa 2004; Mason and de la Torre 2000). In the United States, the impetus
came from acknowledging the role of folklore and oral cultures in African-American and
Native-American groups. The 2003 UNESCO convention on intangible cultural heritage,
therefore, safeguards historical processes rather than products and monuments. East Asia and
Sub-Saharan Africa, in particular, championed the discussions as conforming to their no-
tions of heritage. There was also a link to the 2005 convention discussed later: the 2003 con-
vention, in its politics of negotiation, is also regarded as the price these regions extracted for
supporting the 2005 convention. The 2003 convention was a counterpart to the ‘tangible’
heritage convention of 1972, while the 2005 convention dealt mostly with cultural indus-
tries, conceived in terms of diversity.
The soul of cultural diversity in the developing world may be in the notion of cultural
voice, which Freire (1970) described as the ability of the people to name their world. Despite
UNESCO’s de facto need to work with national-states, the post-colonial state (or any state
really), an evolving architecture, is far too incomplete a project to speak to all cultural voices
and aspirations in the developing world. It would also be simplistic to note that the space is
completely filled in by Western cultural representations. While detailing the political econ-
omy of creative and cultural productions from the Global South is beyond the scope of this
essay, it is useful to consider that the cultural spaces in the developing world may also show-
case transnational linkages rather than only Western corporate domination. Post-­apartheid
South African cinema has relied on links with Hollywood networks for marketing and
circulation. In general, Browne (2009: 95) notes that “The African film producer has not
copied the American producer although he may have been influenced by the Western world
in making films in the first place.” While religious conservatives bemoan the rise of sexy
female singers in the Arab world, these singers have relied on music industry networks to
destabilise patriarchal roles (Mellor 2005). Nestor García Canclini (1995) notes that cultural
hybridity in the developing world is understood as much through the mix of the modern and
the traditional as the intermixing of nations, ethnic groups, and classes.

Commerce versus cultural rules and regulations

The case analysed here involves initially the United States and the European Community, in
particular France during the Uruguay Round (1986–94) of the GATT, and, in recent years,

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J.P. Singh

the entire world in the framing of the Universal Convention on Protection and Promotion of
Cultural Expressions at UNESCO in 2005. From the late-1940s onwards, Western Europe
successfully argued that creative industries, especially films, needed special protections such
as quotas to protect its war-ravaged ‘infant-industry’ in films. During the Uruguay Round
of trade talks, the language of ‘cultural exception’ supplemented that of quotas. As a result,
the European Union took the now-famous Most Favored Nation or MFN exemption, which
allowed it to preserve its cultural industry policies.
The main issue of concern was the European Commission’s Television without Frontiers
Directive that came into force in 1992 just as the Uruguay Round headed into its final hours
of negotiations. The Directive sought to reserve 51 percent of the total program broadcast on
any European channel to home-grown programs. The EU wanted the 51 percent restriction
institutionalised through the evolving General Agreement on Trade in Services (GATS).
A related issue was the EU position that content restrictions apply to all of 300-­plus chan-
nels that were coming about as a result of satellite and cable technologies. The U.S. wanted
content restrictions applied to only 50–70 percent of the channels. Presumably, through
this measure, U.S. networks such as CNN or Discovery could operate in Europe without
using local content. Furthermore, the Motion Picture Association of America also argued
that inasmuch as U.S. films and television programs dominate in Europe, its members were
subsidising European television and thus objected to the agreement sought by the Europeans
at the Uruguay Round.5 With the EU and U.S. squaring off on opposite sides, these nego-
tiations came to be called guerres des images or “war of the images” in France. Transnational
cultural industry coalitions among the Europeans led the way toward the MFN exemption
that allowed the EU not to make any commitments toward liberalising its audio-visual sec-
tors as they are known in the GATT/WTO jargon. In the EU, this provision came to be
known as the ‘cultural exception’ underscoring the firm belief that cultural industries were
non-negotiable.6
In the decade following the Uruguay Round, there was a progressive hardening of the
European position on creative industries. Europeans framed the issue in cultural identity
terms but shifted the focus from cultural exception to cultural diversity. Canada and France
led an international coalition to switch the cultural industry issue over to UNESCO from
the WTO.7 This resulted in the introduction at UNESCO of a Universal Declaration on
Cultural Diversity in 2001 and Universal Convention on the Protection and Promotion
of Cultural Expressions in 2005. The Preamble to the 2005 convention starts by “affirming
that cultural diversity is a defining characteristic of humanity.” Its 35 articles affirm the
rights of nations to formulate cultural policies that promote cultural diversity and protect
indigenous cultures. Taken collectively, these articles outline a legal rationale against liberal-
isation. One of the articles states that if there were a trade versus cultural protection issue in
the future, it would have to be resolved in a spirit of “mutual supportiveness” that does not
subordinate the UNESCO convention.
At its core, the convention upholds a notion of cultural identity as national identity. The
convention preamble affirms that “cultural diversity is a defining characteristic of human-
ity.” However, the task of defining what constitutes diversity and the implementation of the
policies and regulations thereof is left to nation-states. For example, Article 2 recognises
“the sovereign right to adopt measures and policies to protect and promote the diversity of
cultural expression within their territory.” Article 6 recognises the rights of states to adopt
“regulatory measures aimed at protecting and promoting diversity of cultural expression.”
For countries such as France, this has meant promoting a conception of Frenchness in French
language to the non-recognition of any other cultural identity in France. UNESCO (2013)

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 Cultural goods and identities across borders

statistics show, for example, that only one language is represented in French films while in
Finland there are 11 and in the UK 12 languages.
There are other contradictions. While the force of the international coalition rested upon
the feared onslaught of cultural exports from the United States, those seeking cultural pro-
tections were themselves top cultural exporters or seeking to become so. In the statistics
released by UNESCO (2005), Canada and France rank among the top ten countries in
terms of international trade in cultural products. Second, while the share of trade for the
United States and European Union has declined, that for East Asia has doubled; it is increas-
ing for other parts of the developing world as well (UNESCO 2005). UNESCO statistics
might underestimate the scope of U.S. exports by counting customs data and not royalty
receipts, yet the undercounting issue might go beyond the United States in significant ways.
For example, these statistics do not count related activities such as information technology,
advertising, and architectural services. Many of these activities are now outsourced to de-
veloping countries. Similarly, emerging centres of film and television production in the
developing world – Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, Egypt, West Africa, South Africa, India and
China – are also underestimated here. Last, if cultural tourism receipts were to be included,
the total ‘exports’ of those seeking cultural protections would rise even further. According to
the World Tourism Organization annual reports, France tops the list of international tourist
arrivals, accounting for 84 million of the total 1.13 billion international tourist arrivals in
2014 (World Tourism Organization 2015: 6).
In 2015, UNESCO celebrated the 10th anniversary of the cultural diversity convention:
the convention is widely viewed as an important policy instrument addressing debates on
cultural diversity, but one that is limited in scope in terms of issues of cultural identity and
rights and the new technologies of cultural representation (De Beukelaer et al. 2015). A look
at the convention’s articles show that although it is supposed to be framed for the broader
purpose of ensuring cultural diversity, its main focus seems to be preserving and protecting
(from trade) a few cultural industries in national terms. Thus, cultural industry seems to
be coterminous with national identity. The case of France is especially ironic because, like
many other European states, its government does not collect any data on any identity but
national identity. Its ethnic minorities often see themselves as excluded from socio-­political-
economic life. Just as the ink was drying on the 2005 convention, a few days later riots broke
out in several French cities over police brutality leading President Jacques Chirac to declare a
state of emergency on 8 November 2005 that lasted until 4 January 2006. On the other hand,
France’s partner in leading the moves for the 2005 Convention is Canada, which is a de jure
two-nation bi-lingual state (de facto, it has many languages) and well known for recognising
its indigenous groups (first nation) and their cultures.
At an organisational level, UNESCO can point to several intra-organisational measures
that attest to the smooth functioning of the organisation.8 The Convention was ratified
on 18 March 2007. According to the provision of article 18, an International Fund for
Cultural Diversity was set up with voluntary contributions; it has spent $5.8 million
since its inception on 84 projects in 49 developing countries. The parties to the Con-
vention submit quadriennial reports to UNESCO, and several offices have contributed
to the work of the Convention. The UNESCO Institute for Statistics (UIS) issued a new
Framework for Cultural Statistics (UNESCO 2009), which took into account the work of
the Convention. UIS also set up an Expert Group on Measuring the Diversity of Cultural
Expressions.9
At the level of global norm formation, four other issues provide some context for evalu-
ating the implementation record of the conference. First, legally the Convention lacks force.

97
J.P. Singh

The Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties allows for later Conventions to supersede
earlier ones on the same topic. Article 20 language, as noted earlier, sets a new legal prec-
edent of ‘mutual supportiveness,’ which means that the Convention does not subordinate
instruments at the WTO. Second, the re-entry of the United States to UNESCO changed
not just the wording of specific articles as mentioned above, but also the trajectory of the
implementation. The Convention was not a priority for the United States, and it wanted to
direct resources of the organisation elsewhere. While UNESCO’s budgetary processes are
arcane and complex, great powers do carry clout (Hoggart 1978; Singh 2011). In a further
twist, the United States stopped paying its dues in 2011 after UNESCO voted to admit
Palestine as a member. Just when the organisation could have hoped to allocate resources to
the measures, the United States cut off funding. The U.S. engagement with UNESCO can
then be summarised in two phases: dilute the convention (2004–5) and then drop funding
for the organisation altogether (2011). Third, the Convention is premised on an analogue
model of product flows in cultural industries. In such a world, member-states ship cultural
products to each other in metal containers, which can be regulated at national borders, while
governments encourage their own creative industries in a variety of ways. In a world of dig-
ital technologies, the analogue model falls apart.
The workings of the convention in the last ten years, therefore, can also be examined
within the broad context of overlapping issue-areas in other international organisations that
attend to issues such as trade, intellectual property, or economic development. The 2005
Convention sought to address the economic aspects of cultural globalisation. However, the
lack of movement on further liberalisation on culture (or any other issue) from the World
Trade Organization has, in an ironic twist, put a damper on UNESCO’s efforts to thwart
such moves because the original impetus is now removed. Furthermore, the increasing sa-
lience of intellectual property concerns has changed the geo-strategic dimension of the cul-
tural globalisation debate from the United States versus EU/Canada parameter to a Global
North-South axis. Global economic rule-making in culture now concentrates on intellec-
tual property issues rather than cultural production.
The trade versus culture debate has settled in favour of trade in another way on the issue
of intellectual property. In the last decade, the chief debate on cultural content has been
on global North’s attempts to develop a digital trade agenda, which includes copyright
issues. In fact, digital trade may be one of the most important trade issues for the United
States at present (Aaronson 2016). Proponents of strong copyright protection have argued
that its enforcement results in further innovation, appropriate rewards for the artists, and
further creativity. Digitisation has also altered the major battle in cultural productions
from Hollywood versus the rest to once again a global North-South battle on interna-
tional intellectual property regulation and enforcement. Countries such as Canada and
France have formed a formidable global coalition with their cultural adversaries such as
the United States to enact and enforce restrictive intellectual property rights. Examples
include the many preferential trade agreements that the U.S. and EU have signed with
countries in Latin America and Sub-Saharan Africa. A particularly restrictive measure is
the most recent Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement (ACTA) signed in 2011 but not yet
ratified mostly due to civil society protests worldwide (Sell 2013). ACTA went far beyond
the existing WTO agreements in intellectual property protection and enforcement, which
are now the most important cultural industry issues for both the rich-country signato-
ries and the non-signatories to the 2005 Convention. The 2015 TransPacific Partnership
agreement among 13 trade partners including the U.S., Canada, Japan, and Australia has
included comprehensive provisions for online protection.

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 Cultural goods and identities across borders

Conclusion
International cultural regulation is sometimes analysed as the ability of the nation-states to
regulate an international cultural division of labour in production and exchange of creative
artefacts. Certainly, a debate such as NWICO can be analysed as a struggle against cultural
domination by Western conglomerates. The UNESCO Convention can similarly be viewed
as a moderation within dominant cultural producers. However, such a view is incomplete at
best and empirically incorrect at worst. In the former case, it does not explain the struggle
between cultural and national identities and the non-material anxieties in which they are
embedded. In the latter case, it privileges material production (and labour or class) as an an-
tecedent condition or an article of faith.
This essay has presented a somewhat non-linear and multi-causal argument about inter-
national cultural regulation especially in the two decades of what this essay called the cul-
tural uptick from 1985–2005. The argument starts with technologies of representation and
cultural anxieties that provide the context for understanding the struggle between national
and cultural identities. It also distinguishes between creative expressions and cultural expres-
sions. National identity is one among many types of cultural identities but one that makes
the nation-state salient in its politics. The imprint of the nation-state is expansive in current
international regulatory instruments at the WTO and UNESCO. However, in the case of
the WTO the state seems beholden to commercial factors while at UNESCO the state has
tried to reinforce its own paternal powers to regulate cultural production within its borders
in the name of national identity. The imprint of commercial production of creative products
and their relationship is, therefore, ambiguous.
Future research will need to confront two interlinked issues. First, it must move beyond
a tenuous regulatory binary between culture and trade. As this essay shows, this debate itself
reflects powerful interests within nation-states who either want to protect and regulate do-
mestic creative industries in the name of (national) cultural identity or promote exports as
creative products that are either not cultural or do not threaten cultural identity. Trade can
promote, restrict, or transform cultural identities. Positioning trade as a threat or a thrust
toward maintaining cultural identities is misleading. Second, regulation obeys the dictums
of the powerful, but this essay shows that cultural voices from the meek and the marginalised
are not always absent. New technologies establish affordances for these new cultural voices.
Research needs to explore both the empirical and the normative possibilities for these cul-
tural voices and the regulatory provisions that can enhance these affordances.
International cultural regulation that is deliberative, in the sense of being inclusive and
informed with public reasoning, must result from participatory processes that go beyond the
elite in international organisations, nation-states, and commercial enterprises. More and more,
artists, creative producers, and civil society are involved in shaping the commerce and politics
of cultural regulation. Their voices are incipient but increasingly important to understanding
international cultural politics. The emerging international cultural regulation will result from
the interstialities and intersections among national and cultural identities, commercial and cre-
ative products, and the aspirations among people to name and present their world.

Notes
1 Zephoria (2016), YouTube (2016) and Twitter Statistics (2016).
2 See, for example, Benhabib (2002); Esposito (1992), Evrigenis (2008); Kang (2009).
3 Notion of public interest is derived from welfare economics, which sanctions state regulation and
redistribution to ensure the greatest satisfaction of citizens. Comparative advantage relies on the

99
J.P. Singh

relative abundance of resources or factors of production within an economy. Intuitively under-

stood, it rests upon a division of labor across countries.
4 Indirectly, the elite continued to shape the type of art would be produced through their influence
on educational and other institutions that defined taste, in this case in cultural terms (Becker 2000;
Miller and Yüdice 2002).
5 Television programs in France, and in many other European states, are subsidised by film box office
receipts, the majority of which are generated by American films and levies on blank video-tapes
used to record these programs.
6 The European Union negotiates as a single entity at the WTO. However, its single position of-
ten reveals fissures. UK, the biggest cultural products exporter in the EU, and countries such as
Denmark and Netherlands are reluctant to go along with protectionist measures.
7 The EU does not does not negotiate as a single entity at UNESCO. However, most EU states took
the same position on the 2005 UNESCO Convention discussed in this essay.
8 Many of these measures are listed on the Convention’s website. http://www.unesco.org/new/en/
culture/themes/cultural-diversity/diversity-of-cultural-expressions/the-convention/.
9 The author served on both the Taskforce and the Working Group.

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 7
No exceptions
Cultural policy in the era of
free trade agreements

Graham Murdock and Eun-Kyoung Choi

We are free traders. I guess next to John Wayne ….Adam Smith is one of our favourite people,
at least insofar as a free market is concerned…The minute anybody tries to erect trade barriers,
there is a viral contagion effect which spreads all over the world.
Jack Valenti, President of the Motion Picture Association of
America, speaking in 1977 (quoted in Yecies 2007:4)

Style and substance

Most commentary on cultural policy focuses on developments within nation states, ana-
lysing the genesis, career and impact of selected central and local government initiatives.
There are secondary literatures comparing countries and examining policy processes within
the European Union and other regional blocs, but studies exploring the interplay between
national polices and global trade regimes remain few and far between. Taking the changing
relations between the United States and South Korea (hereafter simply Korea), from imme-
diately after World War II through to the present, as an illustration, this paper aims to show
how placing developments in cultural policy within the wider frame of trade relations helps
to illuminate them in new ways.
In July 2012 the South Korean entertainer Psy released a song, Gangnam Style, mocking the
residents of Gangnam, an affluent suburb of Seoul, accompanied by a promotional video based
around a dance routine featuring a parody of horse riding. Within weeks it was a world-wide
phenomenon and by the year’s end the first video to achieve one billion views on You Tube.
In May 2013, Park Geun-hye, the newly installed President of South Korea, selected the
United States for the first state visit of her tenure. The daughter of Park Chung-hee who
had headed the country’s military government for almost two decades, until his assassination
in 1979, she symbolised the country’s double transition, from authoritarianism to electoral
democracy and from strong state direction of the economy to a market-centred approach
to growth. In his speech welcoming her to the White House President Obama joked, “my
daughters have taught me a pretty good Gangnam Style” before turning to the Korea-US
free trade agreement, KORUS, finalised in 2007 but only ratified by the legislatures of both
countries in the autumn of 2011.

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 No exceptions

Hailing the Agreement as “historic”, Obama seized the opportunity to underline its ad-
vantages to the United States pointing out that “On our side…it will boost US exports by
some $10 billion and support tens of thousands of American jobs”, noting that car industry
“exports are up nearly 50% and our Big Three – Ford, Chrysler and GM – are selling more to
Korea”, adding, almost as an afterthought, that “obviously it will be creating jobs in Korea”
(White House Office of Press Secretary 2013). Given that the crisis in the US automobile
industry required an $80 billion government bail-out and became emblematic of America’s
decline as an industrial power, it was a politic choice, but KORUS was also strongly in-
formed by the push to further open export markets for the information and cultural goods
that a growing consensus of analysts and commentators saw as the primary engine of future
economic growth.
A reading anchored in models of globalisation would be tempted to see Psy’s symbolic
presence in the White House as strong evidence of a new pattern of cultural flows and
confirmation of Korea’s successful transition from one of the world’s poorest nations im-
mediately after World War II to a major economic power whose information and cultural
industries are achieving global reach. Critical analysis however needs to move from style to
substance and detail how Korea’s cultural industries have been progressively captured by ide-
ologies and conditions of practice promoted by the major US communications companies.
To unpack this process we need to return to a revised model of cultural imperialism.

Cultural imperialism revisited

The argument that cultural goods play a key role in sustaining America’s global economic
ascendency is not new. In a 1926 essay entitled “When the movies go abroad” written for
Harper’s magazine, the journalist Charles Merz, who later edited the New York Times, saw
the lavish displays of consumer goods in Hollywood films as persuasive ambassadors, stoking
international demand for American brands. “Trade”, he argued, “no longer follows the flag,
it follows the film”:

Automobiles manufactured here are ordered abroad after screen shadows have been ob-
served to ride in them. China wants sewing machines; rich Peruvians buy piano players;
orders come from Japanese who have admired mission armchairs in the films.
(Merz 1926:159/165)

Cultural artefacts are not only promotional vehicles for other goods or commodities to be
traded in their own right. They also provide the major imaginative spaces in which individ-
ual nations and social groups explore and project their sense of themselves and affirm their
way of life and core values. This makes them both unique and ambiguous. They persistently
escape the confines of particular policy domains and stoke rival claims from competing
interests intent on recapturing them.
The argument that cultural goods are not like other commodities was forcefully restated
in 2005 by Jacques Chirac in a speech opposing their inclusion in the areas covered by the
newly launched World Trade Organisation (WTO). “What is at stake”, he argued,

is our vision of what it means to be human. The cultural exception is based on a political
and moral affirmation of the utmost importance: that there are human activities that
cannot be reduced to their status as merchandise.
(quoted in Littoz-Monnet 2007:21–22)

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Graham Murdock and Eun-Kyoung Choi

This view was summarily dismissed by Jack Valenti, the long-serving head of the Motion
Picture Association of America (MPAA), the leading US entertainment industry group
lobbying for the removal of all barriers to open trade. Before moving to the MPAA, a
post he held for almost four decades, from 1966 to 2004, Valenti had been an advisor to
Lyndon Johnson and retained a network of influential political contacts. He was adamant
that counting popular film and television as exceptions “had nothing to do with culture,
unless European soap operas and game shows are the equivalent of Moliere [it] is all about
the hard business of money” (quoted in Grant and Wood 2004:359). Discounting the role of
popular cultural forms as valid spaces of expression was a necessary rhetorical move in de-
fence of his Association’s primary “mission”, which, as he candidly admitted elsewhere, was
“to make sure that American film [and] television can move freely and unhobbled around
the world in marketplaces that are competitive” (quoted in Wasko 1994:225–226). What is
being exported however is not simply an array of cultural commodities but a cumulative
vision of a way of life.
In his path-breaking 1969 analysis, Mass Communication and American Empire, Herbert
Schiller argued that commercialised American popular culture promotes an enveloping
“vision” organised around “a mountain of artefacts, privately furnished and individually
acquired and consumed” (Schiller 1969:3), adding in a later work, that this “American life
style, from its most minor details and deeply felt practices reflects an exclusively self-­centred
outlook” (Schiller 1973:10). By insistently addressing people in their role as consumers,
making personal choices, this vision of plenty and its pleasures pushes the collective identi-
ties of citizen and worker to the margins, elevates corporate interests over the public interest
and confirms markets as the preferred form of economic organisation.
The present era of Free Trade Agreements, of which KORUS is a leading example, is the
latest phase in an unfolding history of shifting relations between national cultural polices and
a global trading regime in which the United States has taken a leading role in promoting this
consumerist ideology by pressing for perceived blockages to ‘free trade’ in cultural goods to
be abolished.
Over and above the tariffs (customs duties) charged on imports governments may intro-
duce a range of ‘non-tariff barriers’ designed to secure space and resources for local cultural
production. Restrictions typically take the form of quotas limiting the amount of overseas
material that can be imported and ceilings on foreign ownership or investment in domes-
tic communications and media companies. Active support for local production is advanced
through public funding or tax exemptions for selected cultural initiatives and projects. All
these interventions are roundly condemned by militant advocates of ‘free’ markets, as grant-
ing unfair preferences to domestic institutions and companies and placing unwarranted
restrictions on open-market entry and competition. They accept no exceptions.
Companies wishing to realise the full value of their entry into overseas markets also re-
quire their goods be protected from use and copying without payment, a demand that has
led in recent decades to intellectual property provisions being incorporated into trade agree-
ments for the first time. On the face of it “inserting intellectual property into the multilateral
trade regime makes no sense” since the aim of trade liberalisation is to “increase consumer
access to goods and services, intellectual property policy cuts across this by constructing
scarcity and rationing access “ (Sell 2010:763). Its integration into debates on trade is the
result of concerted pressure from major US rights holders intent on maximising returns, in
conjunction with policy agencies concerned about international competitiveness.
Copyright rules have traditionally sought to strike a balance between originators’ claims
to a reasonable return on their labour and the open circulation of the full range of cultural

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 No exceptions

resources required to support current and future creative activity and innovation. The US-
led drive to extend the scale and scope of intellectual property provisions has been a major
point of contention in recent debates on global trade, with audio visual products and services
emerging as a flash point.
We can usefully think of the promotion of Free Trade Agreements as the pursuit of
cultural imperialism by other means. This may seem a surprising, even foolhardy, assertion
since for the last three decades dominant approaches to understanding cultural flows have
been organised around theories of globalisation animated by sharp criticisms of cultural im-
perialism as a drastically oversimplified account operating with an outdated centre-­periphery
model that casts the US as a dominant power able to impose its interests with only weak
opposition. This, it is argued, fails on three counts. Firstly, it ignores the rise and significance
of alternative centres of cultural production, in India, Latin America, and Asia. Secondly, it
underestimates the growing strength of counter flows and regional markets. Thirdly, it plays
down the consistent evidence that given an effective choice between equivalents, audiences
prefer local productions or imports that resonate with their values and sense of self.
An attentive reading of Herbert Schiller’s formulation, however, suggests a more layered
conception than many critics allow. Schiller defines cultural imperialism as:

the sum of processes through which a society is brought into the modern world system
and how its dominating stratus is attracted, pressured, forced and sometimes bribed into
shaping social institutions to correspond to, or even, promote, the values and structures
of the dominating centre of power.
(Schiller 1976:9)

Three aspects of this conception are central to the present argument:

Firstly, by insisting that cultural imperialism is a process, it underlines the need to exam-
ine how the strategies and points of pressure employed shift over time in response to changes
in the economic and political operating environment.
Secondly, by placing class centre stage and focusing on relations between the ‘dominat-
ing centre of power’ and the ‘dominating stratum’ in the target nation, it draws attention
to the ways that the deals struck between elites consistently privilege corporate interests
and exclude the general public from full participation. Negotiations around Free Trade
Agreements, which take place behind closed doors, away from parliamentary scrutiny and
accord privileged access and participation to leading corporations, are a clear instance of this
process in action and have been met by mounting public suspicion and anger.
The third key point in Schiller’s definition of cultural imperialism is his insistence on the
central role played by conceptions of modernity and the deployment of ‘attraction’ alongside
‘force’ and ‘pressure’ in securing compliance.
Over the post-war period Korean economic policy has moved from the drive for recon-
struction and growth organised around manufacturing and heavy industry to a vision of a
new modernity that takes full advantage of innovations in communication technologies and
the expanded markets for information and cultural goods opened up by the global embrace
of commercial enterprise and competition. External pressure has certainly played an import-
ant role in Korea’s transition to a market-centred economy, but this movement has also been
fuelled by Korean corporate and governmental ambitions, which have been shaped in turn
by shifts in the wider global economic and political order.
Economically the post-war period has been dominated by the retreat from comprehen-
sive state management and the ascendency of neo-liberalism’s promotion of marketization.

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Originating in the UK and the US in the early 1980s, its militant advocacy of selling state
assets, opening monopoly or protected markets to new entrants and loosening regulations
on corporate activity has been widely adopted in emerging economies as a necessary precon-
dition of the next phase of economic expansion. Dominant conceptions of future prosperity
have also been strongly influenced by the growing academic and policy consensus that in-
formation, cultural, and service industries are displacing manufacturing as the major engines
of capitalist growth and that nations wishing not be left behind need to modernise their
infrastructures and develop their cultural and service sectors. As a consequence, the emphasis
in the term ‘cultural industries’ has shifted from ‘culture’ to ‘industries’ and symbolic goods
have increasingly come to be evaluated for their potential economic returns rather than as
symbolic spaces for exploring the state of the nation and its complexities and contradictions.
Korea exemplifies these shifts.
The sections that follow examine in more detail how this transition has been shaped firstly
by US moves to incorporate cultural goods into the global trading system while extending
protections for the intellectual properties controlled by the major US media corporations and
secondly by the strategies developed by successive Korean government in response to these
pressures and in pursuit of their own ambitions.

Consolidating corporate interests: US strategies

The initial US push to secure the free movement of cultural goods was pursued through the
General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT), one of a cluster of institutions designed
to regulate global capitalism that the Allied powers put in place in the immediate aftermath
of World War II. They also included the International Monetary Fund (IMF), which came
to play a significant role in advancing the liberalisation of markets through the ‘structural
adjustment’ requirements attached to the loans made to struggling emerging economies,
including, in 1987–8, Korea.
Launched in January 1948, the GATT agreement was aimed at securing substantial
reductions in tariffs and other trade barriers by requiring imported goods to be treated
in the same way as equivalent domestically produced goods. This gave the United States,
which had boomed economically during the War, a significant competitive advantage over
economies that had been disrupted and damaged in the conflict. At the same time, the cul-
tural industries’ pivotal role as spaces for the construction and repair of national identities
placed them at the centre of contention. Initial disputes centred on film, the major popular
entertainment medium of the time. Fearing that the global ascendency of Hollywood would
derail attempts to revive domestic film production and undermine the vitality of the national
language, France pressed for an ‘exclusion’ clause to be added to the GATT agreement,
setting cultural industries apart from its general provisions (Grant and Wood 2004).
The American delegation was adamantly opposed. As Jack Valenti insisted in an inter-
view with Le Monde: “The United States will not sign a GATT agreement which makes
culture an exception. There would be commercial war about it if we don’t set competition
and free access to market” (quoted in Magder 2004). Talks ended in stalemate but the French
did win a concession allowing countries to reserve screen time for “films of national origin”.
It was a conditional victory, however, since Article IV(d) of the Agreement specified that
questions around screen quotas remained open for later negotiations over their “limitation,
liberalisation or elimination”.
Having failed to secure a multilateral agreement on quotas, the United States increasingly
turned to unilateral channels of pressure and strengthening protections for the intellectual

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property rights of major corporate rights holders. One of the principle agencies employed
was the Office of the United States Trade Representative (USTR) established to advise
the President on trade policy. Deliberations were conducted in closed meetings that ex-
cluded both the press and the public but relied heavily on the analysis and advice provided
by the major copyright holders, opening the process to comprehensive corporate capture
(Kaminski 2014). The 1974 US Trade Expansion Act contained a provision that instructed
the USTR to compile a special annual report under Section 301 identifying “those foreign
countries that deny adequate and effective protection of intellectual property rights, or deny
fair and equitable markets access to United States persons that rely upon intellectual property
protection”. Countries failing to meet these requirements could be subjected to sanctions. As
we will see, this provision was deployed against Korea.
By then, however, mounting US frustration with the overall failure to advance the
commercialisation of cultural exchange through the GATT system, had fed into growing
pressure for a major reorganisation of the international trade regime. The final round of
talks began in 1986 and ended in 1994 at a meeting in Marrakesh at which it was decided
to replace GATT with a new body, the World Trade Organisation (WTO). Launched in
January 1995, the WTO incorporated the GATT provisions, while adding two new areas
of oversight and control that directly addressed the perceived problems posed by the audio-­
visual industries: the General Agreement on Trade in Services (GATS) and the Agreement
on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property (TRIPS).
The GATT regime had been built around a model that identified trade primarily with
flows of physical goods, with services occupying an uncertain status. GATS resolved this
and extended the WTO’s reach unambiguously to key areas defined as ‘services’, including
broadcasting and telecommunications. At the same time, TRIPS responded to mounting
concerns over unauthorized copying and loss of revenues on the part of major rights hold-
ers by incorporating protections for intellectual property into the international trading re-
gime for the first time, a move that one influential commentator has described as “one of
the most dramatic instances of international market regulation in the twentieth century”
(Sell 2010:762). Taken together, these innovations opened a second phase in the push to fully
incorporate cultural goods into the global trading regime. This initiative did not go unop-
posed, however, as advocates of cultural exception regrouped and sought to work through
the United Nations Education, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO), founded
in 1945 to protect cultural heritage and promote international understanding through cul-
tural exchange.
In 1980, UNESCO had issued the McBride Commission report on the global communi-
cations system, Many Voices, One World. The subtitle announced it as work towards a “more
just and more efficient” order. The Report’s guiding conception of cultural justice however
sat very uneasily alongside dominant market driven definitions of ‘efficiency’, a tension high-
lighted in the passage pointing to the “grave danger of the distorting power” arising “on an
international level” from structures of communication that “reflect the life-styles, values and
models of a few societies, spreading to the rest of the world certain types of consumption and
certain development patterns” (UNESCO 1980:24) Supporters of free markets perceived
this stance as openly antagonistic towards commercial cultural trade and the US withdrew
from the organisation in 1984, re-joining in 2003 to find that the issue had once again moved
to the centre of UNESCO’s agenda under the banner of promoting cultural diversity.
The argument that cultural diversity was a public good essential to the full realisation of
democracy had been formally stated in Our Creative Diversity, a report produced by the World
Commission on Culture and Development for the UN General Assembly (Graber 2006).

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Two later reports on ‘World Culture’, in 1998 and 2000, expressly identified the rise of
integrated media conglomerates, led by the US majors, as the principal threat to diversity.
The rhetoric of diversity moved the locus of debate from the predominantly defensive
stance underpinning the argument for exception to a positive advocacy of citizens’ access to
the full range of available experiences and views as a cultural right. Diversity of provision
was presented as a necessary guarantor of diversity of expression and representation, an argu-
ment that lent added weight to the case for publicly owned media, including public service
broadcasting, operating outside the commercial system.
In 1998 Ministers of Culture from a range of countries supported by an association
of creative workers and civic groups met to discuss how to advance the case for diversity
(Acheson and Maule 2004). Coinciding with the launch of the WTO, this new coalition set
out to insulate cultural products from the new trade provisions (Hahn 2006). In October
2003, the UNESCO General Conference responded to this initiative and asked the Director
General to draft a legally binding convention protecting diversity of cultural expression.
The resulting Convention on the Protection and Promotion of the Diversity of Cultural Expression
announced itself as the first international “instrument of its kind to recognize the very
specific nature of cultural goods and services, having both an economic and cultural dimen-
sion” (UNESCO 2013:Foreword v). This restatement of the unique nature of cultural ac-
tivity was followed by a strong commitment to creating “an enabling environment in which
artists, cultural professionals, practitioners and citizens worldwide can create, produce,
distribute, disseminate and enjoy a broad range of cultural goods, services and activities”
(UNESCO 2013:op cit). This elevation of the cultural rights of creators and citizens over the
economic requirements of corporations was widely interpreted as undermining arguments
for extending market driven trade in cultural goods and intellectual property provisions.
The US, which had only just re-joined the organisation, saw this as an unwarranted ero-
sion of the WTO’s remit, but when the draft Convention was put to the vote at the General
Conference in 2005, they found themselves isolated in opposition with only Israel support-
ing their position.
The Convention’s comprehensive definition of diversity as all “the manifold ways in
which the cultures of groups and societies find expression” covered all established and
emerging media and gave signatories unlimited discretion to decide which policies they saw
as necessary to ensure diversity (Graber 2006). At the same time, signatories who were also
members of the WTO remained bound by their endorsement of the organisation’s general
agreement to progressive liberalisation. With no clear guidance of how this circle might be
squared, fractious disputes within the WTO were inevitable.
In this changed context, it became increasingly clear that the WTO would be unable to
resolve this issue and remove perceived blockages to trade in cultural goods or enforce copy-
right rules that fully met US requirements. As more members joined, including emerging
economies with significant bargaining weight, led by India, Brazil and China, the scope for
conflicts of interest grew. Under the old GATT provisions, agreements could be amended
by a simple majority vote. WTO rules required that any changes that applied to all members
be endorsed by three-quarters of the membership of the Ministerial Conference (Dunkley
2001). Added to which resolving disputes was a long drawn-out process with adjudica-
tion taking an average of 18 months and compliance a further 15 months, and even then
there was no absolute guarantee that countries would act on decisions in a timely manner
(Choi 2009). In contrast, disputes between parties within the US-led North American Trade
Agreement (NFTA), the first major FTA the US had brokered, were fully resolved within
four to five months.

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The US had signalled its intention making audio-visual services a major focus of the
talks launched in Doha in 2001. By 2005, however, discussion had reached deadlock and
major decisions concerning market access put on hold, leading to predictions that the era
of multilateralism was at an end. The US responded by increasingly seeking to extend the
NAFTA model and secure Free Trade Agreements with single partners or a restricted range
of carefully chosen participants, on the assumption that a favourable deal was more likely
to be arrived at when the sharp clashes of interest characteristic of the WTO’s broad mem-
bership were replaced by a clear recognition by all parties of the advantages of privileged
relationships. The US has seized the opportunity offered by these more hospitable bar-
gaining spaces to press for settlements in the areas of culture and copyright that go beyond
those tabled in WTO discussions, including so-called TRIPS-Plus provisions in the field of
intellectual property.
This move was a response to two developments Firstly, the copyright on some of the
most valuable intellectual properties owned by the major US entertainment corporations
was about to expire under prevailing copyright regimes. Secondly, the rapid rise of digital
technologies was not only expanding revenue-generating opportunities by creating new
distribution platforms, it was undermining them by making unauthorised copying easier.
The first attempt to secure an international agreement on intellectual property came in
1883 with the signing of the Paris Convention for the Protection of Intellectual Property.
Designed to safeguard patents, trademarks and industrial designs, it was matched in 1886
by the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works. This covered
all forms of artistic expression but only applied to original ‘work’, excluding the ideas it
contained and performances. It offered protection for the life of the author plus 50 years after
his or her death and required signatories to treat domestic and foreign works equally. The
US did not endorse the Berne Convention, but faced with the changing global arena that
emerged after World War II it launched a rival system, the Universal Copyright Convention
(UCC). Although it was firmly rooted in US national copyright law, the word ‘universal’ in
the title announced a clear ambition to install US provisions as the de facto global standard.
This perception was widespread and led to the UCC’s attracting fewer signatories than the
Berne Convention.
In 1967, the administrations of the Berne and Paris Conventions were merged to form
the World Intellectual Property Organisation (WIPO). The fact that most signatories were
drawn from emerging economies positioned it as an important new arena in which the
US could pursue its aim of ‘harmonizing’ the global intellectual property regime around
its nationally determined provisions. In 1996, in response to pressure to address concerns
around piracy on the Internet, WIPO adopted two new treaties, the Copyright Treaty and
the Performances and Phonograms Treaty. Taken together they had potentially far-reaching
implications for copying and distributing digitised material. In implementing the provisions,
however, signatories were free to determine whether their existing national regulations al-
ready met the terms of the treaties, opening the way for an uneven implementation that cut
directly across the US drive to generalise its national intellectual property laws. The TRIPS
provisions of the WTO were also seen as falling some way short in advancing this aim.
TRIPS followed the Berne convention in guaranteeing copyright protection for literary
and artistic works for the life of the author plus 50 years, but extended the principle to com-
puter software, databases and rental rights for sound and visual recordings. This imposed
significant new burdens of compliance on signatories, particularly in emerging economies,
since it required them to establish and fund new oversight agencies, diverting public funds
away from other areas. But it failed to match the far-reaching provisions of the two major

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revisions to US law introduced in 1998: the Copyright Term Extension Act and the Digital
Millennium Copyright Act.
In 1993, the European Union extended copyright protection for authors’ works from 50
to 70 years after their death, as a temporary measure to compensate cultural producers for
the interruptions to income caused by the disruption of two World Wars on the continent.
Spared from invasion and saturation bombing US cultural industries boomed both during
and after both wars allowing them to strengthen their international reach, but major interests
in the entertainment industries seized the opportunity to argue that US law needed to match
European provisions in order to maintain international competitiveness. The Walt Disney
Company, whose exclusive rights to the character of Mickey Mouse were about to run out,
was particularly vocal and found a forceful advocate in the person of Sonny Bono, a popular
singer who had become a Republican politician. The term for collective productions was set
at 120 years after creation or 95 years after publication, whichever endpoint was the earliest.
In response, other US politicians rallied to defend the principle that authors’ rights needed
to be weighed against the need to ensure that resources for new intellectual and creative work
circulated without undue restrictions. As Senator Herb Kohl argued, copyright provisions
should be deployed in the public interest and not “for the sole purpose of improving the
balance of trade [or] ensuring that the heirs of copyrighted works can enjoy an unfettered
income stream… yet [the Act] is justified upon precisely these bases” (US Senate 1995–6).
The argument that by adding 20 years to the term of copyright, Congress was failing in its
constitutional duty to advance progress in the “useful arts” was tested in the Supreme Court,
which ruled in the Act’s favour.
Lengthening the term of copyright was accompanied by an extension of its principles to
the new arenas created by emerging technologies of digital copying and distribution. The
Digital Millennium Copyright Act made it illegal to disable or evade devices designed to
prevent unauthorised copying or to distribute information that would allow users to do so.
By criminalising any and all attempts to circumvent copy protection, these provisions ran
counter to widely accepted understandings of fair use that legitimated copying as a resource
for personal education and creativity.
This issue was at the centre of popular opposition to a major revision to the country’s
copyright provisions that the Korean government introduced in 2005, under pressure from
the US. The protests coincided with the US administration’s decision to draw up a list of
priority countries with which to initiate Free Trade Agreements. There were several reasons
Korea was on that list. Firstly, the balance of trade between the two countries was worsening
as Korean exports gained ground. Secondly, China had risen to become Korea’s largest trad-
ing partner and was exercising increasing economic influence in the Asia-Pacific challenging
US power in the region. A Free Trade Agreement with Korea was expected to strengthen
US influence by encouraging other Asian countries to seek similar arrangements.
As a precondition for commencing talks, however, the US demanded concessions in a
range of areas. They included ending the ban on imports of US Beef, imposed in the wake
of an outbreak of ‘mad cow’ disease, the elimination of import tariffs and domestic taxes
on American cars and a relaxation of screen quotas on film (Lee 2009). The Korean gov-
ernment acceded to these demands but entered into negotiations with ambitions to advance
their own global position as an economic power and cultural force, shaped by the coun-
try’s double transition from authoritarian rule to democratic process and from a managed
economy centred on heavy industry to a marketized economy organised around information
technology and cultural production.

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From national reconstruction to cultural industrialisation:

Korean ambitions
The early post-war years were defined politically by the ideological Cold War between the
US and the Soviet Union and successive wars of decolonisation. Korea was caught in the
crosshairs of both conflicts. Over three decades of military rule (between 1961 and 1992) it
pursued a strategy of economic and cultural nation building, supported by comprehensive
state direction and control. Industrial regeneration was built around a select group of large
companies, the Chaebols, whose size and scope enabled them to act as ‘national champions’,
competing effectively in export markets. Despite recurrent scandals around corrupt business
practises and bribes to politicians and persistent calls for reform, these family owned con-
glomerates continue to dominate the Korean economy. Samsung, founded in 1938, remains
the country’s largest company followed by three concerns launched in the immediate post-
war years: Hyundai in 1947, LG in 1947 and SK Group in 1953.
Industrial policy was accompanied by an ideological policy of defending national cultural
markets and imposing strong limits on public speech and expression. With Japan’s wartime
defeat in 1945, Korea, which had been part of the Japanese empire since 1910, became an
independent nation but was partitioned along the 38th parallel. Following the failure of
attempts to create a unified national government in 1948, Syngman Rhee was elected as
the first president of South Korea. In 1950, North Korean communist troops, supported by
China, crossed the demarcation line precipitating a three-year-long civil war that ended
with the North’s defeat and the reestablishment of partition, creating a de facto Asian ‘Iron
Curtain’. Although US troops played a leading role in the UN force that defended the
South, the ideology of the Korean government was organised around the drive to foster a
distinctive and durable sense of national identity coupled with militant anti-communism.
These aims were reinforced when a coup in 1961 installed a military government led by Park
Chung-hee. The country remained under military rule for three decades until 1992 (three
years before the launch of the WTO) when the election of Kim Young-sam restored civilian
government on a permanent basis. Building the nation, both economically and ideologically,
dominated the years of military rule with major consequences for cultural policy.
As the leading audio-visual medium, film was seen as central to the construction of na-
tional identity. Japanese films, which had dominated Korea screen under imperial rule, were
banned and not readmitted until 1988. Koreans however had already acquired a taste for
Hollywood movies, which under the US Army Military Government, which had adminis-
tered the country between 1945 and 1948, were distributed directly to cinemas. The seduc-
tive visions of affluence and individualism they offered sat uneasily alongside the appeals to
sacrifice and collective effort at the heart of the drive for national reconstruction.
Efforts to ensure a flow of film production that supported national objectives were pursued
through a combination of financial support and the imposition of export quotas. Following
the 1953 armistice the film industry was exempted from taxation, an intervention that saw
locally made productions increase from 8 to 108 between 1954 and 1959 (Song 2012:4).
Direct subsidies to the film industry were introduced in the 1963 Motion Picture Law.
Support for domestic production was accompanied in 1958 by the imposition of limits on
the number of foreign films that could be imported. Licenses were given to local companies
that had been successful in exporting films as reward for generating overseas revenues that
could be ploughed back into local production. Only companies making a minimum of 15
commercial films a year were admitted to the scheme. The result was a rapid move towards

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consolidation with the number of small film companies falling from 71 to 6 between 1959
and 1963. This highly concentrated market structure offered little incentive to diversity or
competition, and in 1966 the minimum annual production requirement was cut from 15 to
2, opening opportunities for small and medium-sized enterprises.
Support for local production was accompanied by limits on the volume and visibility of
overseas films. Import quotas were established at the beginning of each year. In 1965, only
53 were imported, and in 1966 cinemas were required to screen domestic productions for a
minimum of 90 days a year.
This led to a marked increase in cheap local productions, ‘quota quickies’, produced
solely to retain the right to import movies from overseas. This had two negative impacts. It
reduced the foreign earnings returned to domestic production and boosted the popularity of
imported movies, which had much higher production values, almost all of which originated
in the US. The first priority for the military regime was to limit American influence.
In 1973 the number of days allocated to domestic films was increased to 121, and imports
were reduced. In 1974 only 39 films from overseas were screened, down from 60 the year
before. In the 1980s, under the presidency of General Chun Doo-hwan, efforts to promote
a distinctively Korean cultural identity were intensified (Yim 2002:40), and in 1981 the
number of domestic screening days was increased to 165.
The US, however, kept pushing and successfully brokered Korea-US Film Agreements in
1985 and 1988. These produced two major gains. The import quota system was abolished, and
US film companies were allowed to establish local branch offices to distribute their productions
directly, rather than employing Korean intermediaries (Shim 2006). The impact was imme-
diate. In 1985 only 30 films were imported. By 1988 that figure rose to 176. In contrast, 1985
saw only two films exported overseas, earning a paltry total of $20,000. In 1970, exports stood
at 253. This situation provoked a strong reaction with protesting film industry workers, sup-
ported by academics and opposition politicians, demonstrating outside Seoul cinemas screen-
ing Fatal Attraction in full view of the overseas film crews in the city for the Seoul Olympics.
Domestic films continued to lose market share steadily and by 1993 were accounting for
only 16% of cinema admissions (Song 2012:5). By 1994 Hollywood movies were enjoying
an 80% share, up from 53% in 1987 (Shim 2006). As one observer noted, the “domestic film
business barely survived, while foreign players extended their dominance” (Kim 2006:9).
In an effort to protect the newly emerging television system, a quota system was intro-
duced in the 1987 Broadcasting Law specifying that stations could allocate a maximum of
20% of their total screen time to entertainment programming, the area where US imports
enjoyed the greatest competitive advantage. Alongside continuing battles over quotas, there
was escalating pressure from the US to increase protection for intellectual property.
The original Korean Copyright Act of 1957 established a copyright term of 30 years from
the death of the author. In 1968, under pressure from the US, as a condition of renegotiated
general trade relations, the term was extended to 50 years. The US continued to press for
further measures, and in 2004 the USTR 310 Report placed Korea on the Priority Watch
List of countries, not providing an adequate level of intellectual property protection.
That same year the Korean government addressed the issue of digital copying with a
twelfth revision to the Copyright Act. This gave copyright owners a monopoly right to
transmit material over the Internet or on mobile devices and criminalised “the uploading
or sharing of copyrighted music files, visual images, and video clips on individual blog sites,
online fan club cafes, and personal web sites” (Lee 2009:2). Many users saw the ban on
non-commercial sharing as an unwarranted expansion of “citizen’s liability for copyright
infringement” and an unacceptable restriction on free cultural expression. Pushed through

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parliament without public consultation, the Act’s implementation in 2005 was met by pro-
tests outside parliament, the mobilisation of a broadly based coalition of opposition, and the
construction of an alternative licencing model (Lee 2009:2–3).
It is over simple to see the Korean government’s adoption of increasingly restrictive copy-
right regimes solely as a response to US pressure. This was certainly a factor, but later decisions
were also informed by the perceived need to provide greater protection for the intellectual
properties owned by major domestic entertainment, corporations that were driving an in-
creasingly successful export push. The resulting subordination of citizens’ cultural rights to
the interests of corporate rights holders is a further indication of the ascendency of an officially
promoted economistic view of culture that had been gathering momentum for some time.
The final years of authoritarian rule saw government policy take a neo-liberal turn to-
wards deregulation and reduced state intervention. In 1990, in the expectation that com-
petition would generate more value-added services, monopoly control over the two major
telecommunication sectors, Korea Telecom and Korea Mobile Telecommunications, was
relaxed and new entrants admitted. 1991 saw the public broadcasting monopoly end with
the launch of the first terrestrial commercial channel, SBS, and the foundations of the cable
television laid by the Composite Cable Broadcasting Act (Kwak 2010).
This embrace of neo-liberalism intensified with Kim Young-sam’s election in 1992, as the
first civilian president since the military coup of 1961. The new government initiated two
major shifts in policy. Firstly, there was a concerted drive to rebalance the economy away
from labour-intensive manufacturing industries to cultural and knowledge-based sectors
(Lee 2006). Secondly, international policies moved from a fortress mentality to positive
evaluation of the opportunities presented by globalisation.
The internal realignment was reinforced in 1997 when the International Monetary
Fund required the Kim Young-sam government to implement a program of comprehensive
economic restructuring, financial and corporate-sector reform and trade liberalisation as
conditions attached to the bailout addressed Korea’s severe economic crisis, which had been
initiated by shortages of overseas currencies the financial difficulties and bankruptcies of
leading Chaebols.
There was a strong sense that the Chaebols had overreached themselves, acquiring
interests in too many unrelated areas. Companies still operating were instructed to divest
themselves of their peripheral holdings and refocus on core businesses. CJ, one of the major
forces that emerged in the media sector, had spun off from Samsung in 1993, before the
crisis, and quickly moved to capitalise on the shift towards a more positive evaluation of
globalisation. In 1995 it entered into a strategic alliance with Steven Spielberg’s Dreamworks
studio, taking an 11% stake, and in 1998 it opened Korea’s first multiplex cinema in part-
nership with Golden Harvest of Hong Kong and Village Roadshow of Australia. Another
leading media company, Lotte Entertainment, was launched in 2003 as a subsidiary of Lotte
(a major food company with a portfolio of interests spanning hotels, financial services, and
heavy industry). As one recent analysis concludes, the economic crisis combined with the
acceleration of marketization increasingly concentrated control over key media markets in
the hands of chaebol groups with access to overseas partners or foreign capital generating an
increasing polarization between the major players and the smaller independents (Kim 2014).
There was a parallel restructuring of the labour market with a growing divergence be-
tween employees on continuing contracts, with their associated company supported benefits,
and the growing ranks of irregular and insecure workers. By 2011, over a third (34.2%) of
the labour force was in this second group, earning on average only 60% of a regular worker’s
wage (Keo 2014). As a result, while “the Korean economy recovered from the crisis as swiftly

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as it had succumbed … income inequality sharply worsened” (Cheong 2011). In the years
between 1990 and 1995, the Gini coefficient measure of income inequality (where 0 equals
perfect equality) averaged 0.258. By 2010, it had risen to 0.315 with the top ten per cent of
earners seeing their share of income rising from 29% in 1995 to 46% in 2016.
Alongside these structural realignments, the 1997 crisis and its aftermath had a major
impact on popular attitudes, which “dramatically shifted toward individualism from cooper-
ativism /collectivism, moving much closer to western culture” reinforcing the appeal of the
consumerist culture being promoted by the new media majors. (Lee and McNulty 2003:54).
The shift from a defensive to a proactive stance towards external pressures was announced
in 1994 with the launch of “an official globalization drive known as segyehwa” ( Jin 2006:9).
Domestic and international ambitions came together in 1999 in the Cyber Korea 21 project
aimed at improving “national competitiveness” and “raising the quality of life to the level of
the more advanced nations” by creating nationwide broadband Internet networks that would
provide the backbone of “knowledge based society”. In 2003, these aims were extended in
the E-Korea Vision 2006 programme designed to promote a national “information society”
and develop strong “international cooperation” in pursuit of a global information society.
Two years later, in 2005, the Ministry of Culture and Tourism published its C-Korea 2010
vision for a new creative economy in which increased exports of film, popular music and
television dramas would play a central role.
In these projections for the nation’s economic future building state-of-the-art digital
infrastructures and developing the country’s cultural industries assumed a central position
in policy thinking. Government would play a facilitating and enabling role, but innovation
would be driven primarily by market competition.
The huge success of Jurassic Park in 1993 famously prompted President Kim to remark that
“this movie is worth sales of 1.5 million Hyundai Sonata sedans”. In an effort to boost the
industry, film was reclassified as a manufacturing sector allowing filmmakers to claim tax
exemptions and encouraging banks to lend to them (Kim 2007). There were government
subsidies but they remained modest. In 2011 the highest estimate for the total amount of
subsidy going to the Korean film industry was USD 106 million, which was less than 12%
of the total received by the French film industry that year (Parc 2014:18). Here, as elsewhere,
growth was primarily driven by commercial interests.
By outperforming Titanic to become Korea’s highest grossing film of all time, with box
office returns of $25 million earning its backers, KBB Capital a 300% return on their orig-
inal investment, Kang Je-gyu’s blockbuster Shiri in 1999 seemed to offer incontrovertible
proof of the effectiveness of the market-oriented policies announced in the 1995 Motion
Picture Promotion Law and promoted under the banner of ‘Learning from Hollywood’.
The success of Shiri reinforced two lessons: the need to have large integrated corporations in
order to compete effectively and the value of tapping into audience tastes for narrative styles
formed by American films.
The film industry was given an additional boost in October 1996 when the Constitu-
tional Court ruled that the system of pre-censorship that had been in place since 1948 was
unconstitutional and should be abandoned. Its replacement, a system of ratings classification,
gave filmmakers much more flexibility, although it could still be used to impose restrictions.
In the years between 1999 and 2006, the Korean film industry enjoyed what one leading
commentator has characterised as a “never-before-seen success both at home and abroad”
(Shim 2011:214). From 2001 domestic productions achieved an average 50% share of box
office receipts, and the number of titles exported rose from 14 in 1993 to 202 in 2005
(op cit:2014).

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 No exceptions

In the broadcasting sector, the rapid growth of commercial and cable television Korea
experienced was being repeated in other Asian nations, significantly expanding the export
markets for Korean broadcast productions. In the competition for sales Korea could capitalise
on the ‘cultural proximity’, which attracts audiences to productions featuring people like
themselves, in situations they can relate to, underpinned by values they endorse.
The growing force and reach of Korea’s popular cultural exports, collectively dubbed,
Hallyu, translated as the Korean Wave, was confirmed in 2003 when the popular television
drama, Winter Sonata, recounting the careers and romances of four young people, was aired
on Japan’s national public broadcaster, NHK, and received a spectacular 20.6% programme
rating ( Jung 2009). It marked a highly resonant symbolic reversal of the historical relations
of domination and subordination and confirmed Korea’s arrival as a regional cultural force.
By the end of 2003 Korean television productions were generating export earnings triple the
sum for 1999, almost all from markets in Asia (Shim 2006). The distinctive Korean hybrid
style of pop music, K-Pop, was also becoming a major regional phenomenon. This success,
and the desire to establish a greater presence in major western markets, fed into the economic
roadmap the Korean government drew up in 2003. It included the possibility of entering
into a free trade agreement with the United States, but it was not until two years later, in
2005, that bilateral talks were officially launched.

Contested visions, conflicting interests: KORUS and after

In 2002, the US was running an overall trade deficit with Korea of 13.0 billion US dollars
(Tong and Tung 2012). Against this background, government projections of the gains from
KORUS were unremittingly positive. Their optimism was strongly endorsed by the business
community.
Through the public relations activities of their lobby group, The Federation of Korean
Industry, established in 1963, the chaebols had tirelessly promoted themselves as indispens-
able engines of economic growth and pushed aggressively for market-oriented policies that
allowed them maximum freedom of operations. They consistently “deployed their signif-
icant economic resources to strategically dominate both public media and state-generated
policy debate about the economy” (Lee 2016:2) squeezing out “the voices of labour, reform
civil society groups and small and medium companies” (op cit:6). They played a pivotal role
in promoting the case for KORUS and co-ordinating the pro Agreement lobby (Kim 2011).
They were supported by leading mainstream economists who predicted gains for the key
export sectors of automobiles and electronics goods of core concern to leading chaebols but
saw significant adverse impacts on agriculture. This proved to be a flash point.
In early 2008, while negotiations on KORUS were continuing, the Korean government
announced that they were revoking the ban on imports of US beef imposed in 2003. The
decision sparked widespread popular protests fuelled by immediate fears of ‘mad cow’ disease
and wider anxieties that KORUS was a ‘Trojan Horse’ for the further advance of US inter-
ests. Peaceful candlelit rallies in the centre of Seoul were met with water cannons, a response
that generalised popular discontent with overall support for KORUS falling sharply, from
75.4% to 45.4% and objections increasing from 22.3% to 43.7% (Kim 2011).
Opposition was particularly strong among young people where perceptions of the gov-
ernment’s heavy-handed response to legitimate protest were widely seen as a return to the
authoritarian past and combined with a tide of anti-Americanism that had been steadily
rising since two Korean middle school girls had been accidently killed by a US army vehicle
in 2002 and the soldiers involved acquitted by a US military court. In an opinion poll

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Graham Murdock and Eun-Kyoung Choi

conducted in 2003, over a third (35.4%) of those in their 20s nominated the United States as
their “least favoured country”, compared to only 5.3% of those in their 50s who had grown
up with the extensive US military and economic support granted in the wake of the Korean
War (Lee 2006).
Opposition intensified after the public broadcaster, Munhwa Broadcasting Company (MBC)
carried a current affairs program analysing the decision and was immediately attacked by
the three leading conservative newspaper, all owned by families supportive of the govern-
ment. In a move widely seen as an attempt to dampen dissent, President Lee appointed a
personal friend as head of the public 24-hour news channel, YTN. The subsequent protests
by journalists against government interference attracted widespread popular support. The
government later moved to discipline MBC by appointing a member of President Lee’s inner
circle, Kim Jea Chul, as president. Once in post, Kim cancelled the flagship current affairs
programme News Who and dispersed dissenting employees to local branches. Those involved
in the critical coverage of the ‘mad cow’ decision were a particular target. These moves were
met by the longest strike of staff in the organisation’s history. Called by the union, it lasted
six months, from January to July 2012, until eventually being discontinued.
In 2009, new legislation was introduced relaxing the restrictions on media cross-­
ownership, allowing press companies to take stakes in broadcasting companies from 2013
onwards, prompting concern that the leading conservative titles would see an opportunity
to extend their ideological remit.
Concerns around restrictions over the range of views and positions represented in pro-
gramming were also evident in cinema. In 2005, Im Sang-soo, one of Korea’s leading di-
rectors, released The President’s Last Bang, recounting President Park’s final hours before his
assassination by the Director of Korea’s Central Intelligence Agency. Its black comedy and
mixture of political archive footage and attention to Park’s sexual peccadillos ensured that
it attracted controversy. Im was required to delete documentary inserts after a court ruling
supported the case brought by Park’s son, but the major blow came when CJ Entertainment
cancelled its agreement to distribute the film. As a result it was only shown in 190 screens,
half the number allocated to the top five domestic films released that year (Yecies 2008:54).
Concerns over the resurgence of political conservatism were accompanied by mounting
anxieties over the economic impact of KORUS on public broadcasting and the audio-visual
industries more generally. The Agreement extended the opportunities for US companies to
invest in Korean broadcasting, reduced quotas on foreign content and allowed more of that
content to come from a single country.
Two years after KORUS was implemented, US controlled companies were free to invest
up to 100% in Korean channel operators and from three years after to hold up to a 100%
equity interest in programme providers not engaged in multi-genre programming or home
shopping. Quotas for domestic films on non-terrestrial channels were reduced from 25%
to 20% and from 35% to 30% for animation. The quotas for terrestrial networks remained
unchanged at 25% and 45%.The percentage of quarterly broadcasting hours allocated to im-
ported programs that can come from providers from a single country was increased to 80%.
Taken together, these provisions were widely seen within the industry as likely to signifi-
cantly increase the amount of US programming on Korean screens while placing domestic
broadcasters under additional pressure, making it difficult to sustain a national production
system that spoke to the full diversity of contemporary Korean life and opinions. Surveys of
broadcast professionals revealed increasing pessimism. Between 2005 and 2008 the percent-
age expecting KORUS to have more positive than negative impacts on the broadcast sector
dropped from 62% to 24% (Choi 2013:155–56).When asked, in the aftermath of the mad cow

116
 No exceptions

protests, if public service broadcasting was likely to come under increasing challenge in the
coming years, three quarters (74.6%) answered ‘yes’. The figure for older professionals, who
had experienced the cumulative impact of marketization, was even higher at 86.7% (Choi
2013:171).
The terms of the KORUS agreement also required significant changes to the intellectual
property regime to reinforce protections for digital content, including temporary copies held
on hard drives. These were introduced in a 2008 bill that required websites hosting illegal
content to be shut down, the suspension of users’ accounts found to be actively duplicating
or transmitting such material and the interception of the networks of online service provid-
ers involved in distributing illegal content. The side letter within the Agreement specified
only that “Korea will strengthen enforcement” with no provision for reciprocal guarantees
on the US side. Responsibility for overseeing compliance within Korea lay with the Korean
Communication Commission, established in 2008 to oversee both the telecommunication
and broadcasting industries. Critics complained that this potentially gave the government
the ability to monitor and control both users and Internet service providers.
In 2004, the year before KORUS talks began, the US dollar value of Korean film imports
from the US stood at 51.82 million. In contrast, film exports to the US only generated 2.36
million. This highly asymmetrical pattern of exchange was repeated for broadcast program-
ming, with US imports valued at 24.14 million as against only 1.4 million in Korean exports
to the US (Choi 2013:122). By 2010, Korean exports of terrestrial broadcast programs were
booming, but three-quarters (74.3%) of the returns were coming from three Asian markets
led by Japan (38.4%), followed by Taiwan (23.2%) and mainland China (12.7). The US ac-
counted for only 1.7%, the same percentage as in 2001. (Song 2012: Table 10: 13). In Decem-
ber 2011, a month after the implementation of KORUS, the Lee Myung-Back Government
licenced four new general service broadcasting companies opening more spaces for overseas
programs and putting additional pressure on local production.
The success of the genres and style associated with the Korean Wave in Asian markets has
generated economic returns that go well beyond program sales and the promotion of goods
featured in the shows to provide a major boost to the tourist industry as fans visit the loca-
tions featured in the most popular productions. At the same time, it has created a barrier to
effective entry into the US market where until the beginning of 2016 no attempts to produce
a remake of a successful Korean production had progressed past the pilot program stage.
At first sight, Korean film is thriving. The number of multiplex screens since 2000 has
tripled, from 720 to 2184, opening more potential exhibition windows for Korean films, and
by 2011 domestic productions were achieving a market share of 51.1% by box office receipts
with US imports taking 45.5% (Song 2012:6/9). This pattern has been sustained with Korean
films accounting for 52% of ticket sales in 2015, and six of the top ten box office hits, with
two releases, Veteran and Ode to My Father, becoming the second and third most successful
releases of all time (Kil 2016). As one observer noted approvingly “The Korean film industry
is flourishing because, unlike Europe, it has an industry with an increasing portion of big
commercial films” (Kim 2004:208). The fusion of Hallyu and Hollywood has produced an
economic complex widely dubbed ‘Planet Hallyuwood’ (Yecies 2008:39).
This industrial success, however, conceals the increasing closure of production around
established blockbuster formulas and the marginalisation of alternatives. As one industry
analyst noted, box-office records “have come at the cost of intense polarization with huge–
budget blockbusters dominating screen counts and leaving increasingly low budget indies to
pick up the scraps” (Lee 2016). In 2015, only 1.37% of the total titles released were shown
on 50 or more screens and on an average weekend three-quarters of available screens were

117
Graham Murdock and Eun-Kyoung Choi

showing the top three box office hits (Lee 2016). Access to those screens is largely controlled
by the vertically integrated entertainment conglomerates led by C J Entertainment, which
accounted for 40% of distribution in 2011, followed by Lotte with 18.9% and Showbox
with 13.3% (Shim 2011:221) This effective oligopoly exercises decisive control over which
films gain wide public circulation. In 2010, Han Sang-soo’s Oki’s Movie won the prestigious
critics’ award, Un Certain regard, at the Cannes Film Festival but was only shown on 20
screens in Korea (Shim 2011:215), pointing to restricted diversity and increasing closure of
production around established stars and already popular genres, led by thrillers. That same
year the thriller The Man from Nowhere sold 6.22 million tickets.
Recent years have also seen a significant increase in product placement in films and
television dramas as companies seek to promote their commodities as indispensable to the
desirable styles of life and self-presentation shown on screen. Activity has been particularly
intense in broadcasting since popular drama episodes are shown uninterrupted by spot ad-
vertising and a significant share of viewing is moving from scheduled transmission to on de-
mand. The main beneficiaries of these shifts are the leading chaebols who use placements to
cement positive associations around their familiar brands. One of the most successful Korean
soap operas of recent years, My Love from the Star, screened in 2013–14, offered prominent
windows to CJ’s mini snacks and Samsung’s smart phones. Industry insiders estimate that
Samsung is involved in around two-thirds of all domestically produced popular dramas and
aims for “a full package, meaning all visible consumer electronics like smartphones, comput-
ers, cameras, air conditioners, TVs and refrigerators are Samsung products, from beginning
to end,“ (quoted in The Japan Times 2014). This production economy has two major conse-
quences. Firstly, it favours narratives set in glamorous settings that generate a positive aura
around the products displayed and militates against depictions that engage with poverty and
deprivation. Secondly, it reinforces the individualised address to audiences as consumers to
the exclusion of identities built around social solidarities.
With more and more program making being allocated to independent producers, with
the attendant insecurities of employment, an ethos of individuality is also becoming more
prevalent among broadcast professionals eroding “their willingness to band together for bar-
gaining power to defend their rights” (Kim 2014b: 576) and reinforcing the control exercised
by the major corporate players.
In recent years the chaebols’ close relations to successive governments have been tainted
by repeated instances of bribery and corruption. Soon after leaving office, former President
Roh Moo-hyun (2003–2008) committed suicide when faced with allegations of accepting
$6 million in bribes. The brother of his successor, Lee Myung-bak (2008–2013) was sen-
tenced to two years in prison for accepting payments from business in return for exerting
political influence. The persistence of these collusive relations was dramatically confirmed
in May 2017 when former President Park Geun-hye was brought before a criminal court
charged with collaborating with her long term confidant , Choi Soon-sil, to pressure leading
corporate heads into paying massive sums in return for business favours. Those charged with
paying bribes included central figures in concerns with a significant presence in the cultural
industries. Lee Jae-yong, the acting head of Samsung, was alleged to have paid £20.5 million
in return for government help in facilitating the contested merger of two of the company’s
subsidiaries smoothing the way for him to assume control of the family business empire
from his father. Prosecutions were also brought against the chair of Lotte Group and Cha
Eun-taek, one of the best known K-pop video entrepreneurs who had worked with Psy. In
May 2017 Moon Jae-in, a former human rights lawyer, was elected President by a landslide
promising to end the collusion between government and big business.

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 No exceptions

Conclusion
Some observers have celebrated the resurgence of Korean cinema and the success of the
Korean Wave in television production as exemplary case studies in resistance to American
cultural domination. Against this, the argument presented here offers strong support for
Herbert Schiller’s conception of cultural imperialism as the sum of the processes through
which a society’s dominating strata are both pressured and attracted to reorganise its core
cultural institutions around the values of the dominant centre of power. We have traced
the way that relentless US pressure for open cultural markets has combined with shifts
in internal policy to construct a cultural system characterised by increasing corporate
concentration, geared to capitalizing on already established styles, saturated with product
promotion and reinforcing the centrality of consumer identities. The result is a system
unable to address the full range of social experiences and political debate in the core sites
of public culture.
In 1995 the top 10% of the population accounted for 29% of earned income. By 2016
that figure had risen to 45% making Korea the most unequal society of 20 nations surveyed
by the IMF (Kim 2016). The ‘structural adjustments’ demanded in 1997 laid the basis for
an economic recovery that has progressively widened gender and generational inequalities
and marginalised the poor. These lives and voices find it increasingly difficult to secure a
sustained hearing in a media system where the space not occupied by imported material is
increasingly commanded by a small number of vertically integrated domestic conglomerates.
President Obama may have learned to dance Gangnam style, but critical observers in
Korea are more inclined to note that Gangnam is the area of Seoul where a number of
chaebols have their headquarters and to see “the Korean Wave [as] the embodiment of the
West penetrating our bodies” (Hae-Joang 2005).

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 8
Intellectual property
as cultural policy
Siva Vaidhyanathan

Intellectual property is the most pervasive form of cultural policy. It affects almost every
good, service, and product distributed globally, nationally, and locally. The major areas of
intellectual property – copyright, patents, and trademarks – enable much of this commerce,
but they also tax producers and consumers of products, goods, and services. Because of their
pervasiveness, intellectual property rights have emerged as major tools of international trade
policy as well as cultural policy. Therefore, nations that have strong regimes of copyright
protection, patent filings, and trademark protection are at a distinct advantage in world trade
and the exercise of cultural, political, and economic power.
Many regimes of intellectual property rights are the result of colonial legacies. Others
have been imposed or generated under the duress or influence of global trade negotiations.
Many of the issues surrounding intellectual property rights globally reflect the contours of
power differences across the globe.
While pervasive and growing in scope and strength, intellectual property is a hidden
cultural policy regime. Many nations, including the United States of America, do not
acknowledge intellectual property as an element of cultural policy. In fact it’s difficult
to discuss something called cultural policy within the United States at all. Even though
many areas of policy affect how American culture operates, cultural policy is almost never
a subject of conversation in the American polis. Instead, the United States masks cultural
policy within trade, industrial, educational, tourism, and economic policy (Miller and
Yúdice 2002). As a result, intellectual property is rarely debated within the United States
in terms of its effects on culture. Instead, intellectual property is justified or criticized
based on its perceived effects on “innovation,” rather than on “creativity” (Vaidhyanathan
2005b).
There are several major differences among how different parts of the world handle intel-
lectual property. The United States considers intellectual property rights to be expressions
of purely market function, separate from any moral or cultural value claims. However, the
major traditions on the European continent consider the cultural needs of the nation-states
in their intellectual property policy choices (Ginsburg 1990; Goldstein 2001). Postcolonial
nations, such as Ghana, consider both the needs of cultural preservation and assertions of
pride along with the strong desire to protect some traditional forms of cultural expression

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 Intellectual property as cultural policy

from exploitation by powerful multinational corporations often based in Europe or North

America (Boateng 2011).
The dominant debates about intellectual property over the past 20 years have emanated
loudly from North America and Western Europe. These debates have been framed between
polls of extreme intellectual property protection and arguments for free, weaker, or even no
intellectual property rights. These conflicts have pitted claims of economic efficiency against
claims of intellectual freedom. However, much of the world does not consider these two
loopholes of debates to be particularly relevant to its conditions. The north-south cultural
policy debates since the 1990s have included considerations of the value of copyright, patent,
trademark, the public domain, and the possibility of generating a new form of intellectual
property to protect traditional cultural expression (Brown 2003).

How we got here

In the 19th century the United States was a pirate nation. American readers took advan-
tage of the fact that the United States did not respect copyrights issued by other countries
to purchase cheap versions of novels by Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens. Many of the
legendary American publishing houses such as Harper Brothers and Henry Holt started as
pirate firms. Even as late as the 1920s the early American film industry was a pirate oper-
ation (Vaidhyanathan 2001; Decherney 2012). Directors lifted plots and characters from
copyrighted plays and novels. The value of weak copyright laws was not lost on the pioneers
of the software industry much later, despite many changes in American political economy
by the late 20th century. On one side of the battle over controlling software were upstart
“hobbyists” and academics who believed that software should flow freely among users. On
the other were entrepreneurs like Bill Gates who hoped to build a fortune from using strong
intellectual property to create artificial scarcity for Microsoft products. And there was a
fervent debate in the early years of the software industry over whether software should be
protected by copyright, patent, both, or neither (Cohen and Lemley 2001). Every country,
and every industry, goes through periods of preferring weak or no intellectual property
because they are more interested in cheap goods and low-cost creativity. Then, as countries
grow wealthier and certain industries become powerful exporters of goods, they flip their
positions on intellectual property and fight for maximum protection. Now the United States
is the leading force behind global standardization and maximization of intellectual property
protection. Not coincidentally, the export of film, software, and the spread of brands like
Starbucks around the world followed a period of deindustrialization. If the United States
could not sell as many Chevrolets to the rest of the world, at least it could get people to sit
through Spider-Man movies.
By the late 20th century major economic powers such as Germany, Australia, Japan,
and the United States had shifted investment from heavy machinery to semiconductors,
software, and cinema. Thus the entire rhetorical (and regulatory) sphere of intellectual prop-
erty grew in importance. The “copyright industries,” for instance (film, music, software,
publishing) constitute the second-leading sector of U.S. exports after agriculture. That does
not even take into account patent licensing, pharmaceuticals, computer hardware such as
mobile phones, and other technology transfer transactions that are more often covered by
patent law. For this reason, the most powerful economies in the world have a strong interest
in embedding strong methods of control and enforcement over emerging economies. The
fight over the global standardization of intellectual property has become one of the most
important sites of tension and conflict in North-South global relations.

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Patents, trademarks, and copyrights

There are three major branches of “intellectual property”: patent, trademark, and copyright
law. In recent years, a fourth area, trade secret law, has grown in importance as a way
of rewarding commercial innovations outside the public licensing schemes that patent and
copyright law employ. In addition, most industries that deal in “intellectual property” con-
tractually constrain their participants such that contract law becomes de facto “intellectual
property” law. Lately, there have been some efforts to create new types of “intellectual
property” law to handle new practices and technologies such as architecture, semiconduc-
tor design, and database production. Each of these branches of what has become known as
“intellectual property law” has distinct forms and functions, but many people blend their
terms and purposes when discussing “intellectual property.”
Copyright encourages the dissemination of creative and informative work. Patent law
encourages invention by granting a temporary monopoly to an inventor of a tangible, use-
ful, and “nonobvious” device or process. Patents cover inventions and processes, not words,
texts, or phrases. Trademark law lets a company protect and enjoy its “goodwill” in the
marketplace. A trademark is some specific signifier – such as a logo, design, colour scheme,
smell, sound, or container shape – that points to the product’s origin. Beyond these, there are
other, less-often-invoked modes of intellectual property such as the right to publicity. That
right governs how celebrities may control their names, images, and likenesses. Of these areas
of law, copyrights and patents are most frequently conflated in public discourse.
Copyrights and patents share a foundational idea. They are both intended to establish
incentives to create and bring to market otherwise expensive things. Both systems allow the
state to create temporary, limited monopolies over expressions (under copyright) or ideas
and plans (under patent). Both systems grew out of British statute and common law and
spread throughout the British Empire. Yet in both structure and practice these two areas of
law are very different. There is one major area of creativity and commerce in which discreet
creations are covered by both patent and copyright law: computer software. This double-­
coverage has been controversial since the dawn of the commercial software industry in the
1970s, and it remains an area of hot debate.
Of these three major branches of intellectual property law, copyright has the most expansive
and obvious effect on culture, and thus it is the major site of the exercise of cultural policy.
But it is a peculiar type of cultural policy. It is generally directed to favour certain modes of
creation and distribution over others, rather than favouring one type of content over another.
Copyright is designed to be what speech lawyers would call “content neutral.” It protects a
song written by Madonna as well as it protects a song written by Jay-Z. However, copyright
operates in such a way that it promotes the system of commerce that favours Jay-Z over that
of artists who work collaboratively and collectively within local communities and traditions
across the globe. So copyright is far from neutral. It favours works and their creators if they
are produced through established channels and companies. It generally favours works created
by companies that have deep roots and thus political influence over the nature of copyright in
Europe and North America. And it offers little to habits of cultural creativity that work in ways
beyond the linear modes of distribution that have grown so dominant over the past century.

Trademarks, location designations, and wine and cheese

Other forms of intellectual property have significant influences on culture and thus should
be considered within the realm of cultural policy. Trademarks grant a strong privilege to

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the products originating with a specific firm. Often, as in the case of Coca-Cola, Starbucks,
or McDonalds, the firms and its products play a role in more than consumption. They can
play a role in signalling meaning on a streetscape, at an airport, or through the generation of
quasi-public standardized spaces in which an aura of cosmopolitanism flows.
Perhaps more significantly, many nation-states protect geographic designations for the
foods and beverages they produce, granting more than exclusivity to a region’s cheese or
wine. Geographic designations can carry cultural meaning as well as simple information
about origin. Champagne is not just a sparkling wine from Champagne, after all (Hughes
2006). A designation of place can also invoke assumptions of “terroir,” the notion that a food
or wine carries with it the essences of the soil from which it comes (Trubek 2008).
There is no dominant firm in Parma, Italy, that makes and sells Parmigiano cheese. There
is no major international corporation based in Champagne, France, that has pushed that re-
gion’s carbonated wines and that term into bars and restaurants around the world. Yet cheese
makers in Parma and winemakers in Champagne collectively have rights that they exercise
over the use of “Parmigiano” and “Champagne” in their respective markets. These are not
trademarks. They are not tied to a particular brand or company. They represent the work of
a region. Since the early 20th century France has protected regions from which cheese, wine,
truffles, and other foods originate through a system called appellation d’origine contrôlée (AOC).
With the establishment of the European Union in the 1990s all of Europe now issues strong
protections to regional sources of both agricultural and processed products like beer. The re-
lationship between geographic indicators and trademarks is weak, although the justification
is similar. Consumers should not be fooled into purchasing cheese from Wisconsin that looks
like it comes from Switzerland, especially if they are paying a premium for a luxury good.
And just as – if not more – importantly, the farmers, cheese makers, and wine producers
around the world who produce their goods with traditional methods should be protected
from the economies of scale and political power of large multinational food conglomerates
like Kraft or Anheuser-Busch InBev.
In India geographic indicators have risen to protect growers of products such as Basmati
rice (as opposed to Texmati brand rice from Texas) or the leaves of the neem tree, which is
alleged to have many healing properties. So geographic indictor protection serves both as
trade protection (and thus works against the general trend toward greater global integration
of markets) and as cultural policy, preserving something of the traditions of local craft and
foodways (Wolfgang 1995; Shiva 2001).
Of course, like trademarks, geographic indicators can “go generic.” So while “Parmigiano”
enjoys protection, “parmesan” long ago became associated with the stale, flavourless flakes
of cheese product that Kraft encases in plastic tubes. Thus “parmesan” is generic and cheese
makers in Parma have no control over its distribution. And if a trademark application comes
too close to resembling a registered geographic indicator in Europe then the registration will
be denied.
In the United States, which does not have a strong tradition of sui generis protection of
geographic origins, traditional trademarks often work on behalf of onions from Vidalia,
Georgia, or oranges from Florida. As a party to the Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual
Property Rights (TRIPs) treaty, the United States is obligated to protect other countries’
geographic indicators if another product causes confusion in the marketplace and falsely
represents its origin. But the United States itself has a much lighter tradition of enforcing
geographic indications, largely because it does not have a tradition of respecting “terroir” or
the “sense of place” that many who produce wine and cheese assert exists in a discernible form
when a product comes from a place with distinctive soil or, in the case of cheese, bacteria.

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Traditional culture and the public domain

The opposite of copyright is the public domain. Expressions that are not protected by
copyright law are available for anybody who wants to create a new expressive work to take
and use. The material in the public domain is vast. It includes all facts, ancient myths, data,
books published before the 20th century, works that were never protected by copyright at all,
most fashion designs, and expressions that have never been fixed in a medium. The public do-
main is a “commons,” is owned by no one. Therefore, it is owned by everyone (Hyde 1983).
The idea of the commons is as romantic as authorship (Sunder 2012). It conjures ideas of
vast parks, of clean air, and of the collective resource that can be used by all for the benefit
of all. Of course many economists have warned against the “tragedy of the commons.” A
commons can become “tragic” if its finite resources are abused in the interest of each indi-
vidual user of the commons. An uncoordinated group of users would tax the resource to its
limit (Hardin 1968), but commons of facts, ideas, and expressions are not susceptible to such
tragic ends. The subject matter of intellectual property, after all, is non-rivalrous. If someone
takes and uses part of the commons, no one else is left with less. All substance within an
intellectual or cultural commons is easily reused because it can never be exhausted (Lessig
2004). Rock and roll artists used elements of Delta blues music from its public domain; Walt
Disney made his fortune and his company dominant by exploiting and revising public do-
main works such as Cinderella and Snow White. Without a rich and plentiful public domain,
new creators would have high transaction costs and other barriers to entry if they wished to
converse using the elements of a common culture. When the public domain fails to grow
as copyrights fail to expire – as has been happening as legislators around the world have ex-
tended copyright terms – historians, poets, journalists, and songwriters find it harder to refer
to stories and images that make up collective memory (Vaidhyanathan 2001).
But there is a problem with the public domain. Those who create and wish to market
goods that reflect created traditions that are older than the 20th century tend to find no help
in the standard and established modes of intellectual property protection. Their work, no
matter how creative or labour-intensive or important to their cultural identity, is considered
part of the grand global cultural commons. As several scholars of indigenous or traditional
cultural production have argued in recent years, the cultural production of local communi-
ties is “delegitimized as knowledge through the hegemony of Western systems of knowledge
production” (Boateng 2011, 14).
Intellectual property does not treat all cultural expression equally. In her exploration
of the politics of regulation of traditional weaving techniques in Ghana, Boeteng argues
that in a global political economy in which Ghana trades with India, China, the rest of
Africa, Europe, and North America, protecting the interests of traditional weavers is more
complex than merely defending their arts against corporate poachers from the “developed”
world. The weavers of Adinkra and Kente cloth face competition from weavers who wish
to mimic their patterns working in Korea, China, India, and other parts of the world that
host members of the Ghanaian diaspora. So the examination of the policies and politics
of traditional weaving in Ghana is not just a case study of a poor fit between a traditional
African mode of cultural production and a system of intellectual property that was imposed
by a colonial master and enforced by global trade agreements. Boeteng explores the place
of nation-states like Ghana within a dynamic and fluid order of global trade and regulation.
“To the extent that the copyright saying doesn’t work in Ghana, it is because intellectual
property law is part of the normative modernization framework that leaves very little space
for alternative modes of social, economic, political, and legal organization,” she writes (166).

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To accept that only the “new” shall be protected by intellectual property accepts the
modernist view that new is better than old. To mark Kente and Adinkra cloth as “tradi-
tional” is hegemonic. It must reside permanently in the past and must be inferior to the
“innovations” of the present and future. Importantly, the government of Ghana deftly mar-
kets the past. It distinguishes its “traditional” cloth as “authentic.” It is hand-woven and
not mass-produced. Global market logic demands that Ghana invest value in protecting its
weavers’ work as “traditional” because that is what differentiates it from the hundreds of
other similar expressive goods flowing across trade channels. Boeteng concludes that efforts
to create new forms of intellectual property law to protect “traditional knowledge” would
only reaffirm the permanent inferiority of creative works that have older origins and deeper
modes of production. These works would be stuck just outside of modernity in an effort to
fully exploit the modern market.

The free culture movement vs. the traditional

cultural expression movement
Since 2002 a loose but growing set of law professors, librarians, artists, hackers, and free
speech activists have been pushing back against what they consider overly strong copyright
protections. Lawrence Lessig, among others, has dubbed this phenomenon the “Free Culture
movement” (2004). This movement has been successful at exposing efforts of the copyright
industries to insert stronger protections into international trade treaties and has launched
political campaigns to raise awareness and concern about intellectual property around the
world. This movement has found a strong following in northern Europe and Brazil, and it is
growing in India and Latin America (Vaidhyanathan 2005c).
The Free Culture movement exposes the frustrations and limitations of efforts to generate
a global public sphere that can wrestle with any issue of global importance: cultural, trade,
health, or environmental questions. First, it’s not always clear what the global public sphere
is. The local (or national) public sphere in Habermas’ model mediates between the private
and the state. There is rarely a clear state-like supranational body that has effective sover-
eignty over any particular global issue. Sometimes it seems to be the World Trade Organiza-
tion, but that might just be a mask for the interests of a particular nation-state. Other times it
seems to be UNESCO or the World Intellectual Property Organization. But such organiza-
tions might just be acting as an instrument of policy execution at the behest of a nation-state
that demands the illusion of multilateral cover for its will. Second, public spheres imply
(perhaps require) real spaces for deliberation and debate. The Free Culture movement has
proliferated not merely through the use of e-mail lists and web sites. It has generated energy
and strategy through a long series of face-to-face meetings sponsored by foundations, uni-
versities, and small groups of activists. These meetings might have been organized through
digital information communication technologies, but free culture activists still feel the need
to meet face-to-face to forge consensus and agendas for action. This privileges activists in
wealthier places in the world or those privileged by institutional affiliation. Frequent fliers
become agenda-setters.
The very marginality of the Traditional Cultural Expression movement – its reason for
being – renders it peripheral to global discussions of cultural policy. Only when represented
by a friendly and supportive nation-state such as Canada or Australia do Traditional Cultural
Expression movement members find their claims considered by policy-making officials, but
this is state-driven action.

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The role of the state in the potential protection of traditional cultural expression presents
many problems. How shall the state determine who is and is not a member of a group trying
to protect such expressions? What if the group is in opposition to the state? What if the group
is split among factions? Who will determine the terms of licensing for songs, styles, and
designs? The potential for censorship is daunting. So efforts toward a sui generis traditional
cultural expression regime have been halting and have faced strong criticism (Brown 2003).

Global electronic cultural policy

There is a global battle raging over the terms of access, use, re-use, combination, re-­
combination, execution, and distribution of cultural materials. It is not necessarily aligned
along a north-south axis; it is more often a struggle between individuals and communities
reaching out and puncturing the fragile, permeable membranes of state-set cultural limits.
While inexpensive digital technology has exponentially expanded the power of individuals
to master their own media spaces and manipulate texts and images in ways that seem to
signal an age of “semiotic democracy” (Coombe 1998) centralized corporate power strug-
gles to lock down the flows of re-used commercial cultural production through otherwise
potentially liberating and empowering technological systems. The battle between forces of
cultural anarchy and cultural oligarchy continues to rage more than 20 years after it was de-
clared in the late 20th century at the height of the romance of globalization and the seeming
dominance of what was once known as the “Washington Consensus.”
The nexus of such “re-imagineering” is electronic cultural policy. It is a particular flavour
of cultural policy that guides the architecture of interfaces, networks, standards, protocols,
and formats that house and deliver cultural products. Cultural policy is itself an understudied
factor in global cultural change (and stasis). Only recently have scholars taken seriously the
systematic interactions between states and cultural practices, between the bureaucratic and
the creative. Although it is common in the United States to assume that culture is in general
subject to minimal state influence (with the obvious counterexamples of lightly funded yet
oddly controversial national endowments), much of the mechanics and economics of culture
are subject to heavy levels of governance from the state. Trade policies, defence policies, and
educational policies all have cultural elements and depend on complementary cultural poli-
cies to generate consensuses and mobilize support.
“Cultural imperialism” has become a cliché. The academic “cultural imperialism thesis,”
dominant among leftist critics in the 1970s and 1980s, is in severe need of revision (Schiller
1976). While those who complain about cultural imperialism cite the ubiquity of KFC in
Cairo and McDonalds in Manila, anxious cultural protectionists in the United States quiver
at the sound of Spanish spoken in public or Mosques opening in Ohio. Some American
nationalists argue that cultural imperialism would be good for the world, as we Americans
have so much figured out (Rothkopf 1997). Others dodge its complications by celebrat-
ing “Creolization” at all costs, while ignoring real and serious imbalances in the political
economy of culture. While the evidence for cultural imperialism is only powerful when
selectively examined, the evidence for infrastructural imperialism is much stronger. There
are imbalances of power in global flows of culture, but they are not what traditional cultural
imperialism theorists claim.
Instead, it seems that if there is a dominant form of “cultural imperialism,” it concerns
the pipelines, not the products – the formats of distribution and the terms of access and
use. It is not exactly “content neutral,” but it is less necessarily “content specific” than cul-
tural imperialism theorists assume. The texts, signs, and messages that flow through global

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communications networks do not carry a clear and unambiguous celebration of ideas and
ideologies we might lazily label “Western” – consumerism, individualism, and secularism.
These commercial pipelines may carry texts that overtly hope to threaten the tenets of global
capitalism. What flows from North to South does not matter as much as how it flows, how
much revenue the flows generate, and who may re-use the elements of such flows.
By the end of the 20th century, major cultural industries in the United States decided that
copyright was obsolete and insufficient to protect their interests and expand their markets.
Copyright, as it had emerged in much of the world, granted strong public interest safeguards
such as “fair use” or “fair dealing,” non-protection of facts and ideas, and eventual expiration
and entry into the public domain (Vaidhyanathan 2003). Frustrated with the longevity and
strength of these democratic safeguards, the leaders of copyright-producing industries started
a steady movement to shift the site of regulation from civil courts to machines themselves.
Understanding that multilateral policy-making bodies had the power to impose policies
on sovereign states without deliberation or compromise within them, industry leaders and
representatives from the United States Patent and Trademark Office and Department of
Commerce employed forums like the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO),
the World Trade Organization (WTO), and regional organs such as the European Union
(EU) and the Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA) to gain leverage and avoid public
interest non-governmental organizations (Sell 2003). They sought to standardize intellectual
property across the globe as more nations joined the ranks of the industrialized and con-
sumptive. American and European companies seeking new markets did not want to see their
products copied in countries with weak or no intellectual property protections. So the de-
veloped world pushed for the establishment of the World Intellectual Property Organization
(WIPO) and the Trade Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) accord.
WIPO members generate treaties and agreements about global intellectual property stan-
dards. Signatories of the TRIPS accord may, through the World Trade Organization, enforce
mechanisms or seek retribution for a violation of intellectual property standards.
In the 1980s the United States tried to use WIPO, under the auspices of the United
Nations, to negotiate the first round of global electronic cultural policy treaties. After en-
countering resistance, and realizing that such a forum allows developing nations the ability to
form blocs and act in concert to protect their interests, the United States moved its intellec-
tual property efforts into the mainstream trade negotiations through the General Agreement
on Tariffs and Trade (GATT). As GATT morphed into a permanent resolution body, the
World Trade Organization (WTO) in the 1990s, the United States used it to force nations
that sought favourable trade in other areas to sign the Agreement on Trade Related Aspects
of Intellectual Property (TRIPs), a set of global minimal standards for copyright, patent,
trade secret, trademark, semiconductor, and geographic marker regulations (Sell 2003).
By 2001 the United States found that its leverage at the WTO was weakening, most
significantly because of failures to standardize intellectual property regimes. In this case,
however, it was the patent instead of the copyright system that stifled the global reach of
American policy. Such globalization and standardization efforts have generated much con-
sternation among developing nations, where farmers do not always appreciate being told
they must respect limits on the use and replantation of patented seeds and plants, and gesta-
tional publishing and media companies must play by rules written by their more powerful
and established global competitors. Yet northern concerns that developing nations serve as
havens for software and video pirates (and huge potential markets for everything) has kept
the pressure on their governments to adopt and enforce laws that resemble those of the
United States and Western Europe.

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As a result of the 1997 WIPO Treaty, many countries, including the United States, have
passed laws forbidding the distribution of any technologies – even simple mathematical
algorithms – that might evade or crack access or copy control mechanisms that surround
digital materials. Such digital rights management technologies protect not only copyrighted
material but also material that is already in the public domain and facts and data not covered
by copyright law. Digital “lockdown” grants far greater control over works than traditional
copyright law ever did. Through such laws as the U.S. Digital Millennium Copyright Act
(DMCA), information regulation is leaving the realm of human judgement and entering a
technocratic regime (Gillespie 2007).
Where once users could assume wide latitude in their private, non-commercial use, now
a layer of code stands in the way of access to the work itself, preventing a variety of harmless
uses. Because the DMCA allows content providers to regulate access, they can set all the
terms of use. The de facto duration of protection under the DMCA is infinite. While copy-
right law in 2001 protects any work created today for the life of the author plus 70 years, 95
years in the case of corporate “works for hire,” electronic gates do not expire. This allows
producers to “recapture” works in the public domain. This also violates the constitutional
mandate that Congress copyright laws that protect “for limited times.” The DMCA works
over and above real copyright law (Lessig 2004).
Most dangerously, such measures enable producers to exercise editorial control over the
uses of their materials. They can extract contractual promises that the use will not parody or
criticize the work in exchange for access – many web sites already do this. Despite its fail-
ures to protect music and video, some have found a use for the DMCA. It’s more important
than ever in garages, offices, and living rooms. Increasingly hardware industries (industries
outside what we generally consider “software” or copyright industries like film, music, text,
and computer code) are using the DMCA to lock in monopoly control over secondary goods.
These are goods that have nothing to do with copyright, nothing to do with creativity,
knowledge, or art. Because it is possible to put a computer chip into almost anything, com-
panies are. If a company puts software on a chip that sits on a removable part of a machine
and puts some other software on a complementary chip in the larger device, the DMCA pre-
vents another company from developing a replacement for that part (Vaidhyanathan 2004).

Resistance
Since 2000 awareness of the cultural implications of intellectual property has risen. But both
the tangle of laws and the modes of resistance remain incoherent, contradictory, and too com-
plex for standard political action. Nonetheless, there is hope that movements and states across
the globe will confront the fact that intellectual property regimes have profound effects on
how humans make meaning, make connections, and make societies function. A world-wide
“Access to Knowledge” movement has grown. It is a loose confederation of local-knowledge
and indigenous-rights activists, hackers, librarians, legal scholars, and global public health
experts. The movement at various times advocates for sui generis rights for local culture pro-
tection from the torrent of global corporate culture industries, against state censorship, for
technological access for underprivileged communities, and global policies that aim to allow
for maximal expression and creativity from below. Perhaps most importantly, the movement
strives to keep pharmaceutical prices low and access high. Overall, the movement strives to
preserve and extend dignity to peoples who do not have the advantages of capital or state
power working on their behalf. Toward these ends, the Access to Knowledge movement has

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made clear that cultural policy choices have profound implications for the future of many
peoples and communities across the planet. (Sunder 2007, Kapczynski 2010)

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www.jstor.org/stable/2889089.

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 9
Cultural policy between and
beyond nation-states
The case of lusofonia and the
Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa

Carla Figueira

Introduction
This chapter analyses a particular case of cultural policy-making beyond and between nation-­
states, that of lusofonia, a postcolonial politico-linguistic bloc of Portuguese-­language coun-
tries and peoples, in one of its institutional forms, the Community of Portuguese Language
Countries (in Portuguese, Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa, CPLP). The purpose is
to demonstrate how cultural policy can be conceptualised and practised outside of the usual
framework of a single state and developed multilaterally to potentially impact different national
public spheres, by connecting cultural policy and cultural diplomacy. The countries that are
part of lusofonia –Portugal, Brazil, five African countries (Angola, Cape Verde, Guinea Bissau,
Mozambique, and São Tomé and Príncipe) and Timor-Leste (all former colonies of Portugal) –
institutionalised their relationship in 1996 through the Community of Portuguese Language
Countries and have as recently as 2014 welcomed into this organisation Equatorial Guinea.
Lusofonia, similar to other linguistic-cultural-political realities, can be seen as a new site for
the development of cultural policies for collective identity building by an association of states,
which in a traditional cultural diplomacy reading also allows for a particular representation of
their unity in the international society. The sharing of language and culture between countries
has been an important factor in the creation of political organisations geared towards their de-
fence and promotion, such as la francophonie or the Arab League. A situation easily understood as
“(t)hose who speak the same language not only can make themselves understood to each other;
the capacity of being able to make oneself understood also founds a feeling of belonging and
belonging together” (Weiβ and Schwietring 2006, p. 3). However, language is only one of the
aggregate elements of culture, and we must look, among other factors, at the importance of the
political engineering of culture through public policies to understand the building of collec-
tive identities, as well as other increasingly important instrumental uses of culture particularly
appreciated in our neo-liberal world, such as the development of the cultural and creative in-
dustries. This analysis shows the Community of Portuguese Language Countries as developing
within lusofonia a (tentative) multilateral cultural policy, which can impact in the ways of imag-
ining, narrating and enacting belonging to that particular transnational social/cultural space.

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The chapter includes a background discussion on the links between cultural policy and
cultural relations/diplomacy, which attempts to establish a framework for the understanding
of the internal/external boundaries of cultural policy as public policy and its connection
with foreign policy. The bulk of the chapter critically analyses why and how cultural policies
are developed between and beyond the nation-states engaged in building lusofonia, looking
specifically at the implicit and explicit cultural policies and activity of its most important
governmental institution, the Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa (hereafter CPLP).
The setting up of CPLP in 1996 marked the constitution of this ‘geocultural’ area or space
as a political actor in international relations, becoming thus a sphere of responsibility, inter-
action and coexistence (Tardif 2004). The other major political organisation of lusofonia is
the International Institute of Portuguese Language (Instituto Internacional da Língua Portuguesa,
IILP), which will not be a focus for this chapter. The research for this chapter is based on
the critical analysis of documentary sources and interviews, within a theoretical framework
combining elements from cultural policy and international relations.

Cultural policy beyond and between nation-states

Most often the research and study of cultural policy focuses on the arts and related public
policy processes and practices within the domestic realm of the state: national/internal cul-
tural policy. However, international cultural policy is a growing field encompassing global
issues such as the trade and regulation of cultural products and labour, involving a multiplic-
ity of actors at international, supranational, subnational levels (e.g. UNESCO, EU, regions
and cities), and venturing into cultural diplomacy and exchange, as for example recently
sketched in Bell and Oakley (2015). It is this last aspect, the links between cultural policy,
cultural diplomacy and foreign policy, that I would like to further analyse to establish a clear
theoretical basis for the analysis of transnational cultural policies within CPLP.
Despite the lack of an uncontested definition, cultural diplomacy is often understood as
the use of culture by governments to achieve their foreign policy goals and a prime activity
for achieving ‘soft power’ (Nye 2004) as a relational outcome. This thinking clearly positions
cultural diplomacy in the discipline of international relations, highlighting the main role of
state actors, and resting on the assumption that “art, language, and education are among the
most significant entry points into a culture” (Goff 2013, pp. 419–420), which links it directly
to cultural policy. Here the author must reiterate her positioning: like others, she does not
conceive of cultural diplomacy in the absence of state involvement (ibid. explores well the
nuances of the debate surrounding what can be cultural diplomacy), preferring to use for
those situations the label cultural relations (Mitchell 1986, Arndt 2005).
The analysis of cultural policies and practices beyond the national framework is a necessary
consequence of cultural globalisation. This broader space of analysis, to include the global,
international, transnational, regional and local, allows for a more complex understanding of
cultural policy and practice. As DeVereaux and Griffin (2006, p. 3) highlight:

What is clear, then, is that the flow of culture into, out of, and even within countries
has a lot to do with how we understand these terms. Because global, international,
transnational, and the underlying framework of “nation” itself define the territory on
which cultural activity can take place, the very meaning of “culture” and the identities
we construct both individually and collectively depend acutely on the territory-and the
possibilities – these terms delimit and define.

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It is no longer possible to frame a national cultural policy within methodological national-

ism, the pervasive assumption that the nation-state is the natural unit of analysis in moder-
nity (according to the 1974 original concept of Herminio Martins and A. D. Smith’s 1979
interpretation in Chernillo 2006). However, as noted by MacNeill and Reynolds (2013,
p. 19), “when a government is framing a ‘national’ cultural policy, the impact of this explicit
framing is that the opportunity to think transnationally is mediated, and … constrained by
the imperative to think nationally”. To overcome this implicit boundary and think trans-
nationally beyond the nation-state and transcend nationalism is a difficult task. This is an
opportunity and a challenge for lusofonia as it develops a layer of identity uniting peoples of
different countries, potentially set in transnationalism, here viewed ideally as emphasising
the value of increased openness or fluidity of barriers to facilitate cultural exchanges within
the cultural community (DeVeraux and Griffin 2006, p. 5).
The concept of transnational cultural policy connects with cultural relations/diplomacy
and foreign policy. For example, Ahearne (2009) understands that, although under different
denominations, both cultural policy and cultural/public diplomacy – which we can define
as the use of culture in the relations between governments and foreign publics – deal with
the same reality. Thus in his view cultural/public diplomacy can qualify as implicit cultural
policy – i.e. government policy not labelled as such. Other cultural policy authors acknowl-
edge this same connection but add caveats. Bell and Oakley (2015, p. 162) link cultural
diplomacy (which they choose to frame in the discourse of exchange and understanding) and
cultural policy more cautiously: “The degree to which it [cultural diplomacy] is a cultural
policy per se – a chance to develop artistic reputations, ideas and new markets – or an element
of foreign policy is disputed …; the answer is probably both”. However, in his book Interna-
tional Cultural Relations, Mitchell (1986, p. 9) clearly brings together the different elements of
the cultural policy and cultural diplomacy puzzle:

The motive force behind international cultural relations work, whether of the responsible
ministry or of non-governmental organisations, is expressed in external cultural policy. …
Clearly, external cultural policy cannot be practised in abstraction: its validity will
depend on the vitality of the domestic scene, on internal cultural policy. The two should
ideally interlock.
(emphasis added)

He (ibid., p. 82 and 84) notes that the connections between external and internal cultural pol-
icy are often obscured by the traditional division of powers between foreign ministries over-
seeing the former and ministries with domestic remit (often ministries of culture) overseeing
the latter, which also works in detriment of collaboration. The integration between the two
areas is also affected by the fact that external cultural policy is often seen as an intrinsic aspect
of foreign policy, which results in the reinforcement of one-way, outward concepts con-
nected with national self-projection (ibid., p. 67/8 and 120). However, Mitchell (ibid., p. 120)
notes the development of the principle of mutual benefit in bilateral relations and questions:
“If the principle of mutual benefit were to be fully developed, might it not be considered
more appropriate to broaden the scope of mutuality more extensively into the multilateral
dimension?” Interestingly, Ang, Isar and Mar (2015) try to reconcile the tension between
national interest and common interest in cultural diplomacy concluding that going beyond
the national interest, by developing processes of dialogue and collaboration (i.e. focusing on
cultural relations), “is in the national interest” (ibid., p. 378). This is the case of CPLP.

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Globalisation has created new spaces for policy formation where different levels of agency
coexist – multilateral spaces in which nation-states cooperate according to mutually benefi-
cial principles are one of those levels. CPLP embodies such a particular instance of agency:
it is an international actor participating in complex policy networks, which can be defined
as “clusters of policy actors, agencies, institutions and organisations whose work is aimed
at generating and implementing policies via transnational agreements, policy advisory,
philanthropy and conditionality” (Ozga 2005 in Fimyar 2010, p. 12).
In the next section, the author argues that CPLP, as an international actor and space, is a
potential agent and site for the development of mutually beneficial cultural policy at transna-
tional level – often articulated in CPLP’s official discourse as cultural cooperation, although
explicit mentions to a common cultural policy have also been identified. The chapter is
developed on the assumption that cultural policy-making is “a dynamic process in which
the nation state exerts power and deploys resources in conjunction with regional, local and
even institutional agencies” in the area of culture (the wording is borrowed from Bell and
Stevenson’s 2006, p. 4, clear definition of educational policy). In the case of CPLP, albeit
with different degrees of investment and involvement, different countries pool resources to
consensually implement agreed-upon projects to reach common and mutually beneficial
aims and objectives pertaining to culture and the arts.

CPLP as a an agent and site for lusofonia’s

multilateral cultural policy
The discourse of lusofonia and its political incarnation, the CPLP, can be seen as an embodi-
ment of a complex web of experienced and fabricated feelings and intellectual constructions
of belonging, where the imagination is key – both in Appadurai’s (1996, p. 48) sense of an
organised field of social practice contributing to the interactive construction of the eth-
noscapes of group identity and Anderson’s (1991) conception of building narratives of the
‘national’ community.
Lusofonia, a compound word combining the Latin term luso, the inhabitant of Lusitânia,
an area roughly corresponding to modern Portugal, and fonia from the Ancient Greek mean-
ing voice (in English Lusophone) permanently refers this postcolonial notion to the former
colonial master’s language. This stress on Portuguese language as a symbol of a ‘community’
of countries and peoples is often the target of critique. Mainly because not all the inhabitants
of the countries that are part of lusofonia/CPLP speak the Portuguese language and those
who do speak it have different levels of fluency – although the countries will have Portu-
guese language as their implicit or explicit official language. Also problematic is presenting
lusofonia as a cultural community, which may often be no more than wishful thinking (as the
author explored elsewhere, Figueira 2013). Language builds particular solidarities (Anderson
1991) that, along with other elements – in the case of lusofonia, a shared colonial past that has
fostered people and cultural exchanges as well as fed similarities in administrative structures
and other connections/dependencies too complex to examine here-can be politically used
to foster alliances, from which the different members can extract political, social, economic
and cultural benefits (Figueira 2013).
The creation of the CPLP in 1996 was a major step in the institutionalisation of lusofo-
nia. However, the organisation, more than representing an actual community, has been a
political and ideological strategic plan that has been rather slow in being implemented by its
member states. At the time of writing, February 2016, CPLP prepares to celebrate in July
its 20th anniversary and has been perceived for most of its life as not very active, focused

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more on institutional matters than promoting a closeness with and among its peoples. A
lack of resources (financial and human) and divergences regarding objectives (and their im-
plementation) between its member states are at the source of CPLP’s problems (for detailed
examination and a range of views on lusofonia and the CPLP see for example Lourenço 1999,
Chacon 2002, Santos 2003, Cristóvão 2008, Pinto 2009, Maciel 2015).
Culture has not been a priority for CPLP, although culture and language are posited as
the community’s building blocks, and the organisation has worked more as a political and
diplomatic forum. The dissemination and promotion of Portuguese language undertaken by
CPLP has not been matched by a similar level of activities in the broad area of culture, or
specifically the arts. However, from being not much more than a talking shop for politically
correct discourse around political, economic, social and cultural cooperation, the still young
organisation (and less financially endowed than for example the International Organisation
of La Francophonie created in 1970 and the modern Commonwealth of Nations created in
1949) has recently shown signs of having a strategic vision for culture – as examined later –
that may be the key for it to represent an actual site for cultural affiliation respectfully and
actively fostering the diversity of expressions of its peoples.
It should be noted that many of the countries that are part of lusofonia possess affiliations
with other international politico linguistic blocs, such as the ones named above, which de-
notes a practical approach from the countries to using these as opportunities to make their
voices heard and participate more actively in international society. Lusofonia as a collective
identity cannot (should not) obscure the individual and group multiple identities, which
result in multiple diverse arrangements (Figueira 2013). CPLP countries also demonstrate
different levels of engagement with the organisation. This is a situation far too complex to
examine here, so I will simply highlight two of the challenges in this area and make a brief
critical comment to the policy context. Firstly, the member states have different levels of
development and different financial capacity to contribute to the organisation, which, to
an extent, is a limitation to the possibility of taking part and shaping the direction of the
organisation – even if decisions are consensual (Art. 23 of the CPLP Statutes) and there are
common funds for projects. Secondly, the political priority countries place on their active
participation in the organisation may be influenced by regional affiliations and commitments
that take precedence over those of the territorially discontinued lusofonia (e.g. Mozambique
with the Southern African Development Community). Finally, in terms of context for the
development of a multilateral cultural policy, Brazil and Portugal are the two countries
with greater interest and capacity to act in this area. Brazil has an interest in the export of
its cultural products, and Portugal can use language as a symbolic and ‘harmless’ contin-
uation of empire. It is, thus, not surprising, for example, to find that Portugal’s external
cultural strategy aligns so well with that of the CPLP: some of the measures indicated in
the Portuguese Government programme for 2015–2019 (Governo de Portugal 2015, p. 254)
mirror perfectly some of the CPLP’s projects in the area of culture (which I examine later),
and it is telling that CPLP’s headquarters are in Lisbon.
CPLP operates in a complex context, and the development of policy and practice in
the area of culture presents significant challenges but also important opportunities. Co-
operation in the domain of culture is one of the objectives of CPLP. In the 1996 CPLP
Constitutional Declaration (CPLP 1996), the Heads of State and Government stated as one
of the objectives of the organisation the fostering of cultural exchange within a framework
of international cooperation; this is also being explicitly mentioned under article 4 of the
CPLP Statutes. The general CPLP cooperation agreement1 of 1999 encapsulates the wish
of the member states to develop a mutually advantageous cooperation anchored in shared

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linguistic, cultural, political and historic communalities. However, if the different member
states have significant different development levels and if some countries, as suggested above,
have particular vested interests, would this mean that a mutually advantageous cultural co-
operation/policy within CPLP is by definition not possible? I propose to view the activities
developed within CPLP as a kind of asymmetrical cooperation (assuming a certain hege-
monic leadership by Portugal, as previously mentioned), thus linking cooperation to (a cer-
tain degree of ) hegemony – under the assumption that they are not antithetical as suggested
by Keohane (1984, p. 49). He defines cooperation by the requirement that “the actions of
separate individuals or organizations-which are not in pre-existent harmony – be brought
into conformity with one another through a process of negotiation, which is often referred
to as ‘policy coordination’” (Keohane 1984, p. 51). So, I would say that CPLP can be viewed
as a setting for processes of policy coordination, in the case we are interested in, resulting in
a multilateral cultural policy.
This analysis of CPLP as a potential site for cultural policy starts by looking at texts
contained in three documents that marked important anniversaries of the organisation: the
first celebrating the 10th anniversary of the organisation entitled Pensar, comunicar, actuar em
língua portuguesa/Thinking, communicating and acting in Portuguese (CPLP 2006); a second pub-
lished on the occasion of the 12th anniversary entitled Construindo a Comunidade/Building the
Community (CPLP 2008) and a third marking the 18th anniversary: Os Desafios do Futuro/The
Challenges of the Future (CPLP 2014b).
In the 2006 publication Pensar, comunicar, actuar em língua portuguesa, it is acknowledged
that the CPLP objectives remain unfulfilled. The then Executive Secretary, Ambassador
Luis Fonseca, advances as justification for the situation the lack of resources and the lack of
consensus between the member states regarding strategic plans (CPLP 2006, p. 13). ‘Cultural
cooperation’ is reiterated in the document as a main objective of CPLP and its substance
consists of projects with governmental institutions and civil societies of the member states as
well as international organisations and the development of several agreements (CPLP 2006,
p. 113). Mention is made to projects of relevance privileging film, audio-visual and museums
(ibid.) – these still remain key areas. The executive secretary’s efforts to facilitate the contact
between cultural institutions are highlighted as a way to foster intercultural (institutional)
dialogue (ibid., p. 114).
In 2008, in the 12th anniversary publication Construindo a Comunidade/Building the
Community (CPLP 2008), the 2004–2008 Executive Secretary Ambassador Luis de Matos
Monteiro da Fonseca argues that CPLP has reached the end of a cycle and is now ready to
develop as a community (CPLP 2008, p. 11). In this document, cultural activities are framed
as promoting cultural diversity and as efforts for the development of the mutual knowledge
of the different cultures within CPLP (ibid., p. 105). The first CPLP Cultural Week that
took place between 3 and 11 May 2008 in Lisbon is also mentioned and presented as a re-
flection space on aims and themes of common agendas (ibid., p. 118). In this document the
then Director General of CPLP, Helder Vaz Lopes, presents a vision for the future of CPLP,
advancing ten key areas, of which only one pertains directly to culture: “Reinforcement,
promotion and conservation of the common cultural heritage” (ibid., p. 141). Heritage is a
consistent focus for CPLP.
The 2014 publication celebrating the 18th anniversary of the organisation refers to
‘cultural action’, and under this heading a diversity of initiatives is mentioned: the Day of
Portuguese Language and of Culture in the CPLP (Dia da Lingua Portuguesa e da Cultura
na CPLP) celebrated for the first time on 5 May 2010; the DOCTV CPLP programme,
which encourages audio-visual production and dissemination, took place in 2009, sponsored

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by Brazil and Portugal, and was inspired by a similar Brazilian and South American pro-
gramme; the strengthening/revitalisation of the CPLP museums network that met in 2012
after an interruption of 11 years; the CPLP Games; and the film festival Festival de Cinema
Itinerante da Língua Portuguesa (FESTin) taking place since 2010, with the objective of cele-
brating and strengthening lusophone culture. There is also a general mention to promoting
the diversity of cultural expressions through exhibitions, seminars and other events (CPLP
2014b, p. 112).
Most importantly, the above documents include explicit mentions of a cultural policy
of the CPLP in relation to the contribution of the CPLP Groups/Grupos CPLP to “the
promotion of a common cultural policy of the Community”2 (CPLP 2014b, p. 116, but also
in CPLP 2008 and CPLP 2006). Created in 2005, these groups, of at least three representa-
tives of CPLP countries, accredited with foreign governments or international organisations
represent the community and work together to promote it. An example of good practice
provided by the organisation is the coordination of cultural events for the commemoration
of the Day of Portuguese Language and of Culture in the CPLP, celebrated on 5 May (ibid.).
This event attempts to display to the world a united front in terms of narrative and action.
The three documents above indicate a concern with heritage/museums and with film/­audio-
visual. Thus we could say that CPLP’s cultural policy tries to balance its commitments between
traditional and contemporary cultural policy frameworks. The author believes contemporary
frameworks of cultural policy, namely, those related to creative and cultural industries and the
creative economy, are the way forward in what should be CPLP’s focus. Bissau-Guinean devel-
opment economist Carlos Lopes (CPLP 2006, p. 141) suggests that the advancement of CPLP
rests in the development and support of cultural policies in close consultation with civil societies
and stresses the importance of the cultural and creative industries. He says:

You can feel the CPLP when a group of citizens of the lusophone countries find com-
mon reference points. Not when you organise a formal meeting of politico-diplomatic
concertation. To strengthen the basis of the relation we have to translate the friendship
in a set of concrete actions. In my view it is mostly in the area of culture and
of the creative industries that new possibilities reside. Without that lever the
Community will be no different from other groupings which we only remember when
it’s convenient’.3 [My emphasis]

So, what is currently the policy and practice of CPLP in relation to culture? Since 2000
the CPLP ministers of culture have been meeting and issuing common declarations that
constitute a loose basis of the organisation’s cultural policy. This body of texts substantiates
common concerns and projects that in 2014 finally came together under a strategy and plan
of action – this has been described by the CPLP Secretariat as a way to highlight the impor-
tance of culture for the consolidation of CPLP’s objectives (CPLP 2014d).
In 2014 the Strategic Plan for Multilateral Cultural Cooperation of the CPLP and respective
Action Plan (2014–2020) was approved by the IX Meeting of the Ministers of Culture in
Maputo, Mozambique. The development of this strategy and action plan was prompted
by a 2009 resolution, Cooperation in the CPLP – A Strategic Vision for Cooperation post Bissau,
that recommended the draft of sectorial cooperation strategies with the aim of improving
the performance of the organisation in terms of cooperation for development guided by
a results-based strategy (CPLP 2009, p. 2). CPLP’s 2014 multilateral cultural cooperation
strategy and action plan is an important turning point for the organisation that can be read
as a multilateral cultural policy document, representing a common cultural policy, albeit

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one that it is still in its very early stages. As we shall see, the rationales are not always well
developed, and because resources for implementation are an issue, one can question whether
this exercise is simply a tidier framework in which to develop cooperation that will remain
punctual and haphazard.
The preamble of the CPLP’s 2014 strategy and action plan sets as its foundational basis for
action the need to protect, promote and disseminate the historical, cultural and linguistic
legacy composed of tangible and intangible heritage built through the shared history of the
peoples of the CPLP (2014c, p. 3). Heritage, in both its communality and diversity, is seen
as a factor for the deepening of the relationships of the CPLP peoples and also for increasing
CPLP’s international visibility (“afirmação da CPLP no mundo” in the Portuguese original,
ibid.). This reveals a strong concern with the use of culture, and particularly heritage, for
prestige and international visibility. This emphasises heritage as a value in itself, although
there are remarks in the preamble to the enrichment of cultural life and to the strengthening
of the development of the member states through culture.
In the 2014 strategy and action plan, we can also see how CPLP relates to particular
meta-narratives in cultural policy. The document presents the development of multilateral
cultural cooperation as based around a series of judgements regarding culture’s conceptual-
isation (human rights, diversity of cultural expressions), functions (mutual knowledge and
understanding, building of collective identities, knowledge transfer, economic and social
development), and enactment (harmonious cooperation, accessibility and participation of
all) (2014c, p. 2). This represents a mediation of global policy agendas to the level of this
community of countries. Policy transfer is an area in which the organisation could have
an important role. CPLP Groups can be very active within the international organisations
in which they exist; they follow, for example, policy developments at UNESCO for the
protection of cultural heritage in the CPLP countries.
The stated aim of the strategy and action plan is the reinforcement of cultural coopera-
tion between its member states, under the principle of multilateralism, with the following
general objectives: strengthening their development through culture; contributing to closer
relations among the peoples; and increasing the visibility of CPLP in the world (2014c, p. 4
and 5). These high-level objectives are further unpacked in a series of specific objectives, a
few of which are very focused (facilitate knowledge exchange between cultural operators by
ensuring conditions for their mobility and for the circulation of cultural products; provide
tools to support cultural professionals in the development and safeguard of their creations;
promote artistic and cultural education activities targeting a range of audiences), but most,
one could say, remain quite fuzzy and/or general (undertaking joint activities benefitting
the populations; establish mechanisms for the communication and transmission of informa-
tion; encourage the internationalisation of CPLP through culture; structure and strengthen
cultural heritage cooperation) (2014c, p. 5). The author sees these specific objectives as con-
stituting basic tenets of the multilateral cultural policy being developed by CPLP.
The objectives, and the priority axes of their implementation, implicitly position the
organisation in relation to certain cultural policy frameworks (Matarasso and Landry
1999) – although one cannot interpret these frameworks as either/or poles as we shall see,
for example, in relation to CPLP’s focus on heritage and also on the contemporary through
film and the audio-visual. The multilateral cultural cooperation strategy and action plan
outlines five strategic axes: cultural industries and creative economy in CPLP; diversity
of cultural expressions in the CPLP; internationalisation of the CPLP in the domain of
culture; cultural heritage and historical memory of the CPLP; and human resources de-
velopment (2014c).

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The first axis, cultural industries and creative economy in CPLP, covers three main ob-
jectives. Firstly, encouraging the production, distribution and circulation of cultural goods
and services within the CPLP area as well as its internationalisation – the priority action
identified in this area is the development of a mechanism for the temporary export/import
of goods. Secondly, supporting the mobility of cultural agents, by disseminating information
on and creating opportunities for mobility (such as artistic residencies), as well as drafting a
status of the artist, based on UNESCO’s guidelines. Thirdly, to foster exchange of informa-
tion regarding cultural policies and activities and the cultural economy, as well as collate and
consolidate cultural information and statistics, (e.g. copyright laws).
Within the second axis, diversity of cultural expressions in the CPLP, three areas are
sketched. One is promoting culture for sustainable development, by subscribing to the
UN 2015 resolution on this matter and promoting traditional knowledge. Another area is
promoting Portuguese language and the cultural and linguistic diversity of the peoples of
the CPLP, for example through the celebration on the 5th of May of the Day of Portuguese
Language and of Culture in the CPLP (Dia da Língua Portuguesa e da Cultura na CPLP).
And a final area is promoting cultural and arts education, focusing particularly on primary/
secondary age children.
The third axis, internationalisation of the CPLP in the domain of culture, includes three
main dimensions: the development of relations with international and regional organisations –
e.g. UN, UNESCO, WIPO, OEI, AU, EU –with the objective of raising CPLP’s profile and
promoting the culture of its members, accessing funding and development opportunities,
participating in international debates/projects and being part of related agreements; fostering
politico-diplomatic consultations for concerted action in the area of culture between the
CPLP member states; developing the international visibility of culture in the CPLP though
the creation of an e-Portal (Portal da Cultura da CPLP).
As part of the fourth axis, cultural heritage and historical memory of the CPLP, there are
three areas of intervention: conservation, digitisation and development of the accessibility of
the heritage of the member states; here a lot of emphasis is given to historical archives and
museums; capacity-building of professionals and organisations; and promoting the visibility
of the cultural heritage of the CPLP’s members.
The fifth and final axis, human resources development, is aimed at capacity building of
governmental and civil society cultural operators. The foreseen activities include training of
professionals and trainers in cultural management and other relevant areas.
Priority actions have been identified for each of the areas of the five axes outlined above.
From different projects matching the diverse priority actions, seven projects were prioritised
by the CPLP ministers of Culture meeting in Maputo (CPLP 2014a) and of these, five were
developed by CPLP Secretariat and by the Focal Points for Culture/Pontos Focais de Cultura
(which ensure the permanent coordination of cultural cooperation between the member
states and CPLP), for implementation in the first two years of the 2014–2020 action plan,
no doubt having in mind the limited human and financial capacity of the organisation to
implement them.
The first action proposed by the ministers of culture was the submission of the UN
proposed resolution on “Culture and sustainable development in the post-2015 development
agenda” for consideration to the XIX Reunião Ordinária do Conselho de Ministros da CPLP.
This meeting took place three months later, in July 2014, and it recommended the Secretar-
iat to follow the debates and promote a concerted position for the CPLP members, as well as
encourage the member states to integrate culture and the creative economy in development
(2014e). The ministers also commissioned the CPLP Executive Secretariat to develop a status

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of the artist for CPLP in line with the UNESCO’s recommendations (CPLP 2014a) – this
second action, a policy transfer activity, was not selected for immediate development. These
two first actions both reveal a concern of CPLP, aligning its policy with dominant political
meta-narratives, namely with the UN agencies.
A third action selected by CPLP’s ministers of culture consisted of mandating the organ-
isation’s Secretariat to prepare a comparative study of their countries’ legislation regarding
copyright and related rights as an information gathering exercise and in preparation for ne-
gotiations with the World Intellectual Property Organization (Secreatariado Executivo da
CPLP 2014b). In August 2015 the Secretariat was about to launch the commissioning of the
study, which is part of strategic axis one Creative Industries and Creative Economy. This demon-
strates an alignment and a concern with this important current policy area, particularly with
the thematic of intellectual rights, and it is a step forward in raising awareness and creating
an ambitioned network and database on copyright and related rights within the CPLP.
Reinforcing the visibility of the culture in the CPLP seems to be a driver for the ministers
of culture, as they propose that the presiding member state hosts simultaneously the CPLP’s
Capital of Culture and Book Fair. The author interprets this as an economy of scales and
an attempt to accumulate synergies from the different events to enable a maximisation of
impact with some decrease of investment. Both activities, which are part of strategic axis
two Diversity of Cultural Expressions in the CPLP, have had detailed proposals developed by the
Secretariat during 2014/5 (Secretariado Executivo da CPLP 2014a and 2014d). The CPLP
Book Fair is not a new activity; the first CPLP Feira do Livro took place in Luanda, Angola,
in 2013 and the second took place in Díli, Timor-Leste, in July 2015. Book fairs fall under a
very traditional way of engaging in international cultural relations, in this way quite differ-
ent from the proposal of a CPLP Capital of Culture, situated in more contemporary modes
of developing cultural engagement, where urban cultural policy and place branding meet.
The project Capital da Cultura da CPLP has yet to come to life and the Secretariat has instead
developed a less ambitious project for axis two, that of a CPLP Children’s Song Festival
(Secretariado Executivo da CPLP 2014c).
A concern with visibility and the building of a common narrative for identity is also
associated with the proposal of the ministers of culture for the development of a Common
CPLP Historical Collections Platform. Concerns with conservation and access are no
doubt included, but a few of the proposals under strategic axis four Cultural Heritage and
Historical Memory of CPLP, which incidentally have not been developed in a first phase by
the Secretariat – are geared towards creating a sense of communality (note for example also
the proposal for a Common Historical Archive for the Colonial and Liberation Period of the
African Countries having Portuguese as Official Language, CPLP 2014c, p. 23).
The choice of projects by the CPLP ministers of culture in Maputo (2014a) reveals some
concern with the development of the cultural milieu of the different countries, although
this seems to be restricted to official, or at least institutional, stakeholders – thus leaving
out of scope civil society/culture at the grass roots level. This interpretation is based on
the fact that – although there is an increasing number of civil society activities related to
lusofonia and that CPLP itself has civil society organisations as consulting observer members
(in Portuguese Observador Consultivo) – the initiatives proposed within the remit of CPLP are
quite limited, only including: regular training seminars for senior officials (Altos Quadros in
the Portuguese original) in the area of cultural policies and creative industries of CPLP; and
the organisation of an event gathering the member states Film and Audio-visual Authorities
(Secretariado Executivo da CPLP 2014e). The positive note for axis five Human Resources

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 Cultural policy between and beyond nation-states

Development activities is that an activity has actually happened: the CPLP Forum of Film and
Audio-­Visual Authorities took place in Lisbon in November 2014.
The above limited and relatively safe choice of activities reveals an organisation taking
little steps. More than strategic choices backed up by strong rationales and substantial re-
sources by committed member states, CPLP (or more precisely its Executive Secretary and
the Secretariat) continue to do what is possible to move the organisation forward in the area
of culture according to a diversified range of commitments by the different member states.
CPLP, and specifically its cultural policy and practice, is weakened by being under re-
sourced and under staffed. The Cultural Action Directorate/Direção de Ação Cultural, created
in 2011, was an answer to increasing demands in this area allowing for more strategic plan-
ning and an increase in staffing (albeit limited from 1 person to 2), replacing a modus ope-
randi in which member states would work on different areas according to their own interests
(Vieira, personal interview 2015). Meagre funds to implement the projects are an endemic
concern for CPLP, and the global economic crisis is acknowledged to have had a nega-
tive impact in the organisation. In 2012, the then director for CPLP Cultural Action and
Portuguese Language/Acção Cultural e Língua Portuguesa, Luís Kandjimbo, stated that, during
the 16-year existence of the organisation, the multilateral cooperation in the cultural sector
had not been as productive as anticipated due to the inexistence of a structure within the
Secretariat to ensure and monitor the implementation of the deliberations of the ministries
of culture (ANGOP 2012). Having a strategy and an action plan as well as an organisation
structure (the Direção de Ação Cultural and the Pontos Focais de Cultura) is a step forward to be
able to construct and develop a multilateral cultural policy that can benefit each individual
country and the collective identity represented by CPLP.
The above developments indicating support for culture within CPLP must take into ac-
count other less-supportive signs that the arts component may not be a priority for CPLP.
Executive Secretary Murade Murargy, interviewed in 2015 (CEO Lusófono 2015, p. 17),
stated that mobility was fundamental for the development of the community and that gov-
ernments needed to develop the necessary conditions and mechanisms for the freedom of
movement. The secretary said CPLP was approaching the matter by groups: i.e. business
people, students, teachers and researchers were the priority group and then, if this were suc-
cessful, the second group would include artists and journalists. Surely mutual understanding
and circulation of information would be most advanced if priority were given to the arts and
media: you would want to learn and do business with those that arouse your curiosity and
interest you. Trade no longer follows the flag, as advocated by the 19th century imperialist
maxim; it is more likely that it follows cultural interactions.
These contradictory signs are not surprising. CPLP countries and their agents operate
in complex and dynamic environments, where conflicting priorities shape policies. Never-
theless, the recent developments have confirmed that CPLP has become an agent and a site
for policy formation and coordination resulting – in the case we are concerned with – in
the development, within lusofonia, of a multilateral cultural policy. The CPLP groups,
created in 2005, contributing to the promotion of an (implicit) common cultural policy,
are good examples of this new level of agency. However, the turning point for CPLP’s
cultural policy is the 2014 multilateral cultural cooperation strategy and action plan. Here
the common interests in cultural policy are made explicit and developed through cultural
relations/diplomacy processes of dialogue and collaboration (ministers of culture meet-
ings, CPLP Secretariat and Focal Points for Culture) and implemented utilising (albeit
meagre) common resources.

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Carla Figueira

The challenges and limits of interstitial cultural policy

in the CPLP
Our globalised societies need to be able to link with different levels and approaches to cultural
policy. UNESCO, considering “[t]he new socio-cultural fabric of our societies combined
with global interconnectedness necessitates new governance systems” (2011, p. 11) proposes
a new cultural policy vision requiring “thinking outside the box, reinforcing and inventing
reliable inter-ministerial approaches, and embracing the broad range of actors playing a role
in taking the culture and development agenda forward” (2011, p. 20). CPLP is a site for
cultural policy development, but how much that role will be developed is still uncertain and
ultimately depends on the will (and resources) of the member states.
CPLP is developing (transnational, multilateral) cultural policy, within its territorial defini-
tion, insofar as its activities (including policy discourse and sponsoring of activities) influence/
impact the conditions of the cultural producers and operators, the production of cultural goods
and services and their distribution to users/participants, as well as the management of cultural
resources (Bennett and Mercer 1998). One has observed that the activities developed are still
limited and their impact probably, in many cases, negligible – but this is something that has
not been ascertained in context, and one imagines that in the case of the ‘less developed’ mem-
ber states even a small impact can be very important for development. CPLP should better
articulate this connection between culture and development, which is played out at different
levels: development of the cultural milieu in each member state; development of a ‘lusophone’
identity; cultural industries development; development of cultural diversity.
Indeed, the development of a common/multilateral cultural policy and practice poses
opportunities and challenges, which recent developments are only starting to explore. For
example, besides the challenge of deciding where to prioritise investment in the develop-
ment of a common cultural policy, another important challenge is the articulation of this
common policy with the different national cultural policies of the Member States – an area
outside the scope of this chapter. Carefully curated nodes of interaction between the national
and transnational spheres of cultural policy and practice can represent major opportunities by
bringing added value and creating spill-over effects for cultural agents and operators.
One of these nodes could be the cultural economy. The cultural and creative industries
could be a successful way to link culture and development, for the profit of states and peoples,
securing the sustainable diversity of cultural expressions and enabling a recognisable role for
the organisation. If, as defended by Executive Secretary Murade Murargy (Exame 2014),
the organisation should focus on economic diplomacy, perhaps the focus on the creative
economy is not far fetched.
The further development and recognition of a common transnational cultural policy
could be seen as a sign of maturity of this community project, leaving behind years of debate
of what it means to be part of lusofonia. And although the CPLP structure is created top-
down, the author sees it as an encouragement of bottom-up initiatives, resulting in mutually
structuring influences, as in a symbiotic relation (Maciel 2015, p. 388).
This chapter analysed a conceptualisation and practice of cultural policy at multilateral levels
seeking to reinforce the study of cultural policy beyond the domestic realm of a state (the often
default level of analysis of cultural policy research) and thus challenging methodological na-
tionalism and also the conceptual divide between cultural diplomacy and cultural policy. The
CPLP case study demonstrated that it is relevant to the understanding of contemporary cultural
policy to examine units of analysis beyond the nation-state and that the concept of a transna-
tional cultural policy bridges the concepts of cultural relations/diplomacy and foreign policy.

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 Cultural policy between and beyond nation-states

This chapter needs to be complemented by further research. At a general level by the

examination of transnational cultural policy through multiple disciplinary analysis that in-
clude cultural diplomacy/foreign policy (and the implicit reverse: cultural diplomacy being
analysed with the input of cultural policy thinking), and at a specific level, through further
research on the operation of transnational levels of policy (examination of the role of particu-
lar individuals, bureaucracies and networks) and its connections with both the national level
(in this case researching the links with the national cultural policies, practices and agents/
operators of each CPLP member state) and other international spheres (for example regard-
ing the adoption and transfer of meta-narratives from UNESCO).
By restricting this chapter to the analysis of the CPLP, the author missed other important
strands of the construction of the lusophone community, such as the bilateral relations between
the countries, the work of important organisations operating at other levels of governments (e.g.
UCCLA at the local level) or the Camoes Institute at the national level. Also not covered are
the important networks of cultural professionals, i.e. museum networks, and other fundamental
links of civil society, such as those embodied and practiced by artists and cultural profession-
als: curators, writers, musicians and visual artists. The focus on CPLP, an intergovernmental
institutional structure, was intended to investigate how important that structuring role is for
the cultural construction of the community and its display. There is still a lot of work to be
done, and thus the author is in agreement with Carlos Lopes’ words written 10 years ago and
still valid: “Even with buckets of friendship, the reality of the discontinuity will impose itself
dramatically and with no escape. Unless one seriously invests in a set of singular factors”4 (CPLP
2006, p. 140). The future will tell what singular factors the member states choose to develop.
In July 2016, Brazil assumed CPLP’s presidency for two years, and the Brazilian minister
of culture, Juca Ferreira, has already voiced his interest in increasing the organisation’s ac-
tivity in the area of culture, even advancing some specific projects such as a conference on
Portuguese language having culture as a reference point or the potential for policy/practice
transfer of the Brazilian cultural policy initiative Pontos de Cultura (Ministério da Cultura do
Brasil, 2015). Perhaps 2016, the year the organisation commemorated 20 years, will be seen
as the start of a new impetus in CPLP’s multilateral cultural policy.

Notes
1 For convenience, the author refers to the text of this agreement as well as other CPLP agreements,
unless otherwise stated, as published in Barreiras Duarte (2014).
2 In the Portuguese original: “a promoção de uma política cultural comum da Comunidade”.
3 In the Portuguese original: “A CPLP sente-se quando um grupo de cidadãos de países lusófonos encontram
pontos de referência comuns. Não quando se organiza uma reunião formal de concertação político-diplomática. Para
fortalecer a base do relacionamento pode-se traduzir amizade num conjunto de ações concretas. A meu ver são so-
bretudo na área cultural e nas indústrias criativas que se abrem novas potencialidades. Sem essa alavanca a
Comunidade não será muito diferente de outros agrupamentos que nos lembramos apenas ‘quando dá jeito’.”
4 In the Portuguese original: “Mesmo com carradas de amizade a realidade da descontinuidade acabará por
impôr-se de forma dramática e sem hesitações. A não ser que se invista seriamente num conjunto de factores que
sejam singulares”.

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 10
Cultural governance
and cultural policy
Hegemonic myth and political logics

Jeremy Valentine

To govern, one could say, is to be condemned to seek an authority for one’s authority.
(Rose, 1999: 27)

Introduction: ‘Welcome aboard the Black Pearl, Miss Turner’

The phrase ‘cultural governance’ does not enjoy a rigid designation. In semiotic terms, it
is a syntagm that comprehends a variety of ways in and through which the paradigms of
culture and governance can be combined. Culture is notoriously ambivalent. It can mean
both sensation and meaning, experience or symbol, a way of life or its artefacts. Governance
appears to be relatively straightforward. It means the conduct or process of governing, in the
sense of ordering, commanding or directing. So cultural governance can mean the conduct
or process of governing in or by culture, and it can also mean the cultural characteristics of
governance or an aspect of governance particularly concerned with culture. Those and other
possible combinations can overlap, and any strict denotation is always fixed within specific
pragmatic contexts. Even then, it is not possible to completely eliminate all residual conno-
tations through action alone. A context is never completely closed. So instead of attempting
to list all possible uses of the phrase, this chapter will attempt to demonstrate that cultural
governance has a relatively fixed and determined value as a component of hegemonic dis-
course in a specific historical conjuncture roughly co-extensive with the emergence of
neoliberalism in the 1980s and its consolidation and dominance in post-industrial capitalist
social formations since the 1990s. Despite its economic connotations, neoliberalism is not
reducible to an economic base. It is primarily a political project seeking to extract value from
economic processes by acting on political systems and structures to transform them to its ad-
vantage. Part of that hegemonic project is the extension of economic processes insofar as they
are reducible to market institutions. In that way value becomes calculable, but neoliberalism
is not simply a matter of establishing market mechanisms. It is also a matter of protecting
itself from their negative effects. Neoliberalism is rule through rather than by markets. In
economic terms, neoliberalism is most accurately categorised as a rentier regime as it is not
value creating because it relies on extra-economic political power. One only has to reflect

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 Cultural governance and cultural policy

on the growth of bureaucracy and administration to grasp that point. The argument of this
chapter is that contemporary cultural policy emerges from that context. It does not resolve
the ambivalence of culture but mobilises it.
The argument acknowledges the extensive theoretically and methodologically diverse
field of research that demonstrates some of the relations between culture, both as way of
life and artefact, and neoliberalism. These include things like attempts to shape subjectiv-
ity in order to comply with codes of strategic personal responsibility, the normalisation of
precarity, the instrumentalisation of culture as a self-policing solution to problems of social
cohesion and the promotion of intellectual property monopolies as a means to deflect chronic
problems of accumulation in economic formations that remain tied to capitalism. This chap-
ter is positioned in relation to that research by focussing on culture in the context of the
relation between governance and neoliberalism. It does that in order to show that the neo-
liberal determination of governance is not exactly straightforward. It is ambiguous because
it means both the process of governing and action on that process. In that respect, the ambi-
guity of governance acquires something like the Barthesian status of myth (Barthes, 1973).
In semiotic terms, the general signifier ‘governance’ is transferred from its conventional
signified to become at the same time a signified within a particular mode of power that is
characterised by acting on governance in order to make that which is to be governed govern-
able. The additional, particular sense, is parasitic on a prior general sense such that the latter
appears as an alibi for the former and the power of governance is naturalised. Consequently,
as Enroth points out in a similar Barthesian observation on governance, reality is emptied
of history and filled with nature, the way things are independently of human action (2013:
69). The mythological sense has enabled governance to become a hegemonic sense-making
project. According to Davies (2011), ‘governance’ has become hegemonic because of the
persistence of the general meaning of the term through which power hierarchies persist
in the structures represented as unmotivated processes to erase conflicts and contestations.
Neoliberal cultural policy is mobilised by the ambiguity of governance.
The myth of governance does not just make sense of things. It changes the relations be-
tween things that are made sense of, not least with respect to structures of political power
in capitalist post-industrial state formations. Thus, Jessop goes so far as to reformulate
Gramsci’s notion of the integral state defined as ‘political society + civil society’ in terms of
‘government + governance in the shadow of hierarchy’ (2015: 480) where ‘shadow’ refers to
the concealment of power. However, concealment does not entail elimination. Governance
creates particular political logics of command, obedience, contestation and subversion as a
consequence that stems from its ambiguity. As Best points out, the ambiguity of governance
is an ‘interpretive lubricant in an uncertain world’ (2012: 101). Ambiguity creates the slack
in the system in which a balance between coercion and consent can be established. At the
same time, it prevents the constitution of governance as an antagonistic frontier on the old
power bloc versus the people model. The point of the myth of governance is the prevention
of a War of Manoeuvre and the maintenance of conflicts as multiple Wars of Position. The
argument of this chapter is that insofar as governance as myth is hegemonic, it conditions
power relations and the cultural policy that is formed within them and its actions on culture
in whatever sense. That is to say, cultural policy is agnostic with regard to the ambivalence
of culture, which in many cases is a resource. In that respect, it’s useful to recall Hall’s ob-
servation of the emergence of ‘governing by culture’ (1997: 231) which became possible on
the basis that as a descriptive category culture had expanded beyond a narrowly conceived
cultural sphere to become a terrain on which to act. Its political significance could no longer
be reduced to an opposition between domination and resistance, and its authority, or belief

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in it, had evaporated (Valentine, 2002). However the significance of culture is measured its
political conditions and its existence as an object of policy are determined by the political
logics of governance. Cultural policy is action on the governance of culture.
An example from a famous scene within a justifiably popular film might serve to illustrate
how power operates within neoliberal governance. It occurs in Walt Disney Pictures’ 2003
blockbuster comedy ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of The Black Pearl’ when, without
simplifying the complexities of the plot too much, Elizabeth Swann, daughter of Weatherby
Swann, the governor of the Caribbean island of Port Royal, is captured by Pirate Captain
Barbossa of the Black Pearl, which has besieged the island in search of a gold medallion that
will lift a curse on the ship and its crew. To deceive Barbossa about her true identity in order
to increase her chances of escape, Elizabeth gives her family name as Turner, which happens
to be the surname of Will, a young blacksmith’s apprentice whom she had encountered as a
survivor floating amongst the wreckage of a shipwreck rescued by the HMS Dauntless, the
ship on which she and her father had travelled to arrive at the island eight years earlier when
she was 12 years old. In order to obtain her release, Elizabeth appeals to the Pirate’s code,
which she assumes governs Barbossa’s conduct, in order to constrain his actions by the force
of normative consistency. In this brief exchange, the presuppositions of Elizabeth’s tactic are
erased by Barbossa:

Elizabeth: Wait! You have to take me to shore. According to the Code of the Order of
the Brethren…
Barbossa: First, your return to shore was not part of our negotiations nor our agreement
so I must do nothing. And secondly, you must be a pirate for the pirate’s code to apply
and you’re not. And thirdly, the code is more what you’d call “guidelines” than actual
rules. Welcome aboard the Black Pearl, Miss Turner.
(Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of The Black Pearl: 2003)

Pirates of the Caribbean probably does not have the direct ideological-critical power of the
Bill and Ted and Wayne’s World films’ lampoons of the hegemonic Total Quality Manage-
ment notion of ‘excellence’ in the late 1980s/early 1990s. Nevertheless, the brief dialogue
neatly condenses a movement through three main types of rule and their corresponding
forms of organisation: contract, solidarity and governance, which in this scene trumps and
appears through the reference to ‘guidelines’. The significance of the notion of ‘guidelines’
is explained by Brown’s recent critique of governance as the dominant neoliberal political
rationality in which: ‘Centralized authority, law, policing, rules and quotas are replaced
by networked, team-based, practice-oriented techniques emphasizing incentivization,
guidelines, and benchmarks’ (2015: 34). For Brown the emergence of governance is decisive
for understanding the contemporary exercise of power as it has ‘become neoliberalism’s
primary administrative form, the political modality through which it creates environments,
structures constraints and incentives, and hence conducts subjects’ (122). Although the sub-
stitution may not be as complete and uniform as Brown suggests, ‘guidelines’ are a ubiqui-
tous component of governance and condense normative values and material practices of rule
while appearing unmotivated and allowing for the flexibility of self-determined action.
For Barbossa, the advantage of ‘guidelines’ is that they are vague, indeterminate and
elastic. Their binding and obligatory force is temporary and derives from an ability to in-
terpret them within a strategic and pragmatic power relation, which, in this context, is
asymmetrical to Barbossa’s advantage. At the same time, ‘guidelines’ are flexible enough to
persist through any possible reversal of power. Several comic moments in the film feature the

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pirates trying to interpret the code that they presume governs their own actions. ‘Guidelines’
are not opposed as they are too indefinite to target. Instead, they are continually revised to
take account of the situation in which they are applied. They thus constitute a ground of
consensus that has become hegemonic within neoliberalism. The consensual basis of ‘guide-
lines’ allows social agents to avoid being governed by strict rules, even, and especially, when
those social agents are in positions of governing. Hence, governance conditions a politi-
cal logic of flexible or ‘pop-up’ sovereignty where advantage is obtained by the capacity
to limit the range of possible contextual interpretations. In that sense the political logic
of neoliberal governance operates in the undecidable gap between a rule and its applica-
tion, which Wittgenstein opened in Philosophical Investigations: ‘This was our paradox: no
course of action could be determined by a rule, because any course of action can be made
out to accord with the rule’. Consequently, a course of action is governed not by a rule but
by the context of action, which is never completely closed. If necessary, it can be ‘made out
to accord with the rule’ afterwards.
To establish the context of cultural policy, the chapter begins with an account of the
emergence and consolidation of the discourse of governance. To avoid any misunderstand-
ing, it is important to emphasise that discourse is not just a matter of organised communi-
cation or meaning. It is also the context wherein the communication makes sense and the
actions are consistent with it, which is in no sense guaranteed. If it were, it wouldn’t be polit-
ical. It would be a fantasy of rational technocratic administration. On that basis, the chapter
will attempt to explain the discourse of governance as a hegemonic project (which does not
entail that it is successful). From that the chapter discusses how cultural policy emerges from
governance and its characteristic political logics have become codified, which is followed by
a discussion of some examples drawn from recent research. The chapter concludes with some
brief remarks about future problems that research on cultural governance may encounter.

Governance as hegemonic discourse

Brown’s critique of governance is based on the claim that it depoliticises through the erasure
of agency and its replacement with processes as a consequence of what Lemke refers to as
‘the eclipse or erosion of state sovereignty’ (124: Lemke, 2007: no page reference given).
However, it would be more accurate to say that through governance as myth the political
is displaced. This is illustrated by Offe’s irritated critique of governance and in particular
its ‘inherent vagueness’ (2009). For Offe governance is an ‘empty signifier’ that oscillates
between an institutional sense of a structure of rules, the general sense, and a political sense
of steering, the particular sense. The force of the general sense occludes the particular such
that, as Offe observes, the subjectless character of governance as structure of rules makes
steering look like price formation in markets. It is as if ‘something happens, but nobody has
done it and would thus be responsible for the result’ (550). The notion of subjectless action
is reinforced by the common political science technocratic fantasy definition of governance
as ‘self-organizing, interorganizational networks’ (Rhodes, 1996: 660). But the subject does
not disappear. Collective action is displaced through the weakening of binding decisions
in order to encourage ‘enlightened self-binding’ (Offe: 559), and principal-agent relations
become political outcomes rather than causes. To eliminate that sort of thing Offe proposes
that ‘a boundary must be set around the core sphere of state institutions, for which one
should retain the concept of government’ (552) by eliminating ‘the unresolved polysemy of
the concept’ (557). Doing so would draw a clear distinction between state and civil society
in order to reinscribe an old school functional structure of modern political authority within

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which political actors would compete over the possession of power and the distribution of
rights, responsibilities and resources, either democratically or by other means.
Whether or not Offe’s proposals for disambiguation are realistic, practical or even desirable,
this chapter takes a different approach. The discourse of ‘governance’ may be ‘gibberish’, in
Brown’s judgement, (140) but nevertheless its ambiguity works as a hegemonic sense-making
activity and produces specific political logics. The focus is on the conditions in which the
discourse is formed and the characteristics that enable its hegemonic project. Governance
emerges in the context of the crisis of capitalist social democracies in which the structure of
governing had, for various reasons, become problematic. In the early 1970s political scientists
explained this phenomenon through notions such as ‘the crisis of governability’, the ‘fiscal
crisis of the state’ and ‘legitimation crisis’. Phenomena like general irreverence, the popular
rejection of deference, the decline of assumptions about the authority and value of a unified
culture and punk in general were represented as symptoms of decline in media and elite
discourses. In fact these developments are more accurately understood as consequences of
the success of the post WWII consensus, and in particular the rise of the citizen as consumer
who placed demands on the state that created problems of overload that could not be solved
without unpopular and expensive state expansion. Phenomena like that became understood
in terms of the ‘contradictions of the welfare state’ (Offe, 1984). As well as such endogenous
shocks, Western European and North American polities were increasingly confronted with
exogenous unpredictability and contingency beyond their control, not least with respect to
world commodity prices and the development of industrial productive capacity in the non-
West, which served to ‘disorganise capitalism’ (Lash and Urry, 1987).
In response to those circumstances states have in general ‘hollowed out’ and ‘reinvented’
themselves as a consequence of their reduced capacity to act within environments over which
they have decreasing control as the increased cost of doing so is prohibitive, both financially,
as no one wants to pay for it, and politically, as the presence of state intervention serves
to create a target at which opponents can aim. In other words, hierarchical structures of
modern political authority, where linear command corresponds to serial cause, can no longer
cope with the stress of governing contingency. At best, governments remain legitimate only
insofar as they offer citizen-subjects the possibility of acting on other citizen-subjects to their
comparative advantage. Authority and decision making are pushed up to para and interna-
tional organisations, some formal and accountable, others not so much, which can take the
flak for unpopular decisions precisely because of their distance, and pushed down to the local
and molecular organisations of pressure groups, special interest groups and communities
in general, which become contained by the conflicting pressures of maintaining authentic
popular support and conforming to rules in order to gain resource. Hence, states reconfigure
the vertical and horizontal distribution of power as both a resource and an object of action.
Governance is a reflexive process that seeks to maintain the conduct of governing under
conditions in which the governability of that which is to be governed is no longer taken
for granted. So governance is about acting on governing so that government can continue.
These developments have significant practical consequences. Firstly, the creation of
quasi-­m arkets by states in order to distance themselves from welfare provision by making
users responsible for it, reconfigured as consumers within the neoliberal project of capital.
Here states govern through regulation, strategically limiting or expanding the effects of
markets, which in turn becomes the object of political gaming. Secondly, the networkifi-
cation of political society in order to establish lines of inclusion and exclusion, which build
consensus through the figure of the ‘stakeholder’ and other weasel word terms developed

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within neoliberal governance. These activities are supported by actions such as the agen-
tification of state administration, for example through the UK government’s New Public
Management programmes introduced in the 1980s to incentivise innovation through ‘policy
entrepreneurs’ who would introduce market efficiencies (Clarke and Newman, 1997; Hood
and Dixon, 2015; O’Brien, 2014). More generally, political action becomes an epistemolog-
ical tactic of ‘problematisation’, in Foucault’s sense, through which something enters into
‘the play of true and false’ and becomes an object for thought and action (Foucault, 1997).
The main mechanism for doing that is the rather banal practice of counting things or, more
specifically, making things countable and thus the invention of procedures and processes to
do that, or ‘audit’ (Power, 1997; Valentine 2004). By making things and actions auditable
they become organisable and controllable. Subjects are included on the condition that they
act as if they are assets or resources, ‘human capital’, and thus prepared to bear risk and re-
sponsibility for their actions. Such a strategy incentivises subjects to conform to courses of
action that are likely to create least risk and cost to themselves.
However, this is not a straightforward matter of calculation because cost and risk
are not necessarily known and change in relation to the objectification of the subject.
Consequently, in a cruel irony, subjection is not simply a matter of obedience or discipline.
Rather, subjection entails what Deleuze called ‘modulation’ with respect to changing
regulatory codes (1995). Deleuze’s observation is part of a broader argument about the
decline of what Foucault had called ‘disciplinary societies’. For Deleuze, these no longer
work in the context of ‘a general breakdown of all sites of confinement – prisons, hospi-
tals, factories, schools, the family’ (1995: 178). State agency has become characterised by
continual ‘reform’ such that nothing is ever finished. Control is exercised through admin-
istration and their allies in management and marketing, ‘the arrogant breed who are our
masters’ (181). Agamben, in a lecture at the Nicos Poulantzas Institute in Athens in 2013,
developed the political consequences of Deleuze’s observations through improvising on
his own Schimittian notion of the ‘state of exception’. For Agamben ‘destituent power’
explains the character of contemporary state agency as it follows the embryonic political
logic of Quesnay’s proposition that: ‘Since governing the causes is difficult and expensive,
it is more safe and useful to try and govern the effects’. In this way, the distinction between
the rule and the exception is weakened through flexible casuistry, which in turn becomes
the vehicle of internal and external power struggles and a means for expanding or con-
tracting the scope of policies.
Governance discourse is a way of making sense of these conditions in order to act on
them. Although there is probably no single point of origin, the emergence of its mythic
sense can be traced in its development by institutions and organisations that responded to
the situation that had emerged in the 1970s. One source is private sector corporate reform
in the USA. The notion of ‘corporate governance’, which emerged in conjunction with
similar phrases such as ‘corporate social responsibility’, tried to do two things: solve corpo-
rate legitimacy problems and maintain autonomy through self-monitoring against juridical
and media attacks from the non-corporate sector. These projects were given an intellectual
framework by such remarkably influential theoretical models as Williamson’s Transaction
Cost Analysis (TCA), which following institutional economics and the Coaseian theory
of the firm, defines governance in the general sense of ‘the institutional framework within
which the integrity of a transaction is decided’ (Williamson, 1979: 238) and ‘the institutional
matrix within which transactions are negotiated and executed’ (239), but which, at the same
time, identifies governance in the particular sense as an object of action with the observation

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that: ‘Governance structures which attenuate opportunism and otherwise infuse confidence
are evidently needed’ (242). Williamson’s theory is grounded in a rational functionalist ap-
proach that aims to minimise transaction costs through standardisation and the elimina-
tion of idiosyncrasy. However, the context in which it was taken up was very different,
as the weakness of authority structures encouraged idiosyncrasy and difference. Mediated
by management consultants and lobbyists through ‘regulatory capture’ TCA and similar
ideas were adopted by business facing states through ‘re-inventing government’ projects in
the 1980s that allowed their formation as solutions to problems of rule in post-disciplinary
societies (e.g. Osborne and Gaebler, 1992). Governance obtained a wider dominium than
nation-states when, possibly as early as 1989, it was adopted by the World Bank through
the development of Worldwide Governance Indicators in order to manage its relations with
national economies in the non-West and subsequently the West (Best, 2012; Buduru and
Pal, 2010; Offe, 2009). Thus, governance exercises leadership by hegemonising institutions
in order to transform them. The institutions remain to all outward appearances the same. As
even the anarcho-situationist graffitism of The Invisible Committee recognises, the targets
of change are the infrastructures where power is now located (2015: 83).
Not only does governance make sense, governance also acts on sense-making itself. A
peculiarity of governance discourse is that it develops a particular vocabulary, grammar
and syntax in which subjectless action becomes imaginable. In addition to guidelines, as
Eagleton–Pierce points out, governance is part of a particular vocabulary and conceptual
organising grid that makes sense in relation to other terms such as ‘partnership’, ‘empow-
erment’ and ‘network’ (2014: 10). Best (2012) draws attention to the circulation of notions
such as ‘best practice’, which require judgements to verify conformity that can only be es-
tablished in opposition to worst practice. At the same time, governance discourse develops
an enunciative logic that Moretti and Pestre demonstrate through a statistical analysis of a
corpus of World Bank documents (2015). Words are modulated syntactically and grammat-
ically in order to erase the World Bank’s representation of itself and its world as a linear and
causal sequence of knowledge, agents, actions, procedures, objects, facts and effects linked
by a temporal structure of verbs. The main linguistic mechanism that achieves this is nom-
inalisation, the derivation of abstract nouns from verbs. Thus, for example, co-operating,
which implies the existence of agents who co-operate, is replaced by cooperation, in which
agents are subject to an abstract process in which temporality is abolished and no one is re-
sponsible. Because nominalisations appear to lack agency in order to appear as a process that
conditions action they are difficult to oppose, and they are equally difficult to define as they
are trapped in the circle of gerundification, which functions to leave an action’s completion
undefined and suspended in a continuous progression without actual movement. Sequence
is replaced by listing, a succession of ‘ands’ or even, one might add, bullet points and other
para-­d iscursive marks. In this way governance discourse transcends all determinants of place
and time, and to prove it Moretti and Pestre provide a graph that shows a 50% reduc-
tion in temporal adverbs between 1948 and 2008 in World Bank documents. Even though
Bankspeak is a ‘tortuous form of expression’ (Moretti and Pestre, 2015: 96) it is always
good, phrased as euphoric, progressive, compassionate and empathetic and achieved through
dialogue and partnership. Importantly, as Mulderrig points out in a detailed analysis of a
corpus of UK education policy documents circulated during the period of the New Labour
government, the grammar of governance discourse presupposes the conformity of actors
rather than seeking to secure their volition (2011). Obedience is simply unmarked. In this
way actions are ‘enabled’, autonomy is ‘regulated’, compliance is ‘ensured’ and obligation
and responsibility are distributed.

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The cultural governance imaginary

In general, the initial motivations that established relations between culture and gover-
nance understood culture in an anthropological ‘way of life’ sense and aimed to unify it as
a solution to a situation that Habermas recognised with the proposition that: ‘Modern soci-
eties no longer have at their disposal an authoritative center for self-reflection and steering’
(1987: 553). Even though Habermas’s rational-functionalist notion of an absent centre begs
the question of its former presence, in conditions in which ‘binding decisions’ don’t really
bind the anthropological properties of culture become thinkable as a solution to governing.
In part, this is because given modern individual freedom ‘regulatory norms cannot moti-
vate behaviour that depends on personal initiative, innovation and positive engagement’
(Mayntz, 1994: 14). It is on that basis that action on subjectivity through culture as a form
of governing appears as a solution. This approach is explicit in some of the more ham-fisted
instrumental proposals for scaling up corporate ‘cultural change’ projects to the level of
state and nation, for example, 6’s suggestion that the state should act to provide a coherent
framework of meanings in which social relations can be based making it possible for a soci-
ety to organise itself through the shared understandings of a common culture. A reinvented
government ‘must be about nothing less than changing the whole culture’ (1997, 283). Of
course, such a suggestion presupposes the existence of what it is designed to remedy, namely,
the absence of a centred cultural authority and the presence of a shared culture, let alone a
whole one. Nevertheless, instrumental approaches to the alleged problems of ‘social cohe-
sion’ do trickle down into projects for managing the problems of so-called multiculturalism.
A similar but more sophisticated rational-functionalist approach understands cultural
governance as the outcome of the functional differentiation of the reflexive complexity of
modern liberal democratic political systems. For Bang, cultural governance is the solution
to the problem of the absence of command and control for commanders and controllers to
adopt (2004). On this basis, leaders and managers seek to incorporate as many different types
of actor into the ‘systematic articulation, organizing, programming and implementing of
collective decisions and actions’. Expert systems ‘must invent new modes of indirect steer-
ing for empowering their members and environments and in such a way that they freely,
willingly and self-reflexively can help them solve their problems and deliver desired out-
comes in an effective manner’. This is because systems cannot afford to seal themselves off
from the ‘conventional practices of its ordinary members or environments’ (165). In this way
citizens are responsibilised and compelled to recognise ‘that in an authority relationship, if
citizens fall into confusion and disorder, then not only the political system but also the whole
of society will do so as well’ (186). Obviously, such a technocratic approach relies on the
existence of strong communitarian bonds through which the threat of shaming can be im-
plemented, and Bang admits that this instrumental and programmed approach compromises
citizen capacity for autonomous reason. Bang developed this approach out of ethnographic
work on Danish local government initiatives to include citizens in the process of governing
as, effectively, self-governing. As it turned out, the sorts of re-structuring cultural gover-
nance required were rejected by Danish citizens. Nevertheless, Bang makes explicit some of
the assumptions of commanders and controllers in search of a disinterested rational function
to legitimate their position.
A more amusing interpretation of governance rejects rational-functionalism in favour
of the wisdom of the organic unity of tradition inscribed in the specific culture of the UK
state. Jointly and separately, the work of Bevir and Rhodes has established this approach (e.g.
Bevir and Rhodes, 2005). The state is a cultural entity that ‘consists of all kinds of practices

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from everyday polite exchanges over cups of tea, through symbolic displays of authority and
status, to decisions about policy and its implementation. Yet, each of these practices is any-
thing but monolithic. Polite exchanges over tea do not have a fixed form’ (Bevir, 2011: 463)
or, one may suppose, impolite exchanges. Governance works through ad hoc networks and
muddled interactions with all sorts of individuals and organisations inside and outside the
state as formally understood, and in a pragmatic higgledy-piggledy way without underlying
laws and overarching steering institutions. Political actors are primarily interpreters, and
governance is the process of working out shared meanings, often through conflict, which
then become sedimented as common sense narratives. Everything is network, even markets
and hierarchies, which evolves out of inherited historical traditions, which in turn explain
actions and the formations of interests. Bevir and Rhodes are notoriously coy about the
exercise of power. Instead, politics is about dealing with difficulties and dilemmas, in order
to preserve business as usual. However, the nodding and winking system of rule is not im-
pervious to exogenous shocks. For reasons that are never entirely clear, Bevir admits that ‘a
managerial narrative has clearly made headway in recent years’ (438), which emerged from
neoliberal reforms of the 1980s such as New Public Management. This development is ex-
plained through a disavowal in which the strategic emphasis on networks as a means of act-
ing on governance is reconciled with governance as tradition such that ‘community groups,
private firms and new governmental agencies all had to be integrated into a coherent policy
process. The result was the rise of all kinds of networks and partnerships based on common
agendas’ (467). In fact, Bevir’s disavowal occludes a transition from one myth of governance,
depicted in the famous warm and fuzzy BBC TV satirical situation comedies ‘Yes, Minister’
and ‘Yes, Prime Minister’ of the 1980s, to another depicted by the equally famous cold and
prickly 2005–2012 BBC TV satirical situation comedy omnishambles ‘The Thick of It’ and
spin-off film ‘In The Loop’. Through that shift the relation between cultural governance
and cultural policy emerges and becomes more clearly defined through an agnostic approach
to the ambivalence of culture, or culture in whatever sense.
A good account of this process is Barnett’s analysis of the development of cultural policy
in The European Union (2001). One thing that the EU has never managed to achieve is
cultural unity and identity despite the efforts of its elites to create a common reference point
in Europe’s cultural heritage as a basis for affective legitimacy and despite the notoriously
fragmented or ‘multi-level’ character of EU governance across which cultural policy is dis-
tributed and within which policy actors compete.1 In addition to the democratic deficit, one
of the major obstacles to such a task remains the persistent popularity of American entertain-
ment and its market logic. Such was the anxiety provoked by popular culture that dirigiste
elite responses developed as an official form of Cultural Action, which was consolidated in
the formal recognition of culture in the 1992 Treaty of the European Union. Barnett shows
that despite an elite obsession with elite culture, the development of culture as an object that
could be formed transformed its ontological status from symbol to practice of governing via
its passage through EU governance processes. Culture is transformed from an anthropo-
logical symbolic object of ritual and ceremony to a governable object of policy. According
to Barnett, the vehicle for that process is the development of an ‘ethic of participation’,
designed to encourage active citizenship contributions to cultural development. However,
the presupposition of a common unified culture is minimised in favour of the cultivation of
affective participation or ‘engagement’ that legitimates governance pragmatically. Culture
is no longer used as a means to establish a common European identity. Rather, it becomes
a means by which to legitimise EU policies. In that respect Barnett confirms the relevance,
if perhaps not the intent, of Bennett’s Foucauldian approach that displaced questions of the

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essence of culture in favour of questions of its effects (Barnett, 2001: 27; Bennett, 1992). EU
policy governmentalizes culture in order to shape ‘discrete repertoires of conduct’ in both
cultural and non-cultural policy domains.
Barnett observes that ‘the Commission has found a means by which to reconcile the
discursive tensions between culture and economy in the field of cultural action in a way that
respects the intrinsic qualities of ‘the cultural’ while enabling their instrumental deployment
in the service of economic and political imperatives of integration’ (28). Culture becomes
whatever, for example through the weakening of the distinction between cultural action
as a contribution to a European cultural identity and the legal and economic regulation
of audio-visual policy, or as a means to encourage the acquisition of personal skills such as
flexibility and self-confidence, as well as skills of participation (putting aside the question of
how such attributes became categorised as skills). The limits of the uses of culture are set by
the capacity to invent extensions of its ambivalence. At the same time, political logics emerge
from the ambiguity of governance. Networks of interest-group collective actors develop and
become attached to cultural policy at vertical and horizontal levels of governance and as dif-
ferent degrees of subsidiarity develop. The ambivalence of culture is deployed instrumentally
to mark out territory within administrator-stakeholder networks from which to obtain and
deploy position within the policy process. This development in turn stimulates a politics of
interpretation with respect to definitions of culture and limits to legitimate action and with
respect to competing policy agendas such as economics, law and welfare. Needless to say, all
that stimulates free-riding ‘gravy train’ phenomena through the invention of bureaucratic
devices such as committees, working groups and initiatives organised around the essentially
conflicting demands of harmonisation and diversity that monitor, measure and evaluate cul-
ture to tie subjective will to objective effects in order to calibrate ‘the transformation of
the disposition of citizens in line with multiple objectives’ (31). Insofar as these objectives
change, this process and the strategies of objectification that support it are in principle un-
limited. The tension between the transformative and the expressive cultural imaginaries
is exploited in order to establish ‘legitimate claims over cultural policy functions’ where
‘success depends upon finessing a complex set of questions regarding authority and account-
ability; questions of who represents diversity, when this has been primarily defined in terms
of bounded communities bought together in forms of dialogue and exchange, and questions
of who defines the core values around which diversity should be encouraged to flourish’ (32).
In many respects the developments Barnett analyses are part of a wider, global develop-
ment of the political logics of cultural policy within the hegemonic myth of governance
characterised by the emergence of a material and subjective infrastructure that Yudice de-
scribes as ‘an enormous network of arts administrators who mediate between funding sources
and artists and/or communities. Like their counterparts in the university and business world,
they must produce and distribute the producers of art and culture, who in turn deliver
communities or consumers’ (2003: 13). Yudice’s critique is aimed at the ‘NGO-fication’
of cultural policy and the emergence of a ‘UNESCO-racy’. In turn, these groups support,
sponsor and fund numerous projects and firms, both subsidised and for profit, to support
their activities, creating a vast consultocracy. On the one hand, outsourcing this work to
external contractors allows their conclusions, often in the form of evaluations, to appear
objective and disinterested. On the other, many of the subjects overlap in their group mem-
berships, which are further complicated by the circulation and exchange of knowledge and
people through close and often exclusive networks. As Prince has shown, through a study of
UK DCMS and its regional networks, the consultocracy does not simply record but actively
intervenes (2013, 2015). One of Prince’s key points is that such interventions are mobilised

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through social relations and in doing so participate in the power games that in turn struc-
ture cultural policy. Hence, experts subject themselves to governance requirements in order
to obtain recognition and accreditation, yet at the same time ironise those requirements in
order to maintain subjective agency. The political logics of this process can be seen in the
following examples, which illuminate attempts at cross-national and regional policy transfer.

Political logics of cultural policy

It would be inaccurate to conclude that cultural governance is a monolithic discourse that
is simply ‘rolled out’, to use a teeth-grinding phrase loved by UK manager administrators
in order to occult their own subjectivity, into an eternal future ‘going forward’, to use
another. If the sense-making discourse of cultural governance is understood as a way of
hegemonically coding phenomena, it does not follow that it is guaranteed simply by follow-
ing and repeating its rules of enunciation. Instead, the codes through which cultural gov-
ernance makes sense become the objects of political action, usually through interpretation
in order to gain resource and occasionally through opposition in order to maintain or gain
power. One code, common in governance discourse as Best (2012) pointed out, is the notion
of ‘best practice’, which motivates shortening implementation chains through imitation,
repetition and reproduction. If something is badged as ‘best’ then it stands a chance of being
copied because it requires less effort and less risk because responsibility can be deflected to
pre-constructed criteria, especially if these are not explicitly stated. In that way idiosyncrasy
is marginalised, costs are reduced and action can appear subjectless. The policy is transferred.
Yet the implications of this process are not always fully understood. Improvising on Peck’s
notion of ‘fast policy’ (Peck, 2005), Pratt discusses the diffusion and ‘trickle down’ of cul-
tural policy ‘best practice’ across national borders in the institutional context of the EU and
UNESCO through the critical notion of ‘xerox policy’, and in particular its effects on urban
planning as an effect of the attractions of the ‘magic dust’ of culture and creativity to solve
problems of regeneration and development (2009). Pratt objects to this approach because its
‘rationalist and normative approach to policy’ is blind to questions of variation of place and
context. However, the reason for Pratt’s criticism is that the fragmented and contradictory
character of EU cultural policy is a hindrance to centrally directed implementation and
the reason for that is the persistence of national and regional cultural policy development.
According to Pratt: ‘At best, the ‘model’ that emerges from Europe is idiosyncratic, sub-
jective and contradictory’ (19). Pratt’s criticism erases the values of sensitivity to place and
context it had relied on for moral justification, and the necessarily fragmented multi-level
governance character of EU policy, its formalisation in elastic frameworks and subordination
to principles of subsidiarity, and the turf wars and institutional rivalries that arise from that,
are disavowed (Bach et al., 2016). So Pratt’s replacement for xerox policy is, paradoxically,
the expansion of an original that would homogenise difference through a top-down com-
mand and control structure based on ‘a policy department which has the CCI [Culture and
Creative Industries] as a core and high priority, and an agency which has real resources and
power to implement policy’ (20). In other words, Pratt proposes that the autonomy of place
and context is eliminated through establishing a single model of authoritative governance.
Pratt claims that the UK DCMS is a model of best practice in that regard. It might be an
aspiration but hardly describes the reality. Based on his own experience, as academic expert
and policy advisor for a project that sought to transfer UK DCMS policy to St Petersburg,
as part of the EU’s Tacis programme of ‘technical assistance’ to Russia and the former Soviet
Union in order to provide the city with a ‘cultural industries’ strategy, O’Connor (2005)

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reports a series of obstacles that undermined rather than directly opposed it. Firstly, ‘culture
industry’ in the positive sense did not fit with the Russian Tolstoy style ‘spiritual’ cultural
paradigm, which coded both official and Bohemian hipster independent cultural imaginar-
ies. To weaken that solidarity the project attempted to divide the independents from the
state by deciding to establish ‘an independent intermediary agency that would give voice
to the sector in the city’ (53) and represent its interests to government in coherent pol-
icy language. However, independents rejected that as it would sever access to state subsidy
and encourage the attention of state regulatory agencies and their informal tax extracting
mechanisms. In general, the project could not provide alternative protection against ‘theft
of ideas, abuse of goodwill, arbitrary breaking of lease agreements and unpaid debts’, which
characterised the cash economy of the local business environment. Another strategy aimed
to appeal to the values that united the state and the independents in opposition to the im-
portation of the ‘crassest popular culture’ but unfortunately would have required direct
government intervention, which would in turn require ‘a fundamental shift in attitude to
culture’ as well as ‘root and branch reform of the legal and regulatory frameworks’ (57), in
other words, action on governance from an external source.
It would be a mistake to read such obstacles as straightforward resistance, as they are ele-
ments of the negotiation process through which cultural policy is exchanged. Two factors in
particular are important for shaping outcomes. Firstly, the extent to which neoliberal imag-
inaries are already normalised within governance discourse. Secondly, the extent to which
conflicts over position and position-taking already structure the field of cultural policy. In
the case of South Korea, for example, cultural policy adoption appears to have been relatively
straightforward (Lee, 2016). The ambiguities of cultural policy enabled the attachment of a
spectrum of different interests without creating conflict, even if these subsequently sought
to out manoeuvre each other. The state had adopted the notion of a ‘creative economy’ as
its economic master narrative and tied that to the organisation of the production of wealth
through the development of human capital in flexible networks in order to establish conti-
nuities with the ‘knowledge economy’ that had otherwise been economically disappointing.
Hence, the cultural sector enjoyed economic legitimacy as a way of avoiding the fate of
cheap labour commodity production competition that had befallen so many of South Korea’s
regional rivals. Moreover, South Korea has been able to enjoy a degree of regional cultural
hegemony and benefitted from revenues from intellectual property rents through the export
of its own commercially successful culture industry products. By coding these products in
terms of traditional culture any opposition between that and popular culture was avoided.
However, by developing cultural policy in the direction of ‘creative’ economy the opportu-
nity was created for science and technology interest groups and their manufacturing base to
compete with ‘content industries’ for subsidy by appealing to the certainties of conventional
economic thought based on familiar and easily calculable assumptions about the scalability
of production and objective certainties of the market. Consequently cultural governance
developed in South Korea as a War of Position, rather than, as in the case of St Petersburg,
an external position around which conflicts are organised as a War of Manoeuvre. In South
Korea, as Lee argues, cultural policy is, in Cunnigham’s terms, both ‘Trojan Horse’ and
‘Rorschach blot’, and hence ambivalent.
In their account of the development of cultural policy in Norway, Pinheiro and Hauge
analogise the negotiation process to script editing (2014). The script is comprised of the
mundane and commonplace statistical and diagrammatic images through which it is pre-
sented. The feedback on the presentation process at conferences, seminars, ‘away days’ and
other rituals of governance provides the opportunity for editing. In the case of Norway,

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the process was assisted by the existence of mature multi-level governance structures that
expanded the field of play while preventing direct competition for limited resource. Thus
‘the policy process is a dynamic system or cycle rather than a unilateral one way route from
origin (design) to target (implementation). Hence, in this context, it makes more sense to
talk about ‘nested scripts’ – global, national and sub-national levels – that interact with, and
influence one another, over time’ (92). Such structures serve to prevent an experience of
the imposition of policy as ‘top-down’ command and thus increase the chances of relatively
frictionless adoption within the policy interest tier, if not necessarily within broader social,
economic and cultural sections, because the governance policy process game is already being
played. However, the fortune of scripts is by no means guaranteed, particularly if they are
overcoded, repetitive and familiar. In their account of the development of cultural policy in
Frankfurt, Dzudezek and Lindner (2013) note how presentation audiences would sometimes
ironise and subvert the performance of scripts by, for example, responding to governance
buzzwords such as ‘flagship project’ with exaggerated applause in order to call attention to
their meaninglessness. The opposition partly arose from the fact that computer software and
video game firms had been able to ‘own’ cultural policy at an early point in the process,
thus restricting the ambiguity necessary to recruit as wide a spectrum of interest groups as
possible. Culture was reduced to conventional economic notions giving the local Economic
Development Agency the upper hand and isolating the Department for Arts and Culture.
Consequently, similarly to South Korea, the script was instrumentalised in favour of narrow
socio-economic interests that restricted its hegemonic reach.
Such cases point to the political logic of political actors taking advantage of different posi-
tions advocated by the global cultural policy consultocracy in order to compete with local ri-
vals. Rindzeviciutte, Svenson and Tomson found something like that in the case of Lithuania
(2015). The adoption process was ‘used by local actors as resource for forging new actorial
identities and practices’ (3) enabling organisational and institutional entrepreneurs to rear-
range the cultural policy field rather than seek consensus. Local actors used both the British
Council and the Open Society Fund as resources to obtain revenue from the EU, establish-
ing their own organisations in the process, such as the European Cultural Program Centre at
the Lithuanian Cultural Contact Point. The authority of ‘foreign actors’ armed with ‘graphs
and lists’ was used to weaken establishment resistance so that cultural policy terms became
an accepted framework with which to propose solutions to local economic problems. Despite
the British Council’s promotion of the UK DCMS approach, the Lithuanian Ministry of
Culture adopted what they believed to be a Swedish model of cultural economy, but which
in fact was Throsby’s ‘concentric circles’ or ‘solar’ model promoted by Tobias Nielsen, a
Swedish consultant and entrepreneur. In response, rival organisations sought to verify the
DCMS model by overlaying its maps on Lithuania in order to mobilise its optimistic growth
predictions, despite accusations that this was just a means to advance narrow organisational
interests to obtain funding. The DCMS emphasis on economic growth provoked some de-
fensive responses from established cultural interests who recognised that an expectation of
profitability would negate the justification for subsidy. In fact, some organisations were able
to play both ends against the middle, using funds to stimulate economic growth to subsidise
heritage, conservation and publishing. In this way, Lithuanian actors were able to subvert
the linearity of implementation by complicating the translation process and by exploiting
differences between competing scripts.
The Lithuanian case is an example of cultural policy stimulating tactical positioning
around resource games. In such contexts, there is minimal capacity to govern the passion/
reason balance through which strategic interests are formed at the subjective level. Matthews’s

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detailed ethnographic account of the promotion of cultural policy in the Shetlands, a group
of Norwegian islands annexed by Scotland in 1470 as part of a claim on a dowry debt for
James III’s daughter Margaret, describes a more openly hostile response to cultural policy
(2015). In Scotland any threat to the elites that govern the cultural status quo creates a bit of
a ‘stooshie’ (Stevenson, 2014). Indeed, a long-held position in the Scottish nationalist imagi-
nary is the idea that its cultural elites are entitled to enjoy the role of a sort of bardic legislator
(Moffat and Riach, 2014). However, the Shetlands enjoyed a long history of antagonism
towards Edinburgh, the Scottish capital, with crofters liberated from the tyranny of the
Scottish landowning class by British Prime Minister Gladstone’s Crofter’s Act in 1886. Thus,
its relations to Edinburgh-driven nationalist discourse has always been complex and the
reception of cultural policy is consistent with that pattern. It was implemented through the
creation of Mareel, an arts centre based in Lerwick, the main town, which at the same time
changed the status of Shetland Arts, the local cultural support organisation, to a commercial
‘social enterprise’ required to generate profits from the sale of popcorn and cinema tickets.
For Matthews, these developments verified the observation that the main local political
players were ‘relatively indifferent or even defiant towards the ‘creative economy’ discourse’
(154), a position that was widely shared, not least because it would undermine a comfortable
dependence on revenues from fishing, oil and gas rents and subsidies to a recently invented
tourist magnet ‘traditional culture’, which, Matthews notes, is ‘defended and passed on in a
much more authoritarian manner than one might imagine at first glance, often against whole
segments of the population, and by the means of an unusual (and often vaguely threatening)
institutional and political complex’ (157). In fact, the reality of the Shetlands is a large ser-
vice economy with a minority of inhabitants engaged in directly productive labour, with
alcoholism, crack and heroin consumption and violence significantly higher than the tradi-
tionally high Scottish average. In that context self-destruction and self-conservation merge
and cultural governance is neutralised by its absorption in the management of Mareel. Clearly,
for some the costs of cultural inclusion do not outweigh the risks that cultural policy creates.

Anticipating problems of cultural governance

In conclusion, here are some critical issues that might benefit from further research, although
the myth of governance may lose its hegemonic reach through the development of antag-
onisms from a spectrum of populisms and a general ‘revolt against intermediary bodies’
(Urbinati, 2015). By the same token, the conjuncture of cultural governance may have
passed. So, for example, O’Connor refers to a ‘cultural industries’ moment in the past tense
(2013: 379), suggesting that this may be because, in a cruel irony, cultural policy has been so
successful in demonstrating the ubiquity of culture that its economic specificity has been lost
in a broader ‘creative economy’ master narrative, although perhaps this claim underestimates
the extent to which culture has always been subordinate to creative economy in order to
obtain policy traction. In any event, as the GDP component of culture appears to be pretty
uniform and stable globally, questions of how that is measured notwithstanding, has the
economic boosterism of culture run out of steam? To what sort of problematisations in ‘the
play of true and false’ will it be subject? Will it be able to maintain links with social policy
questions of inclusion, diversity and equality in order to incentivise subsidy and regulation?
Secondly, given the reflexivity of ‘policy learning’ such that its codes are themselves
modes of political gaming within cultural policy, has its discourse run out of sense-making
capacity? Will the consultocracy develop strategies of institutional lock-in to gain security
and mutual dependency? For example, a recent issue of Arts Professional reported the case

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of Arts Council England funding a consultancy on a non-competitive basis to the tune of

£300k to develop an evaluation system for quality metrics that organisations in receipt of
funding will be obliged to use at £2000 a pop (Hill 2015)2 Or will new discursive strategies
and enunciative positions emerge to overcome overcoding and stimulate ‘policy learning’?
Thirdly, will cultural policy adapt to local conditions through greater sensitivity to local
regimes? For example, in April 2016 Vince Cable, Liberal Party MP and former Secretary of
State for Business, Innovation and Skills in the UK coalition government of 2010–2015, gave
a talk at Polovcova House in St Petersburg with all the usual PowerPoint slides to explain
‘how creative industries work in UK’. The title of the presentation was ‘Creative Authority’,
presumably chosen in order to enhance compatibility with Russian style authoritarian de-
mocracy.3 Or will the consultocracy adopt a universal moral prism with which to frame
cultural advocacy, as, for example, in De Beukelaer’s application of Sen and Nussbaum’s
‘capabilities approach’ to culture industry development in Ghana and Burkina Faso (2012).
Fourthly, what challenges are emerging to the governability of culture? A critical aspect
of that question is the processes understood as effects of globalisation. States and govern-
ments have invested considerable resources in protections against the flow of global culture
industry but with very little success without the support of authoritarian violence, often
under the sign of ‘diversity’. But these processes are not restricted to the infrastructures of
texts and symbols. They include people, often as a consequence of authoritarian violence. As
Robins pointed out (2007), in these circumstances investment in a common shared culture is
restricting and reactive. Culture increasingly frees itself from roots and attachment and defies
‘the containing powers of nation states and national societies’ (157). Consequently, Robins
proposes extending the rights recognised through multiculturalism to transcultural diver-
sity, but with less emphasis on integration and stability, more on mobility, porosity, fluidity,
as a sort of right to impurity and hybridity, to nomadism. Such an approach privileges a
poetics of becoming over a rhetoric of being. So a question for the politics of culture is what
side of that opposition is it on?

Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Dave O’Brien for helpful comments and suggestions and editorial
direction.

Notes
1 For an account of EU cultural policy that outlines the institutional structures that support these
characteristics, see Chapter 26.
2 For criticisms of the tendering process, see Selwood (2015) and subsequent correspondence in
cultural trends.
3 I am grateful to Tatiana Romashko of Herzen University, St Petersburg, for this information.

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 Part III
Rights and cultural policy
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 11
Disabled people and culture
Creating inclusive global cultural policies

Anne-Marie Callus and Amy Camilleri-Zahra

Introduction
Cultural policy is inevitably shaped by dominant cultural assumptions. In many cultures,
disability is largely viewed negatively, with disabled people seen either as tragic figures ren-
dered bitter or helpless through their circumstances or as heroes bravely overcoming the
odds created by their impairments. Such representations are oppressive for disabled people
and continue to propagate a disabling culture. However, culture can be a source of liberation
or emancipation (Brown 2003). In fact, the politicisation of disability has prompted a new
disability culture, which challenges long-held stereotypes and traditional representations of
disability. Through the disability arts movement, disabled people have sought to produce a
culture aimed at exploring a positive identity of disability whilst combating the dominant
disablist culture (Swain and French 2000, Arts Council England 2003). Disability culture
can thus be an agent of change and a means of promoting and validating disabled people’s
own constructions of disability (Barnes and Mercer 2010).
Culture is a vast subject to deal with, has manifold manifestations and has developed in
different ways around the world. In order to give this chapter a defined scope, we focus on
five different cultural forms from a Western and mostly Anglophone cultural perspective,
namely: narratives, poetry, visual arts, performing arts, and online media. The points raised
are applicable to other forms of culture and to culture in different parts of the world. The
relevance of the issues raised to cultural policy is highlighted throughout the chapter.

A note on terminology
In line with the social model of disability, as explained later in this chapter, a distinction is
made between ‘disability’ and ‘impairment’. Therefore, impairment is taken to mean ‘the
functional limitation within the individual caused by physical, mental or sensory impair-
ment’ (Disabled People’s International 1982, p. 105), and disability to mean ‘the loss or lim-
itation of opportunities to take part in the normal life of the community on an equal level
with others due to physical and social barriers’ (Disabled People’s International 1982, p. 105).
Thus, the term ‘disabled people’ will be used throughout this chapter in order to refer

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to ‘people with impairments who are disabled by socially constructed barriers’ (Clark and
Marsh 2003, p. 2) and to particularly emphasise the disabling barriers of stigma, prejudice
and discrimination encountered by disabled people.

Disabled people’s history: from rejects to rights holders

The year 2006 was a significant year for the disabled people’s movement and for the one bil-
lion disabled people across the world. It was the year that the United Nations General Assem-
bly adopted by general consensus the Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities
(CRPD). The adoption of the CRPD came after many years of relentless work by disabled
people who were finally able to tackle discrimination and oppression through international
legislation. One of the most significant aspects of the CRPD is that, for the first time, dis-
abled people were directly involved in the drafting of a legislation that specifically targets
them, in line with the disabled people’s movement battle cry of ‘Nothing about us, without
us’. One of the eight general principles of the CRPD listed under Article 3 is: ‘Full and effec-
tive participation and inclusion in society’. One way of ensuring the implementation of this
particular principle is by securing the participation of disabled people in the arts and culture
sector both as consumers and as producers. In addition, the right to participation in cultural
life is also particularly enshrined in Article 30 of the CRPD, to which we return later.
In order to understand the need for enshrining disabled people’s rights in international
legislation, and the relevance of this legislation to cultural policy, it is important to be aware
of the ways in which disability has historically been represented in culture. For its represen-
tation in Western culture, the focus of this chapter, it is interesting to note that the roots of
the association between disability and weakness stem from the culture of ancient Greece.
As Barnes (1996) points out, Greek city states were constantly warring with each other, and
physical and mental prowess was therefore greatly valued. ‘Inevitably in this type of society,
physical and intellectual fitness was essential: there was little room for people with any form
of flaw or imperfection’, and severely deformed babies were left to die (Barnes 1996, p. 52).
The Judeo-Christian religious traditions are also considered to have exerted significant
influence on cultural constructions of disability in Western Europe. Stiker (1999) explains, in
his History of Disability, that in the Book of Leviticus (part of the Jewish Torah as well as of the
Old Testament in the Christian Bible), disability is linked with uncleanliness, although the
duty to care for disabled people is emphasised. Stiker (1999) argues that these attitudes – of ex-
clusion on the one hand and benevolence on the other – are not contradictory. ‘Sin and defect
deny the disabled a religious role, but they introduce an ethical and social imperative’ (p. 27).
Therefore, bodily impairments have long been viewed as a sign of weakness, and responses
have varied from ostracism to charity. Industrialisation and the concomitant need for people
to be able to work new machinery and the imperative to be economically productive created
a clear demarcation between disabled and non-disabled people (Barnes 1997). Advances in
medicine and science eventually moved disability into the medical sphere, especially with
the rise of rehabilitation after the First World War (Stiker 1999). In all of these cases, physical
impairments place the disabled person outside the bounds of what is considered to be human
normality. The same can be said for impairments, which affect the functions of the mind, such
as mental health issues or cognitive impairments. These run counter to the value placed on ra-
tionality in Western philosophy, especially since the Enlightenment ‘which put its faith in the
power of human reason to explain the universe and provide a basis for morality’ (Bowie 2003,
p. 274). Foucault (2001) links the receding of the threat of leprosy at the end of the Middle
Ages with the identification of the mentally disturbed person as the new scapegoat, the outcast.

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The disabled person, whatever his or her impairment, has thus historically been placed
outside of society not only physically but also conceptually. In his seminal critique of residen-
tial institutions for persons with intellectual disability in the United States, Wolfensberger
(1972) links the setting up of these institutions with the deleterious cultural perceptions of
the roles persons with intellectual disability are deemed to play within society. He identifies
perceptions of the ‘retarded person’, the terminology used at his time of writing, as sick; a
sub-human organism; a menace; an object of pity; a burden of charity; a holy innocent; a
developing individual; and an object of merriment and ridicule.
A common feature of the different concepts and representations of disability outlined
above is that they have all been conceived by non-disabled people. The perspectives of dis-
abled people themselves would not gain any voice until the twentieth century, especially
after the Second World War when the disabled people’s movement became more vocal and
effective. In the United Kingdom and the United States, people with physical disabilities
were the first to campaign for their right to be included in a society adapted for their needs
(Shapiro 1994, Campbell and Oliver 1996). Meanwhile, in these as well as Scandinavian
countries, parents of disabled children placed in institutions were campaigning for the right
of their children (most of whom had an intellectual disability) to live in community-based
residences (Mansell and Ericsson 1995).
The most significant outcome of the disabled people’s movement was convincing
legislators and policy and decision makers of the need to shift responsibility for adapting and
changing from the disabled individual onto society. This shift is linked to the acknowledge-
ment that the difficulties encountered by disabled people are not simply the inevitable effect
of their impairments, but also the effect of socially constructed barriers, which can often be
removed. This led to the formulation of the ‘social model’ of disability by Oliver (1990). It
is the model on which the distinction between impairment and disability, set out in the note
on terminology above, is based. It is also the model on which the CRPD, various disability
discrimination laws and policies are based.
The social model is therefore important for cultural policy. Guidance in this regard is
provided by the CPRD (United Nations 2006), especially Article 30 Participation in cultural
life, recreation, leisure and sport. Meeting the requirements of this Article entails ensuring
that, first of all, disabled people have the means to express themselves through different cul-
tural forms; second, they have access to cultural activities and cultural products and third,
they enjoy recognition and support of their own cultural identities. The first two of these
points are considered further below in this chapter. Addressing the third point entails first
analysing the perspectives that dominate in the cultural representations of disability. The
next section deals with the representations of disability in different Western, and especially
Anglophone, cultural forms and relates the analyses to the development of disability-aware
cultural policy.

Cultural representations of disabled people

There is a rich, and ever growing, body of scholarship that analyses historic and cultural
representations of disabled people, some of which is explored in this section. The analysis
provided in this scholarship shows that, generally speaking, the effect of normative and
therefore exclusionary views of disability can be seen in traditional and even contemporary
representations of disability in various cultural forms. These representations are increasingly
counterbalanced by more nuanced representations of disability. The study of cultural rep-
resentations of disability is vast. For reasons of space, this section considers just four types

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of representations from high and popular culture: visual art, literature, film, and the use of
disability in inspirational posters.
In his seminal work Disability Aesthetics, Siebers (2010) explores the role of disability in vi-
sual representations of the human body, especially in modern and contemporary art. Siebers
states his position very clearly at the outset of his book:

My claim is that the acceptance of disability enriches and complicates notions of the aes-
thetic, while the rejection of disability limits definitions of artistic ideas and objects. (p. 3)

Siebers (2010) argues that, far from rejecting disability, art embraces it even if not always in
an explicit manner. He uses the Nazi’s stance on art as the prime example of how the pursuit
of human perfection leads to sterility in art. Siebers refers to the Nazi’s rejection of modern
art as degenerate and sick. He contrasts Nazi sculpture, such as that displayed in the Great
German Art Exhibition of 1939, with the Venus de Milo. The loss or ‘amputation’ of her arms
does not in any way detract from her beauty. And while this ‘amputation’ was undoubtedly
unintentioned by the original sculptor, it is highlighted in Magritte’s 1931 version in Les
Menottes de cuivre with its flesh-coloured body and the blood-like pigment on the stump of
its left shoulder. As Siebers argues:

The figure of disability checks out of the asylum, the sick house, and the hospital to take
up residence in the art gallery, the museum, and the public square. Disability is now and
will be in the future an aesthetic value in itself.
(2010, p. 139)

Whether the disabled figure in modern and contemporary art is articulated as such is another
matter. In her discussion of our perceptions of anomalous bodies, Silvers (2000) contrasts the at-
traction held by representations of such bodies in works of art and the rejection of these bodies in
real life. She describes her own experience of wanting to keep looking at a Picasso portrait, with
his trademark depiction of deformed faces, but avoiding to look at the face of her friend, who
was born with facial and bodily deformities, and asks why this should be so. Silvers contends that:

we must conclude that ugliness is neither an objective property, nor is it an epiphenom-

enon of deformation or other objective anomalies, or else that ugliness pertains to being
real, so that it is an objective property, but only of real things, and never of their artistic
imitations or representations.
(2000, p. 203)

Therefore, while representations of disability in visual art are used as reflections on the
human condition, culturally dominant interpretations of that art do not extend to reflections
on what it means to live with a disability and on disabled people’s culture.
Mitchell and Snyder (2000) make a related observation regarding literary representations
of disability. Disabled people’s physical and mental differences have been used extensively
as literary devices, what the authors call ‘narrative prosthesis’. One of the most famous
prosthesis, in both the literal and the figurative senses of the word, is Captain Ahab’s. His
monomaniacal pursuit of Moby Dick, the whale that bit off his leg, is symbolised by his im-
pairment in a way that, as Mitchell and Snyder (2000, p. 121) write, ‘yokes disability to in-
sanity, obsessive revenge, and the alterity of bodily variation’. Examples of the link between
disability and negative emotions abound in literature. They are symptomatic of the fact that

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disability is not seen as ‘a natural part of the human condition. … it was understood as an
“attachment”, as something extra that, for whatever reason, happened to a person’ (Michalko
2003, p. 5). The inclusion of disabled characters in narratives therefore ironically serves to
further entrench the exclusion of disabled people from society (Mitchell and Snyder 2000).
Another problematic aspect of this attitude towards disability in literature is that many
depictions of disabled characters are not realistic. Susan Nussbaum, the disabled American
playwright and novelist, writes thus:

I used to wonder where all the writers who have used disabled characters so liberally
in their work were doing their research. When I became a wheelchair-user in the late
seventies, all I knew about being disabled I learned from reading books and watching
movies, and that scared the shit out of me. Tiny Tim was long-suffering and angelic and
was cured at the end. Quasimodo was a monster who loved in vain and was killed at
the end, but it was for the best. Lenny was a child who killed anything soft, and George
had to shoot him. It was a mercy killing. Ahab was a bitter amputee and didn’t care how
many people died in his mad pursuit to avenge himself on a whale. Laura Wingfield had
a limp, so no man would ever love her.
(2014, p. 301)

The works of literature in this quotation all have filmic versions, and the problematic
depictions of disabled characters in them are transposed to the screen, as can be seen in
Longmore’s (2003) seminal review of some films where the main character has a disability.
One of these is Whose Life Is It Anyway? (1981), which tells the story of Ken, a young sculptor
who becomes quadriplegic following a traffic accident. Longmore (2003) criticises the film
for distorting the contemporary situation with regards to the opportunities for rehabilitation
and the assistive equipment that could have helped Ken lead a more independent life. For ex-
ample, Ken is pushed around in a manual wheelchair instead of being given a power wheel-
chair that he could operate himself. But, as Longmore argues, introducing these elements
would have undermined the validity of the claim that Ken’s wanting to die was justified. ‘If
he operated a power chair himself, that would further undermine the false impression of his
utter helplessness’ (2003, p. 120). Significantly, a film that was released 23 years after Whose
Life Is It Anyway?, Million Dollar Baby (2004), picks up on the same theme of a quadriplegic
wanting to die – this time with the story of Frankie, a female boxer who is also paralysed
from the neck down during a boxing match.
As a counterbalance to these narratives, others present more rounded portrayals of dis-
abled persons. One such film is My Left Foot (1989), based on the autobiography of Christy
Brown, an Irishman born with severe cerebral palsy who could only manipulate his left foot.
In his review, Longmore (2003) comments that in this film Brown is portrayed as an agent
in his own life who, although he does contemplate suicide at one point, has much to live
for. This is also the case for two biopics, based on memoirs, of persons with severe physical
disabilities – Untouchable (2011) and The Theory of Everything (2014). But, as Longmore argues,
this is not necessarily how film critics see these characters. For example, he criticises a film
reviewer who spoke of Brown in My Left Foot as helpless.
The point made by Longmore (2003) in this criticism touches on a very important issue
regarding the reception of portrayals of disability by non-disabled people: seeing Brown as
a helpless victim of his condition is a reflection of stereotyped misconceptions of what it is
like to live with a severe and lifelong disabling condition. Such stances ignore the view-
points of disabled persons, especially those of disabled activists, and remain entrenched in

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the traditional equation of disability with tragedy and loss. This tendency can also be seen in
the reactions to films portraying people with other types of impairments. One film whose
reception by (presumably non-disabled) film reviewers and disabled activists provides sharp
contrasts is Tropic Thunder (2008), a satire on Hollywood. Self-advocacy groups, led by people
with intellectual disability, protested strongly against the film especially because of the re-
peated use of the word ‘retard’, which they find highly offensive, and the portrayal of the
character Simple Jack (see for example Egle 2008). Jack (played by Ben Stiller) is presented as
an ill-groomed, awkward and overgrown child and a grotesque embodiment of all the ste-
reotypes associated with people with intellectual disability. Reviews of the film focus mostly
on whether Tropic Thunder’s satire, and Stiller’s own brand of humour, work or not. Those
reviewers who do refer to the issues raised by disabled activists tend to be dismissive of them.
Many scholars within the humanities and reviewers and critics whose job it is to appraise
different cultural expressions do not seem to have caught up with the work of disabled activ-
ists and that of Disability Studies scholars. The negative connotations of disability that have
been inherited from antiquity still appear dominant, albeit sometimes in subtle ways. For
instance the portrayal of the disabled person as superhero is not, prima facie, a negative one. It
is nonetheless problematic. Possibly one of the best analyses of what is wrong with such rep-
resentations is by Stella Young (2014). Young criticises the portrayal of ordinary activities –
such as working, studying and pursuing personal interests – as extraordinary simply because
they are carried out by disabled people.
Young is particularly critical of what she calls ‘inspirational porn’ – the use of images
of disabled people accompanied by inspirational quotes. One such image is a poster of the
paralympian athlete Oscar Pistorius (prior to his shooting of Reeva Steenkamp) running on
his blades alongside a small girl who also has prosthetic legs with a quotation from disabled
figure skater, Scott Hamilton, ‘the only disability in life is a bad attitude’. This and similar
posters often shared on social media sites are problematic because they entrench the idea of
disability as an individual problem, with the onus remaining on the disabled person to strive
to overcome the challenges presented by the impairment rather than responsibility being
placed on society to adapt itself to the needs of disabled persons. Such quotations can also
lead disabled people to feel ashamed of their lack of achievement in different areas of life.
And they can easily lead to a dehumanised view of disabled people. As Young (2014, at 2.33
minutes) states, in this view, ‘We are not real people. We are there to inspire’.
The views of disability activists and scholars on the cultural representations of disabled
people often remain the sole concern of those directly involved in the disability sector.
However, the push for the inclusion of disabled people in the mainstream of society needs
to be complemented with the mainstreaming of their culture and cultural identity, not least
in cultural policy. Such a move entails taking on board the views of disability activists and
scholars on the representation of disability in various forms of culture produced by non-­
disabled as well as by disabled people.
The cultural expressions of disabled people themselves merit analyses in their own right
since they often run counter to the representations of disability found in mainstream culture.
It is to these expressions that we must now turn.

Disabled people’s own cultural expressions

In response to a negative disabling culture and with the aim of arguing against social exclu-
sion and marginalisation, disabled people have been, especially since the 1980s, generating
cultural expressions to create meaning from their own experiences of disability. They have

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been using different forms of art to show the world that they are proud of who they are and
that they claim their disability with pride as part of their identity (Brueggemann 2013). In
fact, according to Swain and French (2000) and the Arts Council England (2003), one of the
areas where a positive identity of disability is appreciably cultivated is definitely within the
area of ‘disability arts’. The philosophy of disability art is based on disabled people coming
together and collectively identifying themselves as a group bound by experiences of oppres-
sion (Hargrave 2015). A focus on ‘disability arts’ is also made in Article 30 (2) of the CRPD,
which highlights the need for State Parties to take all appropriate measures to give disabled
people the opportunity to be producers of art themselves. In this section we shall be looking
at some of disabled people’s own expressions of culture within a Western and Anglophone
context, namely theatre, poetry, art and music.
Britain saw the vigorous development of a disability arts culture in the mid-1980s.
Disability arts culture is an integral product of the disability political movement of the 1970s
and 1980s (Darke 2003). Disability cultural expression in Britain became mostly visible with
the foundation of the London Disability Arts Forum, along with two influential magazines:
Disability Arts and later Disability Arts Magazine (Darke 2003). The London Disability Arts
Forum (LDAF) was founded in 1986 by a group of disabled artists and activists frustrated
by the lack of provision for disabled people in the arts world and focused on promoting dis-
ability arts and the work of disabled artists (Darke 2003). LDAF used art as a means of iden-
tifying and revealing how cultural forms can have the power to establish a different world
and not simply reflect an already given social world (Bowler 1994). LDAF aimed at putting
forward cultural expressions that were inclusive, accessible, revolutionary and egalitarian in
a social world that was exclusive and discriminatory towards disabled people (Darke 2003).
Similarly, the disability arts movement in America stemmed from disability activists who
insisted on making their voices heard in all aspects of life through art and by affirming a
positive identity of disability. Just as children of slavery came together to assert that: ‘Black is
beautiful’, so, Owen (an American disability activist) claims that the disability arts culture in
America is a product of disabled people coming together to mutually affirm a sense of pride
and to express a desire to identify themselves with disability as a positive identity (Fleischer
and Zames 2011). One of the areas where American disabled artists found space to express
themselves was the magazine The Disability Rag (Nielson 2012).
Barnes and Mercer (2010) point out that disability arts have three aims: First, they are
concerned with using the arts as a means of activism with the purpose of exposing discrim-
ination and prejudice as well as challenging the stereotypes experienced by disabled people.
Second, they are concerned with the exploration of the experience of living with an im-
pairment and with giving positive value to disability. Third, through disability arts disabled
people argue the case for mainstream access to artistic production and consumption.
Although through traditional paternalistic attitudes, art has often been regarded as an
appropriate activity for special schools and day centres, or a form of individual therapy,
‘disability arts’ are politically influenced and take both a reflective and active orientation.
Thus, as explained by Barnes and Mercer (2010, p. 207) there exists a very clear distinction
between ‘disability arts’ and what they refer to as ‘disabled people doing art’. ‘Disability arts’
is also different from the kind of art created by artists with impairments such as musicians
Ray Charles and Def Leppard’s drummer Rick Allen, who contrary to artists who produce
‘disability arts’, have reacted in a personal and private rather than in a political and overt
way. The fundamental aim of disability arts is ‘work of disabled artists, whose experiences
with disability are recognised as an integral force underlying the artistic process’ (Baglieri
and Shapiro 2012, p. 100).

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According to Vasey (1992), disability arts provides a space in which disabled people can
come together to have a good time and also think about issues of common concern. One of
the most popular expressions of art by disabled people for disabled people with the aim of
‘…speak[ing] the truth about the disability and experience’ (Masefield 2006, p. 22) and
of bringing disabled people together is Johnny Crescendo’s song titled “Choices and Rights”.
Johnny Crescendo is considered one of the first disability artists from the first wave of the
Disability Arts Movement in the United Kingdom. His songs are considered extremely po-
litical, and he is well known for not being afraid of expressing his views directly (Sutherland
2008). The song with the words:

I don’t want your sorrow, I don’t want your fear, I want choices and rights in our lives,
I don’t need your guilt trip, I don’t want your tears, I want choices and rights in our lives
(www.disabilityartsonline.org.uk)

became known as the ‘anthem’ of the international disability rights movement (Campbell
and Oliver 1996).
One of the aims of disability art is exposing negative images and stereotypes of disabil-
ity as well as challenging the discrimination and oppression often encountered by disabled
people (French and Swain 2012). One such cultural expression is Liz Crow’s film project
titled Resistance: Which way the future? (2008). The project outlines the Aktion-T4 Nazi mass
murder programme, which targeted disabled people. Liz Crow, through the main character
named Ellie Blick, showed the atrocities that disabled people suffered as an effect of this
mass murder programme. Furthermore, she drew a parallel between the Nazi’s oppression of
disabled people during the Second World War and the discrimination that disabled people
face today. Liz Crow later also accepted the request to participate in Anthony Gormley’s
Fourth Plinth Project One and Other at Trafalgar Square in 2009 with the aim of giving more
people the opportunity to engage with the act (Hambrook 2014). Liz portrayed her project
by sitting in her wheelchair in full Nazi regalia whilst lifting a flag and quoting Niemoeller,
‘First they came for the sick, the so-called incurables and I did not speak out because I was
not ill…’ (www.roaring-girl.com).
Bedding Out (2012) is another striking performance by Liz Crow. In an interview for
The Guardian, Crow describes this project as ‘a sort of un-performance’ (Adewunmi 2013).
Bedding Out is about making her private life public, something that according to Liz herself,
she had not divulged for over 30 years. For a period of 48 hours, on stage, Crow performs the
other side of her ‘fractured’ self, that is, her bed-life. In another interview in 2013, with the
organisation Disabled People’s Against Cuts, Crow reveals how she wears a public self that
is ‘energetic, dynamic and happening’ and has another, private, life she spends in bed due to
her illness. According to Crow her private self is ‘…neither beautiful nor grown-up, it does
not win friends or accolades and I conceal it carefully’ (Disabled People Against Cuts, 2012).
Canadian disabled scholar and activist Catherine Frazee explains that the role of dis-
ability arts in shaping disability cultures is vital. According to her (as cited in Johnston
2012, p. 10): ‘In Canada, the United States and around the world, [disabled] artists and
performers…are contributing to one of the most radical and effective aspects of disability
culture – challenging conventional notions of beauty, form and notion’. Riva Lehrer is a
disabled artist who continuously challenges the conventional notions of beauty through
her artwork. Lehrer actively campaigns for disability rights and disability pride through
her art (Millett-Gallant 2010). Lehrer’s artwork offers a strong visual image of the human-­
nonhuman relationship between a disabled person and the environment.

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In the painting “In the Yellow Woods”, Lehrer shows a woman kneeling on the
ground in what looks like a forest, whilst peeling the bark off a tree branch with a knife.
Surrounding the woman are human bones – a perfect pelvis, a rib cage and parts of the legs
and spine, bones that look like they were carved from tree branches and tree trunks by the
same woman. The bones look perfect and like they have not been marked by pain, surgery
or breakage. The painting also shows the woman immensely concentrating on her task at
hand, suggesting that these bones are a great necessity. Yet, the woman in the painting does
not seem to be after creating wholeness or after a cure as has often been the role of narra-
tives pertaining to disability (Anderson and O’Sullivan 2010). Rather, in this painting, the
bones are scattered around her sinking into the ground and becoming part of the autumn
landscape (Kafer 2013). According to Kafer (2013, p. 146), the painting is not about the
triumph over disability, or an ‘ableist story of bodies without limitation’, but rather a story
about a woman who is ‘…making a connection between caring for the body and caring for
the earth’.
One particular characteristic of disability art is black humour, and this is clearly illustrated
in one of the works of actor, playwright and poet Lynn Manning. His poem, “The Magic
Wand”, about an African-American man with a white cane, cynically compares two stereo-
types, one of racism and one of disability:

Quick-change artist extraordinaire,

I whip out my folded cane
and change from black man to blind man

Manning is well known for his autobiographical solo Weights. The play is about Manning’s
own personal journey of being a black man who, at the age of 27, also became a blind
man after having been shot by a drunk driver (Piggott-McMillan 2005). Through Weights,
Manning brings to the forefront a chronology of experiences from his childhood to his life
after the shooting with a touch of funny episodes about his adjustment to blindness. Weights
premiered in 2000 and went on to receive a Fringe Review Theatre Award at the 2008
Edinburgh Fringe Festival (www.lynnmanning.com).
As mentioned in the first section of this chapter, for many years, the definition of disability
has been rooted in a medicalised understanding (Barnes 1997). According to Oliver (1990)
the representation of disability as a pathology reduces its experience to a tragedy borne only
by the individual and treatable only through the intervention of health. Furthermore, Oliver
(1990) contends that the medicalisation of disability often affects the individual experience
of disability. Disability art has been used as a powerful tool to question the medicalisation of
disability and to challenge ableist assumptions (Darke 2004). Neil Marcus, a New York poet
and playwright, uses his poem, “Disabled Country” to claim disability as an identity and to
move out of the shadow of constant medicalisation:

If there was a country called disabled,

I would be from there.
…I came there at age 8. I tried to leave.
Was encouraged by doctors to leave.

In addition, Marcus uses the poem to explain how through his life he has had to take on a
project, that of making himself comfortable and “at home” in his country called “disabled”,
a process both personal and political (Hall 2015).

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The final example of disability art brings to the fore the role of the non-disabled artist
in disability arts. The statue of Alison Lapper Pregnant, referred to by many as a collabora-
tion between Quinn and Lapper, received contrasting comments during its participation
in the Fourth Plinth Project in London’s Trafalgar Square (Millett 2008). Alison Lapper,
a contemporary artist and photographer born without hands and feet, posed naked whilst
pregnant for the sculptor Marc Quinn, who in Lapper’s own words managed to capture her
as “naked, pregnant and proud” (as cited in Smith 2015). Quinn wanted to draw attention
to stereotypes and to include them in public debate with the aim of educating the public
(Millett-Gallant 2010). As Millett (2008) points outs, Alison Lapper Pregnant makes a public
statement about this disabled woman’s right to be represented as a productive social subject
and a reproductive sexual being and her right to represent others. The statue of Alison
Lapper brings to the foreground two intertwining identities, that of a disabled identity and
that of a gendered identity (Garland-Thomson 2010).
Notwithstanding the considerable amount of disability art created by disabled people
with the aim of putting forward a positive identity of disability and the adoption of the
CRPD by the United Nations, particularly Article 30 (2), most disabled people still encoun-
ter obstacles when trying to access mainstream culture both as producers and as consumers.
Access to culture will be discussed in the next section.

Access to culture
We have so far explored how, on the whole, various forms of culture produced by non-­
disabled people do not acknowledge disabled people’s cultural identities and how per-
formances, writing and cultural expressions produced by disabled people run counter to
dominant cultural representations of disability. As seen above, Article 30 of the CRPD
(United Nations 2006) affirms the right of disabled people to these cultural expressions and
to accessibility in the sphere of culture. It sets out arrangements that need to be in place for
this right to be enjoyed. While it is important that on a conceptual level disabled people’s
own cultural expressions and their critique of mainstream representations of disability in-
form cultural policy, it is also essential for cultural policy makers to be aware of how to make
these expressions and representations accessible to all.
One of the obligations included in Article 30 concerns the provision of ‘access to cultural
material in accessible formats’, including by ensuring that ‘laws protecting intellectual property
rights do not constitute an unreasonable or discriminatory barrier to access by persons with
disabilities to cultural materials’ (United Nations 2006, p. 22). The reference point in this re-
gard is the Marrakesh Treaty, adopted by the World Intellectual Property Organisation (2013).
This Treaty covers the rights of persons who have difficulty accessing printed material, such as
those with visual impairments, those who have other reading difficulties and those who cannot
physically handle a book or move their eyes to be able to read. Countries ratifying this Treaty
are obliged to ensure that intellectual copyright laws do not hinder persons with print disabili-
ties from accessing printed material such as novels, poetry anthologies and scripts, in accessible
formats, such as Braille, large print and electronic and audio formats. The latter two have be-
come increasingly possible thanks to advances in information and communication technology.
Another aspect of access to information is the Internet, including social media. The
World Wide Web Consortium (2015) provides guidelines for ensuring access to websites and
web-based services. Yet another aspect is access to information for people with intellectual
disability. Generally speaking, this requires the provision of easy-to-read material – both
in terms of creating documents that are easy to read and providing easy-to-read versions of

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already existing documents such as the ones mentioned above. The Department of Health’s
(2010) guidelines as well as those published by Mencap (no date) are very useful in this regard.
Access, as set out in Article 30 of the CRPD, is also related to accessibility to audiovi-
sual material, including sign language interpreting for deaf persons, captioning for hearing-­
impaired persons and audio description for visually impaired persons. Sign language
interpreting is also possible for plays, musicals, dance and other performances. The usual
practice is for specific performances to provide this service. Article 30 also specifies ac-
cess to, among others, ‘theatres, museums, cinemas, libraries and tourism services, and, as
far as possible, … access to monuments and sites of national cultural importance’ (United
Nations 2006, p. 22). The Centre for Universal Design (2015) provides comprehensive
guidelines regarding access to the built environment, outdoor environments and products.
Museums offer a good example of how different aspects of accessibility can be brought to-
gether (Chimirri-Russell 2010, Sandell and Dodd 2010). The most obvious aspect is physical
access to the museum and to the rooms and facilities within it. Then there is also access to
information – including sub-titling of audiovisual information, Brailling of printed infor-
mation and the provision of easy-to-read information sheets. Because museums are largely
based on providing visual information through their various exhibits, they should also offer
additional arrangements for people with visual impairments. These include audio descrip-
tions, touch tours that are provided at set times and tactile zones where visitors are allowed to
touch certain artefacts (for example reproductions of sculptures or scale models of buildings);
for more on this topic see Strechay and Annis (2012).
Crucially, Article 30 also deals with disabled people’s right ‘to develop and utilise their
creative, artistic and intellectual potential, not only for their own benefit, but also for the
enrichment of society’ (United Nations 2006, p. 22). This includes having access to ‘appro-
priate instruction, training and resources’ (p. 23). It also means, of course, giving disability
arts their due importance and providing the spaces and resources for them to flourish.

Conclusion
In conclusion, it is vital for the makers of cultural policies, and those involved in their im-
plementation, to take disabled people’s issues into account. As seen in this chapter, they need
to understand historical and contemporary influences on cultural representations of disabled
people, especially through the insights afforded by Disability Studies scholars. They also
need to appreciate the unique contribution made by disabled people to culture especially
through disability arts, in which the experience of living with a disability is foregrounded in
an affirmative manner. Finally, cultural policy makers and implementers need to recognise
how they can and should set about ensuring disabled people’s access to culture as consumers
and producers of culture themselves. These three points are intimately linked, and by taking
them into account we can help ensure that cultural policy and its implementation truly
represent the variety of human experience and the meanings made out of that experience.

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 12
Minority languages, cultural policy
and minority language media
The conflicting value of the
‘one language–one nation’ idea

Enrique Uribe-Jongbloed and Abiodun Salawu

On October 1st, 2015, the NGO Plataforma per la llengua published a news article on its web
page complaining about the lack of Catalan subtitles vis-à-vis Spanish on the films exhibited
at the Sitges Film Festival hosted in the Catalonian town south of Barcelona. Plataforma per
la llengua argued that despite an investment by the regional culture department (Department
de Cultura de la Generalitat) of €600.000, less than 15% of films originally produced in other
languages were subtitled into Catalan compared to 99% of films that were subtitled in Spanish.
Plataforma per la llengua created a small poster (see Figure 12.1) to express this position and
encouraged people to go to the festival displaying it. On October 13th, Plataforma per la llengua
issued a second statement claiming that, despite the Sitges Film Festival officials denying the sit-
uation, they continued to pursue their claim that less than 16% of films were available in Catalan.
The discussion about Catalan dubbing and subtitling at movie theaters in Catalonia is not
new. Despite the passage of a law in 2010 by the Generalitat in Catalonia demanding that
50% of films to be exhibited in cinemas across Catalonia be dubbed or subtitled in Catalan
(Cordonet & Forniès 2013), exemptions had to be made in 2014 regarding European films
as demanded by the EU (ABC, 2014-02-04), and the 2015 case at Sitges has continued with
the same linguistic critiques of cultural policies.
The situation described above highlights one of the conflicts between cultural subventions
and cultural representation of minority, or even minoritised, languages within nation-states.
Not only is cultural policy aimed at the subvention or promotion of audiovisual products
to broker the difference between the economic interests of those looking for larger markets
and those in search of a national identity in production (Miller & Yúdice 2004, p. 74), but also
within the nation, in terms of linguistic identity and ascription. Language is an important
carrier of culture, and a general comparison between the number of languages in the world
and the small number of established nation-states shows how the latter are likely to be multi-
lingual, if not also multicultural in their make-up. This provides a very nuanced dilemma for
cultural policy, because not only does it have to deal with the cultural perspectives promoted
by the nation-state and national identity, but also with those various linguistic identities,
whether indigenous or the product of old or recent migrations (Extra & Gorter 2008).

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Figure 12.1  Campaign by Plataforma per la llengua

The following pages seek to illustrate the relevance of language in cultural policy
development, in particular in the case of minority language media policy, regarding both
media production and broadcasting. A cultural sustainability paradigm (Martín Barbero
2011) is presented as a form to place language in the cultural policy debate. To that effect,
we present a discussion on language as part of cultural policy, followed by a discussion about
language normalisation as a path to be achieved by languages within national borders, and
finally addressing minority language media studies as an area of inquiry in its own right.
Then we present two case studies of multilingual nations, Colombia in South America and
South Africa on the African continent, to highlight the struggles, achievements and possible
challenges of cultural policy in relation to minority language media development.
Although it may be erroneous to set languages and cultures as one and the same, a tight
interdependent relationship between language and culture is true and evident. The grammar,
the richness of vocabulary, the different forms to express a concept, the presence or absence of
certain terms, simply to mention some aspects, may tell us a lot about that people. In order to
fully enjoy a ‘culture’ you must know the associated language, and on the other side knowing a
language you have the main entry point to the associated culture (Ronchi 2015, p. 73).
Language is an inextricable part of culture, yet cultural policy seldom reflects upon the
language component, glossing over it. In fact, even international conventions promoting
the protection of cultural expression, such as the Convention for Safeguarding Intangible
Cultural Heritage, are at odds with this description because “in the process of drafting this
Convention, some countries objected to including languages as such, presumably out of fear
that this might fuel separatist tendencies of minorities” (Wintermans 2008, p. 232).
This exemplifies the fact that “the relationship between languages and language groups
is inevitably a relationship of power, so it’s not surprising that the terms we use to describe
categories of language have political overtones and implications” (Thomas 2001, p. 44) and
that “the language and identity link cannot be understood in isolation from other factors of

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identity, nor from the political conditions in which it is situated” (May 2001, p. 135), because
“language, after all, is not only a means of communication, but it is also a marker of identity
and, through its pragmatics, a cultural institution” (Laitin 2000, p. 144).
Language poses particular problems for policy makers because “frequently in Europe,
though very much less frequently elsewhere, the nationalist perspective assumes that each
nation has a clearly distinct national language, peculiar to that nation” (Barbour 2002, p. 11),
creating a two-tier system between the language(s) of the nation-state, and those languages
spoken only by a non-state represented minority. The myth of equating nation and language
has been a tenet of conservative policies where:

the emphasis on cultural and linguistic homogeneity associated with the rise of polit-
ical nationalism is predicated on the notion of ‘nation-state congruence’. Nation-state
congruence holds that the boundaries of political and national identity should coincide.
The view here is that people who are citizens of a particular state should also, ideally, be
members of the same national collectivity.
(May 2000, p. 370)

There are often discussions about the usefulness of having one single language for commu-
nication, either to simplify translation costs or to increase economic opportunities for those
learning a prestigious language (Crystal 2003, p. 12). Capitalist and communist pressures
alike seemed to favour the single language strategy to increase potential markets or to ensure
that state bureaucracy was equally applicable to all citizens, with the added advantage of an
intercommunicated working class that would need no translation, often seen as a privilege of
the aristocrats. Even today there is constant pressure from government bodies to increase the
knowledge of the global English language, sometimes at the expense of national minority
languages, as the cases below will show.
In a multicultural view of the nation, such as the one espoused by countries in Latin
America and Africa, as the cases of Colombia and South Africa will illustrate, there is an
interest in reversing the shift to ensure that all languages have the possibility to carry with
them their value and tradition. Similarly, linguistic minorities the world over seek to keep
their languages alive and to gain access to the same spaces where dominant languages have
found their footing. As the example from Catalonia illustrates, this is not an easy task and
requires constant reminders to the homogenised and monolingual national majority that
other languages are present and relevant within specific regions, if not throughout the na-
tion. Indigenous and aboriginal languages, as well as other pre-colonial languages, can argue
even further because of their historical presence in given territories prior to colonisation by
other languages (Spencer 2008).
Language, then, also fits within the cultural sustainability paradigm, presented by Martin-­
Barbero (2011, p. 46) along three vectors: awareness that a community has its own cultural
capital, capacity of the community to take decisions that enable its cultural capital to be preserved
and renewed and capacity to open up culture itself to exchange and interaction with other cultures
in the country and the world. When applied to linguistic diversity, the first vector would im-
ply recognition both within and outside the linguistic community. The second vector implies
empowerment in decision-making processes and governmental support in a variety of sectors,
including education, media and industry. Finally, the third aspect would encourage and pro-
mote bilingualism, with majority languages seen as assets rather than requirements.
In general, the aim of cultural sustainability in terms of those languages is to allow them
to remain the ‘normal’ form of communication for a linguistic community.

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Linguistic normalisation
The idea behind linguistic normalisation is that of creating the social circumstances that
enable a language to become the ‘normal’ element of exchange in everyday life (Cormack
2007). It has been used to define the linguistic process of incorporating language into every
domain and every register (Leisen 2000, p. 43). This is done in such a way that its users are
able to carry out their day-to-day routines without having to resort to any other language
(Guardado Diez 2008). The process of linguistic normalisation has been relevant for the
development of the media in Catalan (Corominas Piulats 2007), Basque (Amezaga & Arana
2012; Amezaga et al. 2000) and Asturian (Guardado Diez 2008) because the media are seen
as necessary tools for making a language available for use in all aspects of everyday life in
specific communities.
The concepts of functional and institutional completeness are similar to normalisation
(Moring 2007; Moring & Dunbar 2008). Moring says that functional completeness “[occurs
when] speakers of the language… can live their life in and through the language without
having to resort to other languages, at least within the confines of everyday matters in their
community” (2007, p. 18). He goes on to argue that a precondition for functional completeness
is institutional completeness, defined as “media platforms available in the minority language
for each type of media” (2007, p. 19). However, institutional completeness, even when fully
achieved (assuming there are specific radio and television broadcasters, a printed newspaper
and internet provisions) may not truly reach functional completeness until it covers pretty much
the same areas and genres as the majority language media do. It could be argued, then, that
a language is normalised when it achieves both institutional and functional completeness.
Although the specific use of the term ‘normalisation’ has not been widely applied outside
the Iberian peninsula (Cormack 2007, p. 11), its usefulness rests in its definition of the
ultimate goal each minority language struggles to attain: “its standardisation both from a
structural and social perspective, namely, its corpus and its status” (Guardado Diez 2008,
p. 85).1 Since normalisation aims at enabling people to discuss all aspects of life through the
language, it looks for the creation of a space of debate that overcomes the need to use any
other language for communication practices.

Minority language media

One of the areas where minority languages have started to find space within nation states
is in their media output. In Europe, for instance, there were many campaigns in the 1980s
and 1990s, looking for greater televisual presence of national minority languages (Cormack
1998; Hourigan 2004). In the Americas, as well as other countries with a clear Western
European colonial past, there have been different types of media development by indigenous
minorities, particularly radio stations (Ramos Rodríguez 2005; Uribe-Jongbloed 2014b; see,
for instance, Castells-Talens et al. 2009; Meadows & Molnar 2002; Rodríguez & El Gazi
2007) and video festivals (Salazar 2009; Salazar & Córdova 2008). Alongside this recent
development of indigenous media, the concept of a New Media Nation (Alia 2010) has
emerged to describe all these ways of distributing content, communicating local knowledge
and fostering cultural traditions, including language maintenance. Similarly, immigrant
groups have continued to maintain close ties to their home countries or ethnic identities,
consuming or accessing locally produced ethnic or heritage media, or connecting to media
from their home countries.

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However, despite the symbolic value that media, created and developed by linguis-
tic or indigenous minorities, may have, it is difficult to find a direct correlation between
minority-­language media output and linguistic maintenance. Functional completeness and
normalisation certainly create an environment where the language is consistently available
for all users, but the costs of achieving said normalisation, both in terms of infrastructure and
­capacity-building, have usually set them as goals seldom achieved in countries with various
linguistic minorities. Europe, for instance, has low linguistic diversity in comparison to Latin
America, Asia and Africa.2 The question of resource allocation, as well as the variety of political
issues at stake, has often had a bearing upon the choice of linguistic output by minority com-
munities. In Colombia, for instance, political interest has prompted indigenous communities
such as the Nasa to limit the use of their indigenous language, Nasa Yuwe, in order to gather
more popular support from peasant farmers, Afro-Colombian settlers and other indigenous
people alike, through the use of Spanish (Uribe-Jongbloed 2016). This situation is the opposite
of Sami journalists in northern Scandinavia, who have accepted losing some ethnically iden-
tified audiences because they are committed to broadcasting in Sami (Pietikäinen 2008a,b).
Hence, the likelihood of survival of certain endangered languages relies on the willingness of
the community to bear the costs and trade-offs of supporting the language (Van Parijs 2008).
Despite the growth of minority language media, thanks to lowered costs of production,
their situation is far from safe (Browne & Uribe-Jongbloed 2013; Wilson & Stewart 2008).
Suspicion of the minority language being used in the media, be it because of the fear of
potential secessionist nationalism or any form of rebellious or anti-establishment propaganda,
tends to keep governmental support low. The notion of one single language as the language
of the nation seems to remain a central part of the political neglect of minority languages.
What we aim to do now is present two case studies, one from Latin America and one from
Africa, to highlight how cultural policy has been defined to include linguistic demands,
absent from other areas of political debate. Despite the impact of language on economic,
communication or education policy, linguistic issues in policy and research have been
addressed from the angle of culture and heritage. But since language has bearing on educa-
tion practices (i.e. language of instruction), economic and development goals (i.e. territorial
disputes between linguistic groups) and communication (i.e. language of broadcast) policies,
a discussion of language policy must therefore acknowledge some of the remits of other
governmental bodies not directly connected to cultural policy development.

Colombian case: ethnolinguistic diversity policy

as part of cultural policy
The Colombian constitution of 1991, stemming from a peace agreement with the M-19
Guerrilla,3 changed the ‘one nation, one language’ idea to include articles that accept the
multiethnic and multilingual reality of the state. Article 7, for instance, says that “The State
recognizes and protects the ethnic and cultural diversity of the Colombian nation”, and
Article 10 recognises Castilian Spanish as the official language and the languages and dialects
of ethnic groups as official in their territories (Anon 1991). As these articles attest, the Con-
stitution regards Colombia as a multilingual and pluriethnic state. This fact has been central
to the modification of educational, cultural and economic policies and particularly import-
ant for the recognition of cultural diversity (see also Cuesta Moreno 2012; Rodríguez &
El Gazi 2007; Uribe-Jongbloed 2014a). Yet it can also be criticised for having co-opted the
ethnic and other minority groups previously ignored and merely inserted them into the

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pre-existing Western liberal democracy (Zambrano 2006). The concept can be easily under-
stood by the metaphor of a house employed by Zambrano (2006):

The house is the State. Until 1991, in that house no Indian, Black or popular culture
were to be found. By accepting their entry, the owner of the house did not put at their
service the upkeep of the house, but rather he refurbished it keeping the structure and
architecture intact. He built an extra room in the house, and to find the space he re-
duced other rooms and moved some walls… what was achieved was that all new citizens
settled in that room and the owner had them fight over the organization of the room,
but not the organization of the house…. (p. 197)4

The conceptual structure of the state was not modified but accommodated those who were
previously excluded yet keeping them apart from the ‘normal’ population. Those new mem-
bers of the Colombian society were the ethnic minorities, which made up roughly 14%
of the total population of 41,468,384 Colombians in 2005, among them 1,392,623 (3.4%)
indigenous peoples, 4,311,757 (10.6%) African-, or Black-Colombians, and 4, 858 (0.01)
members of a Rom community (DANE 2007, p. 33).5
The Constitution of 1991 led to Law 397 of 1997, which created the Ministry of Culture
(Bravo 2010, pp. 54–55), whose remit was to develop the country’s cultural policy. More
recently this role has taken into account that cultural policies are not “enclosed orientations
but flexible proposals that seek to interpret creatively the cultural demands of the society”
(Rey 2010, p. 38).
As part of its intended remit, Colombian cultural policy has included both intangible
heritage and the social revitalisation of [South] American native tongues6 (Rey 2010, p. 39).
Because of the particular condition of the fields that are covered by cultural policy, the
Ministry of Culture has had to pair up with other Ministries, particularly Education and
Communication, to develop some of the programs aimed at the protection and maintenance
of the minority languages. One such collaboration was the “Comunidad Señal de Cultura y
Diversidad” program carried out between 2002 and 2006 in three phases, which sought to
provide equipment and training to enable indigenous communities to establish and develop
their own radio stations (Ministerio de Cultura 2010, p. 358). Despite an important strat-
egy of consultation with the different indigenous groups (Rodríguez & El Gazi 2007), the
program was cut short, and the 26 media outlets developed were soon left without support
from the national government. For instance, the Wayuu radio station developed under the
program, Jujunula Makuira, spent many years off the air because of lightning damages they
could not claim under insurance because the insurance company required sending the equip-
ment to Bogotá, and they could not afford it (Peña Sarmiento 2012; Uribe-Jongbloed & Peña
Sarmiento 2014). Though for some other stations this lack of governmental support meant
less government interference and meddling in their affairs (see Murillo 2008), it also explains
why some of them experienced difficulties in the upkeep of their equipment and broad-
cast continuity. Furthermore, despite an interest in supporting language maintenance efforts
through media output, little is known about the use of indigenous languages in broadcasting
or if it is used at all (ONIC 2009; Uribe-Jongbloed 2016).
The lack of continuity of the “Comunidad” program is akin to the program covering
sociolinguistic self-diagnosis of competence and knowledge among the linguistic minorities
of Colombia. This program started in 2008, with two stages, seeking to reach 29 tongues
that would account for 616,000 people, 71% of the linguistic minorities, leaving 250,000

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speakers of the 39 remaining languages for later studies (Ministerio de Cultura 2010, p. 365).
However, due to the change of government in 2010, the study was only partly completed,
with just 16 self-diagnoses fully developed and five more in early stages of development
(Bodnar 2013). Thus, there is a lack of information to really comprehend the situation of the
68 minority languages of Colombia, which leads to speculation and contradictory reports
from most governmental agencies (Uribe-Jongbloed & Anderson 2014).
Even though 2010 saw Language Law 1381 enacted, and its various articles led the way
to present issues as ethno-education and media development in minority languages as part
of Colombia’s cultural policy (Uribe-Jongbloed & Anderson 2014), lack of information
concerning the situation of the languages remains the burden of any policies that seek to
encourage and maintain minority languages in the country. Also, at the same time there is a
cultural policy supporting indigenous and other ethnic languages, the national examinations
to gain access to universities require knowledge of English as the second language, ignoring
that for many indigenous Colombians, Spanish is already a second language (Truscott de
Mejía 2006).
Minority languages are seen as integral to the nation’s cultural policy, but a serious
problem of continuing funding and dedication to linguistic, media and ethno-educational
endeavours has made policy less effective. Although one cannot deny the advances made
since the Constitution of 1991, the fact that it took 19 years for specific linguistic policy to
be enacted, at the same time as crucial information gathering was discontinued due to ad-
ministrative changes, makes it evident that cultural policy has yet to be a definitive tool for
language maintenance. However, the advances should not be underestimated. To continue
with Zambrano’s (2006) metaphor quoted above, the new lodgers in the extra room have
started to challenge the structure of the house. The house will soon be remodelled.

South Africa: an uneven picture of the multilingual reality

South Africa is a multilingual country, having 11 of its many languages officially recognised:
Afrikaans, English, IsiNdebele, IsiXhosa, IsiZulu, Sepedi, Sesotho, Setswana, SiSwati,
Tshivenda and Xitsonga. Besides the official languages, other languages in South Africa
include Khoi, Nama and San languages, sign language, Arabic, German, Greek, Gujarati,
Hebrew, Hindi, Portuguese, Sanskrit, Tamil, Telegu and Urdu (Lewis et al. 2015).
The 2011 Census in the country indicates isiZulu as the mother-tongue of 22.7% of South
Africa’s population, followed by isiXhosa (16.0%), Afrikaans (13.5%), English (9.6%), Sepedi
(9.1%), Setswana (8.0%), Sesotho (7.6%), Xitsonga (4.5%), SiSwati (2.5%), Tshivenda (2.4%)
and IsiNdebele (2.1%) (Statistics South Africa 2012).
IsiZulu, isiXhosa, siSwati and isiNdebele all belong to the Nguni group of languages.
They are similar both in syntax and grammar. The Sotho languages – Setswana, Sepedi and
Sesotho – also have much in common. All nine officially recognised original African lan-
guages in South Africa belong to the Bantu language family.
Using UNESCO’s schema (Moseley 2010), African languages can be said to be at dif-
ferent levels of endangerment. These levels are ‘safe’, ‘vulnerable’ (not spoken by children
outside the home), ‘definitely endangered’ (children not speaking), ‘severely endangered’
(only spoken by the oldest generations) and ‘critically endangered’ (spoken by few members
of the oldest generation, often semi-speakers). Despite most South African languages being
considered ‘safe’, there is a clear sense of risk, since a major cause of language endangerment
is the shifting of speakers to another language. Coetzee-Van Rooy (2012) notes that there is

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a vibrant public and scholarly debate about the potential language shift of speakers of African
languages to English. In particular because:

the dominance of English and Afrikaans languages is not necessarily caused by a lack of
political will to implement policies by government, but rather the power that English
and Afrikaans speakers wield upon the South African economy.
(Moyo 2010, p. 433)

Three camps in the academic debate are identified. There are scholars who predict that
African languages will die in (South) Africa (de Klerk 2000; Kamwangamalu 2003). There
are others who argue that there is a slow shift from the use of African languages as home
languages to English (Deumert 2010; Meshtrie 2008); and there are those who maintain that
African languages are not endangered as home languages but they are also not developing to
be used in certain domains, such as the sciences (Coetzee-Van Rooy 2012, 2013, 2014; Prah
2010). The fact is that any language can be used in any domain if properly developed; that
should be the target for African languages.
Prah (2003) speaks of the ‘collective amnesia’ that is occurring as a result of not using
African languages as languages of education (see Roy-Campbell 2006, p. 3). Prah’s concern
is that when African languages are devalued in this manner, much of the indigenous knowl-
edge contained in those languages becomes devalued. This must also have been part of the
concern of the South African Ministry of Education when, on 27 November 2003, it set up
a ministerial committee to advise on the development of African (indigenous) languages
as mediums of instruction in higher education. The report noted that the “Minister (of
Education) called to mind the challenge facing higher education to ensure the simultaneous
development of a multilingual environment in which all South African languages would be
developed to their full capacity while at the same time ensuring that the existing languages
of instruction did not form a barrier to access and success” (DOE 2003, p. 3).
Furthermore, the Constitution of the Republic of South Africa Act 108 of 1996 recog-
nises the historically diminished status of the indigenous languages of the people. Therefore,
the state resolves to take practical and positive measures to elevate the status and advance
the use of the languages. Similarly, the constitution provides for the recognition of the prin-
ciple of multilingualism. “Provision is also made for measures designed to achieve respect,
adequate protection and furtherance of the official South African languages and for the
advancement of those official languages which in the past did not enjoy full recognition, in
order to promote the full and equal enjoyment of the languages used for communication and
religious purposes”.
In order to promote indigenous languages recognised by the Constitution as historically di-
minished in use and status, the South African government is according a growing importance
to the learning of these languages. Happily, in this regard, there are changes happening in
some South African universities. The University of KwaZulu-Natal has made isiZulu a com-
pulsory first-year subject. At Rhodes University, journalism students must pass an isiXhosa for
journalism course at either mother tongue or second language level (Kaschula 2015).
A major institution established by the South African government for the purpose of
facilitating media and information access among historically disadvantaged communities
as well as historically diminished indigenous language and cultural groups is the Media
Development and Diversity Agency (MDDA). The MDDA was established by an Act of
Parliament (Act 14 of 2002) to enable historically disadvantaged communities and persons

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not adequately served by the media to gain access to the media. The major beneficiaries of
the agency are the community media and small commercial media.
The objectives of the MDDA are to:

i Encourage ownership and control of, and access to, media by historically disadvantaged
communities as well as by historically diminished indigenous language and cultural groups;
ii Encourage the development of human resources and training, and capacity building,
within the media industry, especially amongst historically disadvantaged groups;
iii Encourage the channelling of resources to the community media and small commercial
media sectors;
iv Raise public awareness with regard to media development and diversity issues;
v Support initiatives which promote literacy and a culture of reading;
v i Encourage research regarding media development and diversity; and
vii Liaise with statutory bodies such as the Independent Communications Authority of
South Africa and the Universal Service Agency. (The Presidency 2002, pp. 4–5)

The agency is guided by a number of relevant and related legislations such as the MDDA
Act No. 14 of 2002, The Public Finance Management Act No. 1 of 1996, The Electronic
Communication Act No. 35 of 2005, The Constitution Act 108 of 1996, The Broad-Based
Black Economic Empowerment Act No. 96 of 1995, The Employment Act of 2000, The
Skills Development Act, and The Basic Conditions of Employment No. 75 of 1997. Other
MDDA regulations include the White Paper on Broadcasting Policy, IBA Triple Inquiry
Report, Review of 10 Year Broadcasting Regulation, Community Television Broadcasting
Services Position Paper, ICASA – Independent Communication Authority of South Africa
and General Licenses Fees Regulation.
The language diversity of South Africa is well observable in its broadcast media, particularly
the community radios that have been fundamental for language maintenance (Moyo 2010).
This, however, is not so much for the print media as the so-called community newspapers
do not necessarily “speak” the language of the community they serve. Indigenous African
languages do not occupy a central place in community newspaper publishing. This also is the
situation with the use of the languages on digital media. The use of local African languages is
not as extensive in the digital media as the use of English and Afrikaans. Policy apart, a major
drive will be for the Africans to promote their languages through conscious and robust use
in the various media. Implementation, rather than policy development, is required to ensure
that multilingual policy does not stay at the policy level (Coetzee-Van Rooy 2014, p. 136).

Conclusions and discussion

The linguistic homogeneity paradigm that has led the idea of the state as a monolingual and
monocultural society is still to be found in most countries the world over. Despite recent
recognition in various nation states of the intercultural and multilingual nature of their
existence, language hierarchisation remains constant in a variety of places world-wide, in-
cluding Canada (Haque & Patrick 2015), Zimbabwe (Mpofu & Mutasa 2014), Kenya (Orao
2009), New Zealand (de Bres 2015) and Spain (Plataforma per la llengua 2015). As the two
case studies presented also evidence, because of the nature of language as a conveyor of cul-
ture, the media are central to all debates about cultural representation, and media policies
immediately become linguistic policies.

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It is clear that:

Cultural diversity has become a new goal of public policy. The uncertainty that surrounds
its definition springs from the struggle for power (between different actors as well as be-
tween territorial levels) that views it as the prize. Its ambivalence and the dilemmas which
it creates do not justify the radical critiques levied against it. On the contrary, they demand
a deeper level of debate as to the implementation of policies of cultural diversity.
(Bonet & Négrier 2011, p. 587)

At least from the standpoint of the nation state, the challenges are clear. Adopting the mul-
tilingual reality as part of the constitution of the state is one thing, but to really account for
an intercultural approach to the state is a very different one. As the Colombian and South
African cases highlight, governmental advances have been made in order to address the dis-
advantage experienced by minority languages, especially since they had been minoritised by
the same state that now grants them recognition. The policy approach from the top-down
seems to deal with a given sense of guilt based on previous negligence but does not really
incorporate the multicultural aspect as an intercultural reality.
Following the cultural sustainability paradigm mentioned in the introduction, the first
two steps seem to have been overcome. In both South Africa and Colombia, as in most
countries now, there is recognition of multilingualism, an awareness of the cultural capital of
linguistic diversity. The developments mentioned show there is a concerted effort to promote
and foster those languages, even if the gap between policy and implementation remains ample.
Thus, it is with the third part of the paradigm, exchange and interaction, where cultural policy
in favour of minority languages is still just making the first steps forward. The campaign
by Plataforma per la llengua illustrates this problem, because it shows how distant even a
buoyant minority language, such as Catalan, is from the majority language of the nation state
when it comes to normalisation of the language.

Further research steps

It is clear that there is considerable research required in order to find, quantify, assess and
evaluate minority language media production, in particular to comprehend the dual role of
ethnic media practitioners as both professionals and cultural identity advocates (Husband
2005). Research in those fields can further prompt debates and lead to structural media
policy reforms that encompass linguistic and cultural aspects, often overlooked by the tra-
ditional broadcasting policies. Alongside audience research of minority language media, it
would address the exchange and interaction part of the paradigm, providing the evidence re-
quired for cultural policy development. The two cases presented, both of the global South,
highlight a situation dissimilar yet not all that different from the situation in First-World
countries regarding minority language debates.
As pointed out by Le (2015), we could consider the research focus to follow a framework
divided on two strands, one that looks at the status of media in minority contexts and
a second that focuses on the participation of minorities in national, transnational and in-
ternational debates with media in minority contexts. Within the latter, Le recommends
pursuing research in three subfields: media access and use; identities; and media practices.
Within those boundaries, further research could help evidence the true multicultural value
of linguistic diversity and through research, pose challenges to national or international pol-
icy that sets up the goal of diversity as integral to broadcasting policy.

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Notes
1 Original text in Asturian: “Por normalización llingüística entendemos la estratexa de caltenimientu o
revitalización d’una llingua subordinada que tien como oxetivu la so estandarización tanto dende’l
puntu de vista estructural como social, ye dicir, del so corpus y el so estatus”.
2 Europe sports only 286 living languages, whereas the Americas account for 1,064, Africa 2,138 and
Asia 2,301 (Lewis et al. 2015). Unless one includes the cosmopolitan situation of most European
metropolises, Europe is clearly less diverse than other regions of the world.
3 M-19 (Movimiento 19 de abril) was a Guerrilla group founded in 1970 in Colombia as a reaction
against the supposedly rigged presidential elections of that year. The group entered a peace process
in 1989 and finally left armed insurgency becoming a political party for the 1990 presidential elec-
tions and won several seats at the constitutional assembly, which created the Constitution of 1991.
4 Translation by the authors of an original in Spanish.
5 Notice that the information is from 2005, and the new census has been scheduled for 2017 because
of economic constraints.
6 It is important to note here that policy usually refers to lenguas or dialectos in Spanish, which could
be translated into ‘tongues’ or ‘dialects’, rather than idioma, which translates into ‘language’. It
would seem, thus, that even on the description given of the languages of Colombia there is an
evident hierarchisation between the majority language and the minority ‘tongues’. It is because of
this division that we have decided to use tongues instead of languages whenever the word lenguas
appears in the text.

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 13
Cultural policy in
Northern Ireland
Making cultural policy for a
divided society

Phil Ramsey and Bethany Waterhouse-Bradley

Northern Ireland (NI) is a small region of the United Kingdom with a history of violent con-
flict associated with the national and religious identities of its inhabitants. Post-conflict societies
face complex challenges in the development of cultural policy, particularly where some cultural
markers have become associated with antagonism or political affiliation. This chapter will focus
on how the social, spatial, educational, religious and political divisions in NI – coupled with
deep socio-economic deprivation and a lack of political consensus – mean that many issues
relating to cultural policy are neglected. We chart how the history of NI has left significant
barriers to shared culture within NI, leading to inertia on policy in relation to community re-
lations and social cohesion. That being the case, we show how the government Department of
Culture, Arts and Leisure (DCAL) and the Arts Council of Northern Ireland (ACNI), the main
arm’s length body for funding, have clear policies relating to how arts and culture can alleviate
socio-economic problems. This is shown in the context of how the wider political system gives
a central role to cultural policy as a driver of economic development, seen through the work of
the publicly funded body Northern Ireland Screen, responsible for attracting international film
and television productions to NI through direct financial subsidisation of production costs. With
this example, we show that there is much clearer consensus on the economic role for culture in
NI than there is in relation to the more contentious cultural issues relating to historic divisions.

The historical context of Northern Ireland

NI is a small region with a population of 1.81 million under the jurisdiction of the United
Kingdom (UK), sharing a border with the Republic of Ireland (ROI). Following the par-
titioning of Ireland in 1921, which led to the creation of NI, there has been ethnic conflict
between the Protestant (largely identifying as British) majority and the Catholic (largely
identifying as Irish) minority for several decades (although conflict and violence in the re-
gion dates back centuries). From the late 1960s, NI descended into a violent political struggle
known as the ‘Troubles’, which lasted until the 1990s in its most intense phase and led to
the deaths of more than 3500 people in the following 30 years. Attacks and murders that are

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sectarian in their nature, and attacks upon the police and armed forces, continue almost to
the present day. The economic and social scars of the conflict remain, with NI rated as one
of the most deprived regions of the UK. The divided nature of society in NI can be charted
back across multiple centuries, although what Hennessy (1997, p. 1) calls the “deeper roots of
conflict” can be traced to the Ulster Plantation in the Seventeenth Century, which involved
the movement of (mainly) Protestants from England and Scotland into the province of Ulster
(which maps largely onto the present-day NI). This situation led to hostility between the
Planters and the already-existing Catholic population, especially in relation to land displace-
ment, cultural and religious differences (Tonge, 2002, p. 5).
Following the 1921 establishment of NI, it was ruled by the Ulster Unionist Party (the
then dominant political party aligned to maintaining NI’s position within the UK) through
the NI Parliament until 1972 (Bew et al., 2002). Because the border of NI was drawn with
the specific intent of retaining a majority population who identified as British and as such
wished to retain the union with the Great Britain, cultural identity, and thus expressions
of culture, became fundamental issues in the jurisdiction. After decades of direct rule from
Westminster and several attempts at a political solution to the Troubles, the Belfast Agree-
ment (1998) led to the setting up of a Legislative Assembly at Stormont and a devolved
Executive Government to NI. Despite that, the NI Assembly has for some time existed in a
precarious state. Ongoing threats to political power-sharing include: dealing with continued
political violence, the perpetuation of the main paramilitary groupings many years after their
ceasefires, and a failure to reach and implement agreement over a raft of cultural issues that
include flags and symbols (Bryan, 2015).
It is impossible to discuss conflict, culture and identity in NI without some generalisation
and simplification of what are invariably complex and nuanced issues. The foundations of
these are explored in depth in Ruane and Todd (1996) and Nic Craith (2003); a histori-
cal examination of the conflict in NI can be found in Hayes and McAllister (2013) and
O’Dochartaigh (2016). Within NI entrenched division remains: schools, residential areas
and to a certain extent sport and social pursuits remain largely segregated through most of
the region, the social and economic costs of which will be discussed later in the chapter. The
following sections will discuss the demographic, socio-economic and political backdrop
against which cultural policy is developed in NI.

Demographic and socio-economic context of NI

The economy in NI is highly dependent on the public sector, and economic policy has been
focused on emphasizing private growth, innovation and skills improvement and building a
more appropriate economic infrastructure (NI Executive, 2012a). However, during a pe-
riod of economic decline across Europe and the UK, NI continues to be one of the most
affected regions economically, with a 10% drop in Gross Value Added (GVA) between 2008
and 2011 – the largest decrease in the UK (Nolan, 2014). The rate of child poverty in NI
in 2012–2013 was 20.5%, one of the highest in the UK, and is predicted to rise to 29% in
2020–2021, a rate higher than in the rest of the country (Browne et al., 2014, pp. 19–21).
Unemployment, underemployment and economic inactivity contribute to these problems.
Nearly 15% of usual residents in NI aged 16–74 are economically inactive (excluding stu-
dents and retired persons). Of the almost 5% of working age people who are unemployed
(excluding students), 44.98% of them are long-term unemployed and 16.8% have never
worked (NISRA, 2012). Poor health among those from lower socio-economic backgrounds
is also a significant problem (Bell et al., 2016).

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In addition, there are myriad socio-economic problems among young people in NI, espe-
cially in terms of educational achievement among Protestant boys (Nolan, 2014). Segregation
in education continues to be the norm, with only 6.5% of children educated in integrated
schools (as opposed to Protestant/Catholic schools) (Nolan, 2014). There is no sign of change
in these figures, as rather than supporting the education of Protestant and Catholic children
side by side with a uniform-curriculum, the Executive has opted for the encouragement of
shared schools, where students share campus resources while retaining separate teaching and
learning (OFMDFM, 2013). Finally, space and territory in NI remain substantially segregated,
and while there has been a significant decrease in ‘single identity wards’ across the region from
55% to 37% (wards where more than 80% of residents identify with a single community), at a
micro level in many areas segregation still persists (Shuttleworth and Lloyd, 2013). In spite of a
period of sustained relative peace in the region and a clear shift towards moving away from self-­
identification as one side or the other, public attitudes reflect a pessimistic view of the future
of good relations (McDermott, 2014). As we discuss below, opposing politicians more readily
find consensus around economic issues than cultural issues, which often leads to policy inertia.

Northern Ireland and the politicization of culture

In this section we advance a discussion of the politicization of culture within NI and dis-
cuss how the notion of a national cultural policy frame of reference is instead undermined
by a ‘bipolar’ notion of culture in NI (Graham and Nash, 2006). NI stands alongside a
number of other countries and regions where “ethnic and cultural diversity” (Saukkonen
and Pyykkönen, 2008) necessitates the management of cultural policy accordingly, such
as France (Kiwan, 2007), the Netherlands (Delhaye and van de Ven, 2014) and Catalonia
(Barbieri, 2012, p. 17). Outside of Europe, there is some relevance to NI of the case of
cultural policy in Canada, which has long been required to balance linguistic diversity, in
addition to ethnic diversity in its cultural policy (Rabinovitch, 2007). In NI culture is often
defined within the public sphere, policy development and implementation in a narrow man-
ner. While the reasons for this are myriad, the primary issues are political and historical in
their origin (see Nic Craith, 2003).
One prominent issue within cultural policy in NI is the lack of a national cultural policy
frame of reference (Ahearne, 2011, p. 155), the like of which can “provide a means of recon-
ciling contending cultural identities by holding up the nation as an essence that transcends
particular interests” (Miller and Yudice, 2002, p. 8). Were a policy official or politician
attempting to invoke the nation within this approach, he or she would not have this as an
available option or rather would not have it if attempting to achieve consensus within the
political and cultural sphere. (Later, one of the first attempts by a government department to
construct a national cultural policy for NI will be discussed.) Rather, as we have seen, with
marked heterogeneous national identities being identified by NI’s population, cultural pol-
icy that seeks to reflect a “distinctive cultural identity” (Mulcahy, 1998, p. 249) immediately
alienates almost half of the population.
Moreover, viewing NI through what might be termed the ‘two community straitjacket’
(Feldman et al., 2005), a cultural paradigm reproduced by many politicians, major media
outlets and public policy, suggests the majority of people in the region can be neatly di-
vided into these classifications. This notion is challenged through the most recent census
data, which points to a marked change in self-identification of nationality and ethnicity.
When asked to identify nationality 29.44% of respondents chose the moniker of ‘Northern
Irish’, eschewing more ‘traditional’ identification as either British, 48.41% or Irish, 28.35%

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(NISRA, 2012). Also increasing is the number of respondents from national and ethnic
backgrounds (4%) falling outside British, Irish and Northern Irish, as increasing migration
and the associated increase in births to foreign-born mothers begin to be reflected in demo-
graphic figures (NISRA, 2012).
The so-called two-community straitjacket is particularly difficult for those from minority
cultures, where race and ethnicity are seen as ‘an extension’ of sectarian divisions (Graham
and Nash, 2006). The creation of cultural identity allied to citizenship, religion and/or
nationality is already problematic within NI; it is further problematized when other groups
are considered, leaving as it does very little space for layered perceptions of personal iden-
tity. Demographic changes, however, are visibly absent or disproportionately attended to
by community cohesion and cultural policy. In the next section, we discuss the theory of
cultural citizenship in relation to NI and discuss that culture that is consumed by the over-
all population that tends to be less politicized and shared. We then turn to a discussion of
‘traditional’ culture in NI, the culture often attached to contested practices and those that
are often politicized as a means of identifying oneself as one group or differentiating from
the ‘other’. We focus here on sport, music and language.

Cultural citizenship and cultural practices

We can develop this theme by considering the concept of cultural citizenship (Stevenson,
2003). When considering the implications of this theory for NI, we first see that citizenship
as a foundational process is disrupted. For example, O’Brien (2010, p. 600) argues that an
understanding of citizenship “in the sense that citizens accept the right of other individuals
to be citizens” has “never existed in Northern Ireland due to differences in allegiances”.
Thus, to take Stevenson’s authoritative quotation on cultural citizenship, we see that such a
concept travels very poorly to NI:

Cultural citizenship therefore is the struggle for a democratic society that enables a
diversity of citizens to lead relatively meaningful lives, that respects the formation of
complex hybrid identities, offers them the protection of the social state and grants them
the access to a critical education that seeks to explore the possibility of living in a future
free from domination and oppression.
(Stevenson, 2010, p. 289)

In some regards, Stevenson’s conception can be seen to be realizable within NI society,

where for example the social state is considered. However, for Stevenson “Only when public
spaces become participatory and democratic spaces can we say that the project for an auton-
omous society has come to fruition” (2010, p. 276).
Far from that being the case in NI, physical markers of cultural identity are signifiers of
territory and used as a way of creating internal cohesion while ‘othering’ outsiders. Many
of NI’s public spaces are contested and segregated (Shirlow and Murtagh, 2006), used for
commemoration activities that divide (McDowell et al., 2015) and marked out by the flying
of flags that evoke other conflict areas, such as Israeli and Palestinian flags (Hill and White,
2008). Moreover, this co-optation of cultural identity for the purpose of marking territory
is extended to government departments, where placement of ministers in certain spaces to
ensure dominance of a political perspective in that space is clear (Sinn Féin and DUP always
look to the Departments of Culture, Arts and Leisure, and Education – areas where there is
strong sense of using culture as a marker in the middle classes).

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That said, much cultural consumption in NI, at the level of popular culture, is largely
shared between the two main communities rather than divided. As such, much popular
culture is globalized in nature (Drache and Froese, 2006), with an area such as film being
akin to the picture across Europe and indeed much of the rest of the developed world. The
broadcasting system in NI is dominated by that of the UK (Ofcom, 2015; Ramsey, 2015),
leading to strong British cultural influences especially in terms of television drama, and in
radio, in addition to that produced locally in NI (Moore, 2003). In many of these areas there
are often no discernible differences between members of the two main religious-political
communities, while culture broadly construed is being shaped by aspects of ‘British culture’
(see numerous entries on NI in Childs and Storry, 1999) and ‘Irish culture’. However, as
O’Malley (2011, p. 159) notes, “Irish culture is deeply entwined with that of Britain” and
thus the two are more difficult to demarcate.

Sport
Culture becomes more divided along community lines when the areas of sport and cul-
tural identity are concerned, with sport an area that is greatly divided along religious lines
(Hassan, 2005). In NI, participation in playing and watching Rugby Union and Cricket is
dominated by those identifying or brought up as Protestant; those identifying or brought
up as Catholic almost exclusively participate in and watch the historic Gaelic Games, under
the auspices of the Gaelic Athletic Association (Burgess, 2015a, p. 107). While these sports
are mainly linked to their community, sporting apparel has caused tensions in the past, and
wearing it is banned in certain public places; this is not exceptional to NI. Soccer is played by
and has spectators from both Protestant and Catholic communities (Hassan, 2002), although
the teams in the premier division of soccer in NI are supported almost exclusively by Prot-
estants (e.g. Linfield F.C.) or Catholics (e.g. Cliftonville F.C.). It is the most contested sport
in terms of clashes between fans of teams from opposing communities, and many sporting
fixtures are heavily policed for this reason. In addition, support for the national soccer team
– Northern Ireland – has been traditionally linked to Protestants, though there have been
significant efforts in recent years by the governing body to make international matches more
accessible (Hargie et al., 2015). In other areas of cultural identity and traditions, we can see
strong demarcations along community lines (Nic Craith, 2003). Space does not allow for a
full examination of a range of topics that could be usefully surveyed, and so we choose to
focus on music – which “for several centuries … has been used as a primary means of encod-
ing ‘party’ and religious affiliations” (Cooper, 2010, p. 94) – and language, as two key sites
for cultural contestation.

Music
Music in NI has the potential to be evocative in nature by virtue of its relationship to his-
torical conflict. Among Protestants, for example, there is a strong musical tradition that
accompanies Orange Order events. The most notable example is that of the commemoration
of the Battle of the Boyne – a significant historical marker for Unionists which is symbolic of
victory over a Catholic monarch. Each 12 July, King William III’s victory over King James
II in 1690 (Tonge, 2002, p. 4–5) has been commemorated by those brought up as Protestants,
especially in rural areas. Implicit in this is the tradition that members of the Orange Order
parade with marching bands, replete with fifes and ‘Lambeg’ drums (Cooper, 2010, p. 94),
which causes significant tensions in some areas (Bryan and Jarman, 1997; Bryan, 2015).

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Accordingly, the Parades Commission, an independent public body set up in 1998 to reach
determinations on which public parades can receive approval, can issue conditions for how
they must be conducted.
In recent years, there have been attempts to open up Orangeism to a wider audience,
and through the introduction of Orangefest to make it more culturally relevant (Kennaway,
2015). That said, such cultural expressions generally play quite poorly on the European
and global cultural stage, no doubt contributing to a sense that Ulster loyalists, one group
associated with Orangeism, have been called “the least fashionable community in Western
Europe” (McDonald as cited in Burgess, 2015b, p. xii). Among those brought up Catho-
lic, there are firm Gaelic traditions, especially in relation to Irish traditional music – itself
with clear musical connections to Scottish traditional music (Cooper, 2009, p. 65). The
annual traditional music festival Fleadh Cheoil na hEireann is a massive event that attracts over
400,000 people (McLaughlin, 2013), remarkable given that the all-island population of
Ireland is just ~6.4 million people (CSO/NISRA, 2014).

Language
The use of the Irish language is linked mainly to the Catholic-Nationalist community, from
which the vast majority of its speakers are located in terms of expressed national identity.
McMonagle (2010, p. 255) argues that “Irish has come to be associated with nationalist/
republican identities”; for Pritchard (2004, p. 62), the language is “an important basis of Irish
nationalism”. Often, this had not just been the ‘fault’ of one side or the other but about how
language – both Irish and Ulster-Scots – has been used as a political tool in the so-called
‘culture wars’ (Nolan, 2014, pp. 154–162). However, the politicization of the Irish language
has occurred in a manner that is extremely reductionist when viewed historically. For exam-
ple, Protestants “have made an important historical cultural contribution to the preservation
and development of the Irish language” (Pritchard, 2004, p. 75), with Presbyterians in par-
ticular playing their part. Today, the Irish language has been ‘rediscovered’ among very small
pockets among the Protestant-Unionist population. However, as we discuss below, issues in
relation to language remain deeply contested at the policy level, with a continued failure
among NI’s politicians to find an agreeable role for Irish within Northern Irish public life.

The legal and political context for cultural policy in NI

Under the New Labour government (1997–2010), powers were initially devolved to
Scotland, NI and Wales through the Scotland Act (1998), the Northern Ireland Act (1998)
and the Government of Wales Act (1998), respectively. Each of these legislatures has a dif-
ferent set of responsibilities (in the case of Scotland, a Parliament and a Government), and
different reserved and devolved matters (Trench, 2007). NI had a period of devolved gov-
ernment prior to this from 1922–1972, but the NI Parliament became untenable after in-
creasing ethnic conflict between Protestant and Catholic communities in the region and NI
underwent a lengthy period of direct rule from Westminster (McQuade and Fagan, 2002).
When devolution was established as part of the Belfast Agreement in 1998, it was a means of
establishing the institutions through which conflict resolution could be achieved (Holloway,
2005). Shortly after devolution was established in 1998, there was another suspension of the
local Assembly due to disagreements between the main political parties (2002–2007). The
most recent incarnation of devolution in NI is still in its early stages – at the time of writing
the Assembly is in its third term of a mandatory coalition government – and the Executive is

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currently led by two diametrically opposed political parties: Sinn Féin, the major Irish Na-
tionalist party, and the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), the major British Unionist party.
The first NI Assembly after the Northern Ireland Act 1998 was elected in June 1998. Led
by a First Minister and Deputy First Minister, it was supported by 10 ministries allocated pro-
portionally across political parties (Knox, 1999). The Assembly was based on a consociational
model of governance – a model particularly designed for the management of post-conflict
governance, which seeks to find a balance between the two conflicting communities and
preserve the different identities (Graham and Nash, 2006; McGarry and O’Leary, 2006).
However, the manner in which the Executive is constructed entrenches sectarian division
and normalizes it in the political sphere (Graham and Nash, 2006). This division has the po-
tential to lead to inhibited decision-making and delays in the policy process, with the failure
to progress the proposed Irish Language Act that we discuss below in a notable example. This
delay in particular has resulted in international condemnation from the Council of Europe
due to failure to comply with the European Charter for Regional and Minority Languages
and is perceived to be a direct result of divisions between the DUP and Sinn Féin, as well as a
result of the politicization of the Irish Language in the region (Meredith, 2014). This section
will outline some of the key cultural frameworks in the devolved Assembly, as well as provide
insight into how political differences play out in the development of cultural policy.

The proposed Irish Language Act

The statutory requirements to promote and protect the Irish language are embedded in
regional legislation and international charters, and the commitment to the production of
Irish Language legislation was a condition of the St. Andrews Agreement in 2006, which
outlines the conditions for the main parties to re-enter power sharing at the local Assem-
bly after a period of direct rule (NIHRC, 2010). The UK is a signatory to the Council
of Europe Framework Convention for National Minorities and the European Charter for
Regional and Minority Languages (1992), which came into force in 1998. Nation states
choose what languages they register and under which jurisdiction to be accountable. The
European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages outlines a commitment to positive,
proactive duties on minority language rights and is legally binding under European Law
(NIHRC, 2010). Irish and Ulster-Scots are both registered for the region of NI; however,
the region has failed to produce evidence submissions to the monitoring reports in the past
two rounds due to failure to reach consensus on the submission (Council of Europe, 2017).
The proposal for an Irish Language Act, under a Sinn Féin-led Department of Culture,
Arts and Leisure, is the NI Assembly’s attempt at developing the Irish language legislation
promised by the St Andrews Agreement and calls for the following actions (among others):
define Irish as an official language; the right to use Irish in courts, tribunals and other legal
settings; parity for use of Irish in the NI Assembly; the promotion of Irish in public bodies,
including affirmative action for Irish speakers; Irish language schemes in public bodies; par-
ity of English and Irish on road signage and place names and a guaranteed right to education
in Irish (DCAL, 2015a). However, there has been strong and consistent resistance from the
DUP and other Unionist politicians, with claims ranging from economic wastefulness in
times of austerity to Sinn Féin political posturing, to deliberate removal of ‘Britishness’
from NI (The Newsletter, 10 February 2015). The argument around the Irish language is an-
other example of the application of zero-sum politics in the region, where rather than being
treated like a minority language, Irish is instead treated as a political symbol or emblem and
as such is a threat to the ‘other side’ of the political community (NIHRC, 2010).

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Good relations and social cohesion

There is a legislative imperative set out by the Belfast Agreement which requires statutory
agencies to address issues of equality and good relations. In spite of this imperative, there
has been little documented long-term success of community relations. The Harbison Review
of Community Relations Policy (2002) found that there had been no substantive change in
decreasing division “as measured by greater integration of housing and education” (as cited
in Graham and Nash, 2006). Measuring the success of community relations policy based on
public attitudes, Morrow et al. (2013) found that while there are some reasons for optimism,
segregation remains significant and individuals are still sceptical about the possibility of sus-
tained peace and integration. Good relations policy in NI has very rarely been proactive in
creating shared space (regardless of the implied language), but is rather focused on creating
neutral space to share and maintaining the rights to separate but equal space elsewhere. The
first attempt at social cohesion policy post-conflict, A Shared Future (OFMDFM, 2005), was
imperfect in its response but attempted to address the issue of shared space. It placed some
emphasis on putting integration in the foreground and fostering trust and interdependence.
The document was not implemented and was ignored in the Programme for Government
by the Sinn Féin- and DUP-led Assembly, which took over from the Direct Rule authors
of the document. It was followed by the proposed Cohesion Sharing and Integration, which
was again scrapped after a highly critical reception from both the public respondents to the
consultation and other political leadership (Nolan, 2014).
Without public consultation, or the involvement of their partners in government – the
Ulster Unionist Party, the Social Democratic and Labour Party, and Alliance – the Office of
the First Minister and Deputy First Minister (in the NI Executive) produced Together: Building
a United Community (TBUC) in 2013. The document, which focuses on children and young
people, a shared community, a safe community and cultural expression (OFMDFM, 2013),
provides little in the way of new developments in good relations and community cohesion
and did not have overt support from government outside of the two main parties (Nolan,
2014). TBUC follows previous policies in the expression of what Dixon (2002) refers to as
‘constructive ambiguity’ of good relations policy, which allow for them to be interpreted
however the audience sees fit. This is not restricted to post-conflict societies but is part of the
wider notion of status quo policy making, where this ambiguity can be used to seemingly
address relevant concerns without commitment to one or another ideological stance. There
is a policy of avoidance in addition to the idea of ambiguity in cultural policy – where discus-
sions of history are often excluded, as is the aspiration for a united Ireland, a regular criticism
of Sinn Féin in other policies (Nolan, 2014). Constructive ambiguity therefore becomes
both a contributor to and a product of consociational governance. To illustrate some of the
policy inertia referred to throughout the chapter, we turn to a more-detailed examination
of some current cultural policy in NI by addressing the work of the aforementioned DCAL
(Department of Culture, Arts and Leisure) and ACNI (Arts Council of Northern Ireland).

The Department of Culture, Arts and Leisure and

the Arts Council of Northern Ireland
The government department in the NI Executive with responsibility for many areas of
cultural policy is DCAL, which has legislative powers for cultural policy issues such as mu-
seums, libraries, the arts and language issues. However, not all areas in relation to culture are

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devolved, with broadcasting policy reserved to Westminster (Ramsey, 2015)1. The current
minister is Carál Ní Chuilín MLA of Sinn Féin, who has been in post since 2011. DCAL had
a budget in 2015–2016 of £91.7 million, which had been reduced by 8% since the previous
year (DCAL, 2015b). The largest budget item at the department is spending on libraries
(£29.4m, 32% of its 2015–2016 spending) (DCAL, 2015b, p. 20). Much of the department’s
work – like its counterpart the Department for Culture, Media and Sport in Westminster – is
carried out by a number of arm’s length agencies that include the delivery of the aforemen-
tioned library spending through Libraries NI, National Museums Northern Ireland and
Sport Northern Ireland (DCAL, 2011).
DCAL is focused on two main areas: economic development; and equality and social
inclusion. This is clear in its key objectives:

1 To ensure that culture, arts and leisure activities positively impact on promoting equal-
ity, and tackling poverty and social exclusion
2 To ensure that culture, arts and leisure contribute to the growth of the economy and
building a united community. (DCAL, 2015b, p. 7)

Taken collectively, we can first see the policy approach of DCAL is towards equality and
social inclusion as underpinned by economic development. The first of five DCAL strategic
pillars focuses on how the arts can help to ‘rebalance’ the economy, stemming from a long-
held notion that the NI economy is too dependent on the public sector. This is followed
by the fifth pillar, which is “social inclusion and equality” (DCAL, 2011, p. 16). In its cor-
porate plan, the department identifies the results that it expects within the year 2015–2016
on these matters, through the utilisation of the Promoting Equality, Tackling Poverty and
Social Exclusion framework. Here for example, the department’s target is to “increase the
proportion of people in the 20% most deprived areas who engage in the arts to 79%” and to
“increase the proportion of people in the 20% most deprived areas participating in sport to
increase to 50%” (DCAL, 2015b, p. 14). In terms of its targets for economic development, it
focuses on ongoing and planned redevelopment at Windsor Park and Casement Park, NI’s
main stadia for soccer and GAA respectively.
The aforementioned lack of an overarching national cultural policy for NI has been
tentatively addressed by a DCAL draft strategy (DCAL, 2015c), which had just completed
its consultation period at the time of writing. The draft strategy maintains the themes
of equality promotion and alleviation of poverty and social exclusion. As one of its five
themes, Creativity and Skills places an emphasis on the contribution of arts and culture
to the economy, a theme discussed in more detail below. The draft strategy attempts to fit
within current government programmes under the NI Executive, with a cross-departmental
approach. However, the draft strategy is very light on detail, particularly in terms of imple-
mentation. Indeed, for a policy that strives for innovation, it has a strikingly similar vision
statement to the department’s existing ‘key objectives’ discussed above. In this version, the
vision is: “To promote, develop and support the crucial role of arts and culture in creating a
cohesive community and delivering social change to our society on the basis of equality for
everyone” (DCAL, 2015c, p. 11).
In an arts and cultural sector heavily dependent on public funding, major financial cuts
have a substantial impact on many organisations important for the sustenance of diverse sec-
tor. To mitigate cuts across government departments in the Assembly, DCAL significantly
reduced funding to ACNI, the main arm’s length body working in the arts in 2015–2016

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(ACNI, 2015, p. 18; Meredith, 2015a). These cuts were set to be passed on to many of the
organizations in receipt of ACNI funding, such as the Grand Opera House Belfast, the
MAC and the Ulster Orchestra (Meredith, 2015b). In terms of its direct funding of outside
organisations, ACNI is responsible for distributing funds to community organisations, many
of which are tied almost exclusively to one side of the ethno-politico-religious divide or the
other, such as in the funding of marching bands that represent narrow community groupings
(Nolan, 2012). At the time of writing, it is unclear what the long-term impacts of austerity
will be on the arts sector, but one can infer that it will have knock-on effects for cultural pol-
icy and good relations, given the inextricable links between policy and society, as outlined
in this chapter thus far.
ACNI’s policy approach, like DCAL’s, is marked by an emphasis on fostering social inclu-
sion within the arts. For example, it reported that in the period 2010–2013 74% of its funding
had “gone directly into the most deprived areas” (ACNI, 2013, p. 7). Moreover, through its
Arts and Older People Strategy it conducted programmes with the aim of ensuring older people
in NI were not cut off from the arts, a programme underpinned by principles that were rec-
ognisably social democratic (Ramsey, 2013). As part of its current five-year plan, the ACNI
planned to “increase the proportion of arts activities delivered to the top 20% of the most
deprived Super Output Areas” (ACNI, 2013, p. 14). Despite such an approach, the ACNI has
reported during this five-year cycle that “Arts engagement rates for the least deprived group
was 86%, falling to 70% for the most deprived group” (ACNI, 2014, p. 3), and thus much
work remains to be done in this area.
ACNI’s Intercultural Arts Strategy 2011–2016 (ACNI, 2011) acknowledges that NI society
had become more markedly ethnically diverse in the ten or so years leading up to that point.
Accordingly, it set out that ACNI ought to “seek to foster the expression of cultural plural-
ism; build dialogue and promote understanding, through interchanges within and between
communities and their cultures” (ACNI, 2011, p. 10). In the detail of the strategy, it set out
six ‘strategic themes’ that included Using the Arts to Develop Community Cohesion; Using the
Arts to Develop Good Relations; Using the Arts as a Vehicle to Tackle Racism (ACNI, 2011, p. 67).
Finally, and akin to DCAL, ACNI is also concerned with economic growth, where it argues
“Stimulating the growth and development of our creative sector will optimize our economic
potential and increase our competitiveness” (ACNI, 2014, p. 7). The ACNI also has respon-
sibility for the NI’s Creative Industries Innovation Fund, which takes us to the second point,
where cultural policy is seen in the service of economic development, a path that closely
follows the wider UK model (e.g. DCMS, 2008).

Cultural policy as a driver of economic development

The creative industries (CIs) in NI have assumed a similar place in the political economy
as is the case in the wider UK, where successive governments have sought to stimulate and
measure the sectors (DCMS, 2001, 2011). Statistics for the CIs are measured in the same
manner as in the rest of the UK and their contribution to the economy highlighted by gov-
ernment departments. The most recent figures available at the time of writing show that the
CIs comprised 3.9% of NI’s GVA in 2014, an 11.7% increase since the previous year (DCAL,
2015d, p. 5). Compared with a national GVA of 5.2%, the NI rating is remarkably high
given the weak NI economy, highlighted above. At the forefront of this development has
been NI Screen, which has a key economic role to play in the development of the film and
television industries. In place since 1997, it was originally named the Northern Ireland Film
and Television Commission (NI Screen, 2015a).

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Northern Ireland Screen

The NI Screen approach to investing directly in productions, and seeing the economic bene-
fits returned, correlates directly with that of its core funder Invest NI. Invest NI is a publicly
funded body, which provides grants to international companies to locate in NI and for re-
gional companies to invest and expand with the aim of stimulating a private sector that was
greatly suppressed by the Troubles. Seen in its two most recent strategies, in Driving Global
Growth (NI Screen, 2010) and Opening Doors (NI Screen, 2014), NI Screen argues for the
value of economic return on investment, alongside a role in education and the development
of a skills base with the television and film industries. The sector grew from being mainly
involved with production for local television networks to an industry competing interna-
tionally for major productions, the best known of which is HBO’s Game of Thrones (GOT)
(2011–present), which has filmed six series of the show predominantly in NI at the time of
writing (NI Screen, 2015a).
NI Screen provides direct funding for productions, with a limit of £800,000, “up to
a ceiling of 25% of the overall project budget” (NI Screen, 2015b). For those companies
choosing to film in NI, the UK’s tax relief schemes apply, where companies can claim a
maximum of 25% relief on qualifying expenditure, either under the UK Film Tax Relief
(BFI, 2015a) or under the UK High-end TV Tax Relief (BFI, 2015b), with various caveats.
The Northern Ireland Screen Fund budgeted resources of £15.89m between 2010–2014,
while NI Screen’s Opening Doors strategy budgeted £36.3m between 2014–2018 (NI Screen,
2014, p. 84). Much of this spending has gone, and will continue to go, to GOT production
(though NI Screen notes that it was able to reduce GOT funding from £3.2m to £1.6m
when the UK tax relief was introduced) (NI Screen, 2014, p. 38) with an anticipated return
of £136m by the end of 2018 with an 11.25 ratio between cost and return (NI Screen, 2014,
p. 48). To date, NI Screen “has invested £12.45m in the series … For that investment, it is
estimated that £110.7m has been spent on goods and services in the Northern Ireland econ-
omy” (Meredith, 2015c).

The Irish Language Broadcast Fund and the Ulster-Scots

Broadcast Fund
NI Screen also administers the Irish Language Broadcast Fund (£3m in 2015–2016) and the
Ulster-Scots Broadcast Fund (£1m in 2015–2016). Both are available for application by produc-
tion companies for the support of broadcasting in the Irish language and on Ulster-­Scots themes
and have aimed to support 55 hours of Irish programming and 12 hours of Ulster-­Scots pro-
gramming in 2015–2016 (NI Screen, 2015c). Broadcasters who have utilized content supported
from these funds include the BBC, RTÉ, TG4 and UTV (Ofcom, 2014, p. 29), with a supposed
direct relationship between the public funding and spending in the broadcasting sector.
The Belfast Agreement provided an impetus for such an initiative, though only in relation
to Irish (NIO, 1998, Section 6, Paragraph 4), not to Ulster-Scots (Ulster-Scots was solely
mentioned in the context of it being “part of the cultural wealth of the island of Ireland”
(NIO, 1998, Section 6, Paragraph 3)). Little (2004) observes that Irish language was priori-
tized over Ulster-Scots in the GFA and that the latter has always enjoyed a slightly tenuous
position in NI. He argued that “making a special case for Irish language does not breach the
general intentions of the Agreement given that Irish language is not, in itself, disrespectful
towards the culture of other groups” (Little, 2004, p. 17). This differentiation is also marked
in the UK’s commitments to the European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages,

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Phil Ramsey and Bethany Waterhouse-Bradley

where Ulster-Scots is listed only under category II, focused on the principle of protection
in general, and Irish is listed under parts II and III, which dictate specific measures to be
undertaken in statutory agencies (NIHRC, 2010).

Discussion
Following our previous discussion of cultural citizenship, we now return to this theme as
a means of further exploring the contested nature of cultural policy in NI. Rather than
cultural citizenship taking form – in the Stevenson mould that we discussed above – the
equation of citizenship with cultural identity in NI (on both sides) in ways that are binary
and oppositional, perpetuates the politicization of culture at every level (Graham and Nash,
2006). This brings us to some key cultural policy questions for NI: is it possible to implement
a pluralist cultural policy, one where the concept of cultural citizenship might take root,
when culture and territory are inextricably linked, and where territory remains entrenched
and divided as contested space (Hughes and McCandless, 2006, Knox, 2011)? What would
such a ‘Northern Irish’ cultural policy look like, taking account both of the past and of the
changing nature of NI society with increased immigration? Such an endpoint is so distant
under the current paradigm as to seem almost unimaginable, and as we have seen, the recent
DCAL attempt falls somewhat short.
Whenever ‘culture’ is invoked in NI, in policy or in discourse, there is division to be
found. Graham and Nash’s (2006) point that the language of culture has been co-opted as
a means to justify or classify division is relevant here, further underlining how much work
would be required: “In Northern Ireland, the attempt to deal with sub-state patterns of
ethno-­sectarian antagonism though principles of parity of cultural respect and esteem has in-
advertently created a legitimating vocabulary of ‘culture’ and ‘cultural rights’ for antagonistic
expressions of separatist difference” (Graham and Nash, 2006, p. 258). That said, the work of
DCAL under Sinn Féin has often been rather oddly non-political at the level of party politics,
apart from the proposal for an Irish Language Act. While the emphasis on social exclusion and
equality is stronger than may be the case from the main Right and Centre-Right Unionist
parties, examples of where ire has been drawn from Unionist parties have sometimes been
found elsewhere (e.g. the February 2016 publication of a book about the Republican Bobby
Sands, part funded by ACNI (BBC, 2016)). Herein lies one particular issue in relation to
the formation of cultural policy. Due to the consociational nature of the NI Assembly, as
discussed above, and the nature of a power-sharing Executive, DCAL often fails to take on
any real kind of political direction as shaped by the Party with that Ministerial responsibility.
While DCAL is now under the control of Sinn Féin, it was previously under DUP con-
trol. There are some differences in the discourse used by these Parties – e.g. “in this part of
Ireland”, used by DCAL under Sinn Féin in the department’s mission statement (DCAL,
2015b), as opposed to using the term ‘Northern Ireland’ – however it is less of a politicized
department than might be assumed given the myriad cultural issues we have considered
here. Indeed political differences at DCAL, depending on which party controls it, are not
discernible in the same way that they would be in relation to DCMS either under the control
of Labour or the Conservative parties in the UK. As the parties in the NI Executive are tied
into the Programme for Government (NI Executive, 2012b), the work of individual departments
cannot deviate far from the collectively agreed policy positions. It is worth noting, however,
that these priorities are inherently impacted by party divisions given that they must be ap-
proved by both Sinn Féin and DUP, who are the two main parties in the Executive and hold
the current powers for the Office of the First Minister and Deputy First Minister.

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Rather, the policy approach of DCAL has been more in keeping with Bonet and Négrier’s
(2011, p. 578) notion that the dominant cultural policy trend since 1980 has been one of
“economic and cultural development”. In addition to its work on socio-economic matters,
the DCAL’s approach here mirrors that of where the NI Executive has arguably found its
clearest shared ground, that of economic development driven by inward investment and actu-
alized in the built environment as the hegemonic political-economic vision for NI. This is
shown in its work in supporting NI Screen and its apparent dedication to GOT as a driver of
economic growth through jobs creation and tourism transcends the community divide. In
some ways this is unsurprising, with consensus over job creation perhaps more easily reached
as compared to some of the more contentious issues. However, the unquestioning nature of
some of the economic assumptions relating to investment and growth exposes the depth at
which the neoliberal paradigm has become engrained.
While government departments in NI are required to take delicate steps over territory
and space when it comes to political and social issues, the economic imperative for NI Screen
with the blessing of the NI Executive seemingly trumps all other concerns. In this under-
standing, NI’s space is ‘ripe’ for development, with the attendant picturesque vistas ready to
be exploited by global television businesses. Attracting HBO to NI has spurred growth in the
tourism sector, with fans travelling to numerous filming locations around NI (e.g. Boland,
2014). Further attention was drawn to filming in NI through visits by Queen Elizabeth II
in 2014 and the British Prime Minister David Cameron in 2015. Such examples are then
used by the supporting politicians to further justify support for the film and television sector.
However, the work that NI Screen does and the excitement generated by GOT’s filming in
NI means that the enterprise has escaped with almost no criticism or detailed scrutiny over
its operation, either from journalistic or academic sources. A dearth of analysis has meant
that very little has been said about the precarious nature of HBO’s relationship with NI,
the ethics of providing public funding to a global-national on the scale of HBO (ultimately
owned by its parent company Time-Warner), the nature of the employment it creates – often
employing workers on short-term contracts – or indeed on the impact on the environment.2

Conclusion
NI remains very much shaped by the events of its past in terms of cultural identity, in the
division of society, and in terms of socio-economic conditions, which often lag consid-
erably behind the rest of the UK. NI’s political institutions, while they remain based on
consociational principles, are often found to be inadequate to deal with key cultural policy
questions due to a lack of consensus. The agreement between the main parties, that using
publicly funded agencies to attract investment into NI, especially in the area of the creative
industries, has led to NI becoming a somewhat unlikely leading site outside of London in
film and television production. However, pointing to the cultural policy ‘success stories’
cannot mask what are deep-rooted problems, further underlined by wider divisions within
NI society. Cultural policy could contribute to a more-shared future in NI, but what are
at times seemingly intractable cultural problems remain as significant obstacles to be sur-
mounted. Future research on the subject is required to develop a theory of cultural policy
in NI – the current literature specific to the subject is limited – to further understand the
role of culture in the context of political, economic and social progress in the region. To
this end, more empirical work that deals with arts and cultural institutions is required, along
with the further policy analysis that will be required when DCAL transitions into its new
departmental context.

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Notes
1 In January 2015 it was proposed that the work of DCAL could be amalgamated with that of
two other government departments in a new department, the Department of Social Welfare,
Communities and Sport (Gordon, 2015). The department was eventually named the Department
for Communities.
2 Thanks to Steve Baker for drawing our attention to this point about the environmental impact.

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 Part IV
Practice and cultural policy
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 14
The art collection of
the United Nations
Origins, institutional framework
and ongoing tensions

Mafalda Dâmaso

Introduction
The United Nations Art Collection, exhibited in the United Nations (UN) Headquarters in
New York and in other duty stations worldwide, is mostly composed of official gifts offered
to the UN by its member states. This chapter will argue that the collection foregrounds the
core contradiction of the UN, that is, between its international values and responsibilities and
its modus operandi, which remains nation-centric. The chapter will describe the origins of
the collection, analyse its current institutional framework, describe how it reflects the organ-
isational contradictions of the UN and identify the audiences of the collections. Throughout
this analysis, the art collection will emerge as a platform in which the member states and the
UN deploy soft power – a notion that is briefly related to that of cultural diplomacy.
Uniting these sections is the argument that the collection reflects, in different ways, the
institutional ambivalence of the UN itself (serving an international community in whose
name it was created yet funded and organised according to the logic of the nation-state).1
This tension reveals the limits of the use of art by political institutions to reinforce a specific
message when the different parties do not agree with the transfer of certain powers to said
institution – in this case, the ability of the UN to develop and communicate a position of
its own in relation to ongoing international affairs debates (which would be reflected in the
curation by the UN of its own exhibitions using its art collection, for example).

Origins and goals

It is difficult to find details of the origins of the collection of the UN. However, the existing
evidence points to the collection originating from a combination of, on the one hand, the
personal interest in the arts of the first UN Secretary General and, on the other hand, prac-
tical concerns regarding the need to decorate its New York headquarters:

appropriate decoration of the Headquarters was an early concern of the architects who
planned the buildings. The theme of peace was reflected in many of the first offerings.

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Two huge murals representing “War” and “Peace”, by the Brazilian artist Candido
Portinari, dominate the Delegates’ Lobby of the General Assembly building, along
with Belgium’s mural tapestry, “Triumph of Peace”, one of the largest ever woven […].
A mural by José Vela Zanetti of the Dominican Republic titled “Mankind’s Struggle for
a Lasting Peace” was the gift of the Guggenheim Foundation […]. Iran, Iraq and Turkey
have given interesting replicas of ancient peace treaties.
(Urquhart 1995, p. i)

Although I will focus on its artworks, the collection also includes historic objects, all of
which have been donated as gifts to the UN by its member states, associations or individuals.
Additionally, each UN headquarters (Geneva, Vienna and Nairobi) has its own collection.
This said, the total number of objects included in the collection (let alone in each office)
is unclear. Michael Adlerstein, Assistant Secretary-General and Executive Director of the
­Capital Master Plan (CMP), i.e. of the renovation plan of the New York headquarters, said in
a 2014 interview that there were 311 gifts listed in the UN’s inventory; however, there isn’t
a complete registry listing all the elements of the collection. This uncertainty is evident in
another of Adlerstein’s statements – who also belongs to the collection’s committee:

We also continuously have loans from different museums or Member States […]. There
is more art in Geneva, Nairobi, Bangkok, and Vienna and in all of the regional offices.
I think there is far more art than in the New York Headquarters but I would assume that
we have the largest collection in the organisation.
(Adlerstein 2014, p. 152; emphasis my own)

The elements of the collection are exhibited not only in the New York headquarters but
also in other duty stations worldwide (for example, The United Nations Office at Geneva
inherited a considerable number of works of art from the League of Nations – see UNOG,
no date and International Geneva 2012). Interestingly, the growth of the collection accom-
panied that of the UN.

The diverse permanent collection of art here has tripled in size […]. The growth in
the number of art objects has roughly paralleled the growth in membership – from
51 ­nations in 1946, when it was decided to build the headquarters here, to 157 today.
(Blair 1983) 2

But this momentum has since slowed down, as has the number of donations. Moreover, one
must note a recent change in the UN’s position vis-à-vis said donations, even if that was due
to practical constraints rather than to wider strategic or policy changes.

In the early days of the UN, some gifts were donated by foundations and by the city of
New York and by others that were invited to gift. Since that time, the number of gifts
has grown significantly. Wall space has become in high demand so that at this point in
time, we prefer gifts from Member States, and this is the Member States’ preference as
well […]. We have had a pause for the Capital Master Plan where we have not received
gifts for the past six years, because there is too much construction going on […]. Part
of what the Arts Committee tries to do is to make sure we do not get overwhelmed
with art.
(Adlerstein 2014, p. 152)

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That is, today every member can only make one offer and is also responsible for the instal-
lation of the offered artefacts. Additionally, as Adlerstein mentions, the renovation of the
headquarters (the Capital Master Plan) between 2008 and 2015 led to a pause in the growth
of the collection – which is likely to continue due to space constraints.
Although I cannot discuss all the elements of the collection, it is important to mention
some of its particularly well-known pieces. The first is Marc Chagall’s 1964 stained-glass
piece. This memorial to those who died in the plane crash that killed Dag Hammarskjöld,
the Secretary General, in Africa during the Congo crisis in 1961, was gifted by the artist and
by the United Nations staff in 1964.

Peace is filled with symbolism of peace drawn from the New Testament and depicted in
the artist’s signature swirling, dreamlike style. Imagery includes a young boy represent-
ing the Biblical “Prince of Peace, “ the Tree of Knowledge amid a pastoral setting from
the Garden of Eden, Christ on the cross, and an angel bestowing the Ten Command-
ments to the residents of a walled city. References to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony
(a favorite of Hammarskjold’s) also figure throughout.
(Halcyon 2015)

Barbara Hepworth’s Single Form (1961–64), a stone sculpture surrounded by water and with
a slightly off-center hole, was also donated in memory of the late Secretary ­General. In-
deed, it was gifted ‘on a grant from Jacob Blaustein, a former member of the United States
delegation’ (Blair 1983). Finally, a bronze statue of a reclining figure by the British sculptor
Henry Moore (the eighth of nine castings of a plaster executed in 1979–80) and positioned
at the entrance to the Secretariat building, is also a memorial to ­Hammarskjold – who
wished that one work of the sculptor would be included in the collection. In fact,

the second Secretary General of the United Nations, the Swede Dag Hammarskjold,
had a special relationship with the arts. He saw in them important ‘Ambassadors of
Hope’ after the Second World War. Hammarskjold […] laid the foundation for the great
art collection of the United Nations […].
(Theill 2014, p. 168)

Apart from artworks, as I mentioned earlier, the collection includes tapestries from countries
such as China and Iran, sculptures from Nigeria, Mali and others, furniture, a peace bell
from Japan, a third-century mosaic mural donated by Tunisia in 1961 and a 3000-year-old
ceremonial mantle received in 1957 from Peru, among others. Finally, it also includes more
unconventional elements.

Hanging in a Secretariat building corridor is a small painting by an amateur presented

by the artist in 1978. ‘‘Please accept this small painting as a gift of peace from me in this
Year of the Child,” said an accompanying letter, signed, Muhammad Ali.
(Blair 1983)

This gift is interesting in that it highlights the gradual openness of the UN to celebrities and,
most recently, to public relations (Cooper and Frechette 2015). But it also reveals that this is
indeed an extremely varied collection. For example, in 1955 the Netherlands offered the UN
a Foucault pendulum, which moves according to earth’s rotation – a non-artistic work that
supports the idea of the UN as representing the globe and hence the international community.

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Indeed, in its whole, the collection is often described as representing the ideals and the
values of the UN as an international organisation. Its former Secretary-General wrote that:

the art displayed at the United Nations – at its Headquarters in New York, offices in
Geneva and Vienna, regional commissions, and more than twenty agencies and pro-
grammes of the United Nations system – reflects the diversity of cultures and historical
traditions of the Member States, and therefore of humanity itself.
(Boutros-Ghali 1995, p. 9)

However, it is impossible to find any institutional evidence that this aim (representing human-
ity as well as addressing or representing the central values of the UN) is indeed the goal of the
collection. Rather, the idea that it showcases the richness of the world’s cultures seems to have
emerged as a retrospective justification for its existence. The fact is that the collection doesn’t

have a single mission or purpose or selecting group. It is a collection which has been
donated by the Member States and reflects their impression of what they would like the
world to see of their culture or of the UN mission.
(Adlerstein 2014, p. 152)

The next sections will reveal that this lack of clarity or ambivalence is also reflected, on the
one hand, on the institutional framework of the collection (a committee with very limited
independence and powers, which reflects a broader tension at the core of the UN regarding
the nature of sovereignty) and, on the other hand, on the multiple audiences that are served
by it (which is associated with its use as an instrument of soft power, as will be argued).

Institutional framework
First, when presenting an official gift to the UN, the member states must follow specific pro-
cedures, including giving speeches and attending ceremonies, which are coordinated by the
Protocol and Liaison Service. Indeed, there ‘are frequently gifts from member nations, often
to commemorate an anniversary or the appointment of a new Secretary General’ (Halcyon,
2015). The act of making a donation to the collection can be interpreted as either a public
demonstration of agreement with the values of the UN or as a way to increase the visibility
of a specific member state within the UN. In any case, such an act reveals an implicit agree-
ment with the importance of the UN as an inter-governmental organisation. However, the
fact that the donor remains the holder of the rights of the artwork also attests to the refusal
to provide it a supranational status – which, as we will see later, further reinforces the am-
bivalence and the non-independence of the collection.
Second, the collection is managed by an art committee that meets when needed, com-
posed of nine UN staff members.3 Its functions are to establish policies to be followed by the
­Secretary-General regarding the gifts offered to the collection, to recommend their acceptance or
rejection and to assist with their management. Interestingly, Adlerstein is very open regarding the
fact that the elements of the committee aren’t invited based on their knowledge of art but, rather,

because we are in fields of endeavor that the Secretary-General needs to pay attention
to, political affairs and facilities and public information […]. We do not have the actual
staff experienced in art curation.
(2014, p. 153)

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This said, the UN originally invited art specialists to join this board.

The arts committee used to be composed of both Secretariat officials and outside experts.
But, Mr. Urquhart said, the outsiders ‘‘dwindled away out of frustration’’ by the mid-1970’s
[sic]. ‘‘I don’t remember we accomplished very much, and we sort of disbanded ourselves,
‘‘said Elizabeth Parkinson Cobb, a former president of the Museum of Modern Art, who
left the committee in 1975. ‘‘We had to accept everything, whether we liked it or not”.
(Blair 1983)

The fact that the committee was (and still is) forced to accept all offers highlights the fact that
the collection isn’t built from the point of view of either experts or artists – i.e. as a curated
section of objects representing the values of the UN. Rather, the collection ‘represents the
diversity of each member’s art’ (Williams 2014, p. 152). This absence of power to reject spe-
cific artworks also reiterates – again, implicitly – the sovereignty of each member state. This
might also explain why the committee subsequently diminished in size, before expanding
again with the arrival of political advisors. As the journalist Nicole Winfield wrote in a piece
for the Los Angeles Times in 2000,

the U.N. Arts Committee, which chooses what gifts from U.N. countries get placed
where, consists of a single person – one of Secretary-General Kofi Annan’s top political
advisors who has no fine arts background. Indeed, the business of art at the United Nations
is hardly artistic. It’s politics and diplomacy at its most basic. Diplomats try to score subtle
political points through their gifts to the organization, and U.N. officials try desperately
to avoid insulting any country when the organization has to object to, reject or otherwise
intervene over an offering. “I see my work more as being in the realm of diplomacy than
in the realm of curatorship, “concedes arts committee chairman ­A lvaro de Soto, who on
most days carries the title of U.N. assistant secretary-general for ­political affairs.

This committee is the main entity responsible for the conservation of the collection. How-
ever, restoration work, for example, requires returning the artworks to the member states
that donated them. The absence of power of the UN is also evident in the fact that changes to
the location of the artworks require its previous acceptance by the donors. This is one of the
reasons why, in the report ‘Managing Works of Art in the United Nations’ (1992), the UN
Joint Inspection Unit made several recommendations to the Security Council, including the
reorganisation of the Arts Committee and stronger clarity regarding the responsibility for
the artworks. Such recommendations included the following:

Recommendation One: That the Secretary-General make proposals to the General

­A ssembly at the earliest possible date for adoption by Member States of an arts policy
for the United Nations.
Recommendation Two: That the Secretary-General undertake the reorganization
and strengthening of the arts committee, specifying its composition and terms of
reference […].
Recommendation Three: That the Secretary-General inform Member States of the spe-
cific and details measures he [sic] plans to take to develop, preserve and safeguard the arts
collection of the United Nations, including his [sic] proposed programmes for registry,
evaluation, conservation, insurance and protection.

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Recommendation Four: That the Secretary-General, in the interest of an effective arts

policy over the long term, should engage a professional curator to assure the relevance,
coherence and value of the United Nations collection.
(UN Joint Inspection Unit 1992, p. ii)

Although it was published 15 years ago, its recommendations are yet to be enacted. None-
theless, Adlerstein recently affirmed that ‘the terms of reference for the Arts Committee and
the management of the gifts is presently in review again by the Arts Committee […]. The
donor is responsible for the maintenance of the art’ (Adlerstein 2014, p. 155). This said, the
UN does have some elements of responsibility for the collection. As he stated,

the budget for art is sort of under the umbrella of the Office of Central Support Services
(OCSS), Department of Management. They manage the Art Collection. They manage
it on a day-to-day basis; they clean it; they paint the walls; they move the art off the
wall in order to do the maintenance of the building […]. The curatorial work is done by
the Member States, so there is not a significant work load [sic] for us. Most of the staff
involved, including the Arts Committee, treats this part of their work as collateral duty.
(Adlerstein 2014, p. 155; emphasis my own)

The responsibility of the member states for the curatorial work is particularly interesting.
Once again, this reiterates the fact that the UN (in this case, via the art committee) is unable
to function as an authority responsible for establishing a narrative connecting the different
artworks. This is important because doing so would require connecting the positions of
individual states and relating them to ongoing discussions in the UN’s fora. This absence of
power is also evident in the committee’s role (or lack thereof ) in evaluating the appropriate-
ness of gifts and, subsequently, in their rejection. According to Adlerstein,

there are no specific criteria for what makes a work of art unacceptable. The purpose of
the Arts Committee is to give the Secretary-General its opinion to determine if a gift
might be inappropriate. Generally speaking, the UN avoids gifts that might be offensive
to Member States or to any particular group.
(2014, p. 154)

However, as Winfield notes in her piece, there is indeed evidence of previous rejections.

Urquhart […] recalls having to politely decline a gift from an unnamed Pacific island
ambassador to display a prized, stuffed coelacanth – a prehistoric fish. A decomposing
animal, Urquhart remembers arguing, was perhaps not an appropriate addition.
(2000)

Williams also describes a further conflict between the committee and those who wanted
to give yet another object to the collection. Reading the full quote suggests how politically
charged such decisions are.

Mihail Simeonov, a Bulgarian sculptor, in 1980 had the idea of felling an African el-
ephant with narcotic darts and making a mold in latex, to be cast later in bronze-five
tons of it. The idea was taken up by Austrian former Secretary General of the Socialist

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International Hans Janitschek who worked at the UN. He set up the “Cast the ­Elephant
Trust” as a not-for-profit. The Secretariat breathed a sigh of relief—they were un-
der no obligation to accept gifts from NGOs […]. However, Janitschek enlisted three
­elephant-populated countries as sponsors, Nepal, Malawi and Namibia, so the UN had
to give way
(2014, pp. 150–151)

Altogether, and despite their brevity, these stories reveal that the committee is very limited
in its powers to evaluate the inappropriateness of the artworks that it receives, which it can
only do in regard to conservation issues (as well as, potentially, other safety issues) and if
there is reason to believe that other member states or groups might find such gifts offensive.
The practical consequence of this situation is clear: gifts that do not explicitly oppose a spe-
cific member state or group must be accepted, leaving the door open to objects that do so
implicitly, as I will discuss later.
Two central issues have emerged from this initial analysis: on the one hand, the absence of
institutional autonomy of the committee; on the other hand, the role of political influence in the
expansion of the collection. They reflect a broader institutional conflict, as I will now discuss.

Organisational contradictions
The management of the collection can be seen as reiterating the argument made by Seth
Center, an historian in the American Department of State, in ‘The United Nations Depart-
ment of Public Information: Intractable Dilemmas and Fundamental Contradictions’ (2009).
Center proposes that the work of the communication and public relations department of the
UN foregrounds the core contradictions of the institution, such as that between its inter­
national values and responsibilities and its modus operandi, which is nation-centric.
This tension is reflected in the art collection: despite being described as belonging to the
UN, as we have seen the artworks belong to the nation states (which would have to give
permission for the use of the former in support of any specific curatorial narrative). In light
of this, and following Center, the strategic challenges faced by the UN collection emerge as
inherent to the nature of the UN. Let us consider in detail his discussion of what he views
as the contradictory aims served by the Department of Public Information (DPI), which is
responsible for the communication of the UN.

While the UN General Assembly is infamous as a forum for member states’ propaganda,
the United Nations bureaucracy maintains, at least in principle, an ethos of impartiality
in global affairs, a culture of deference to its member states, and an adherence to the
principle of state sovereignty. This situation has produced intractable dilemmas in the
formulation and execution of UN information policy.
(2009, pp. 886–887)

That is, Center proposes that despite the recent attempted reorganisation of the public rela-
tions of the UN, its mission and institutional nature oppose the possibility of a fully unified
communication strategy. He illustrates this argument with an analysis of the history of the
DPI, focusing both on earlier tensions and on the multiple reorganisations to which it has been
subjected during the last 20 years. In particular, Center argues that, during the Cold War, and
with regard to controversial issues such as assigning responsibility for the Korean War,

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too much “objective” information was sure to alienate one of the two superpowers
and lead to charges of partiality […]. In seeking to adhere to the ethos of impartiality,
the DPI elided controversial issues […]. The DPI consistently strove to avoid singling
out individual states for approbation in its treatment of global issues because of the im-
plicit challenge to state sovereignty and the exigency of impartiality.
(2009, p. 891)

Nonetheless, and crucially, Center argues that

the DPI has found a formula that produced an uneasy détente in the historical conflict
over the means and ends of UN information policy. The DPI and wider UN informa-
tion efforts embrace activism in the conduct of information policy, but abjure politici-
zation in the content.
(2009, p. 896)

There are further complications in analysing the relationship between the UN and its
member states. For instance, as Anne-Marie Slaughter demonstrates (2005), the term
sovereignty is itself contested, and its scholarly understanding has gradually shifted away
from a ­Westphalian, zero-sum understanding. Instead, authors such as Kal Raustiala
(2003) and Abram Chayes and Antonia Handler Chayes (1995) propose to see it as flexi-
ble and expandable. In this view, when a state makes the decision to join an international
organisation with supranational elements (hence partly limiting one’s own powers), the
result is an expansion of the autonomy of said state. This is because such membership
allows it to participate in a wider pool of resources (economic, military, diplomatic and
others).
However, this dualism – between the mission of the UN and the sovereignty of the
individual member states – is not exclusive to the UN; rather, it could be seen as an ex-
ample of a tension that is inherent to international or supranational organisations. This
tension is clear when one reads Tuuli Lähdesmäki’s (2012) discussion of the role played
by the rhetoric of the European Union’s (EU’s) cultural policy in the context of its aim to
strengthen the unification of its member states. Lähdesmäki notices a central contradiction
in an analysis of four cases – the Treaty of Lisbon, the European Agenda for Culture, the
EU’s European Capital of Culture programme (ECC) and specifically the Pécs, Hungary
ECC programme in 2010:

the fundamental aim of the cultural policy of the EU is to stress the obvious cultural di-
versity of Europe, and at the same time, find some underlying common elements which
unify the diverse cultures of Europe. Through these common elements, the EU’s policy
produces an imagined cultural community of Europe (Sassatelli 2002, p. 436) which is
‘united in diversity’, as one of the slogans of the Union states.
(Lähdesmäki 2012, p. 59)

Further, cultural elements are critical in communicating the values of the European Union:

pan-Europeanists or cosmopolitans have thus stressed the role of the cosmopolitan as-
pects of culture in the creation of Europe – even on the administrative level in the
EU – as is suggested, e.g., by the selection of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy as the EU’s anthem.
(Delanty 2000, p. 226; Lähdesmäki 2012, pp. 63–64)

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To be more specific, Lähdesmäki is here referring to the fact that, when applying for the
European Capital of Culture programme, interested cities must demonstrate that they have
contributed significantly to European culture. At the same time, “the guide and the ECC
decisions both emphasize the significance of important historical figures in the making of
a ‘European dimension’ to the ECC events”, a practice that the author sees as mirroring
‘nationalist attempts to boost national self-esteem and create a national narration of history’
(Lähdesmäki 2012, pp. 66–68). This is why, broadly joining the analysis developed by Vivien
Fryd (1994), which I will mention later, Lähdesmäki suggests that the role played by

common cultural heritage in the production of Europeanness can be interpreted as a

reflection of the past colonialist ideology (see Palonen 2010) […]. In a sense, the heri-
tage is colonized by the EU for its identity political purposes […]. The rhetoric tends to
emphasize the heritage of ‘original’ Europeans […] and draws attention [away] from the
cultural and social problems of the present-day cultural diversity.
(2012, p. 72)

Although I do agree that, in an analogous manner, the UN collection can undoubtedly be

seen as unveiling the institutional complexity of the UN, I do not believe that the term col-
onisation and its logic apply to this case (and, before the conclusion, I question whether the
logic of colonisation applies at all). Rather, the comparison between the art collection of the
UN and the European City of Culture reveals exactly the opposite: the collection is a vehicle
for multiple (and sometimes contradictory) ‘national narration[s] of history’, as is identified
by Lähdesmäki (2012, p. 68). This possibility emerges from the broader ambivalence that the
collection exemplifies, as I will be arguing throughout this chapter: that between the mission
of the UN (to represent and work in the name of the international community – as a supra-
national organisation) and its implementation (which depends on the UN’s individual nation
states – and, hence, as an international organisation with some supranational elements).
This ambivalence is also reflected in the lack of clarity regarding who the intended audiences
of the collection are. As we will see, it has several overlapping audiences: the visitors of the head-
quarters of the UN (as well as of other offices) taking official tours of the buildings (UNESCO
2010); the UN staff, national civil servants and other individuals who are able to visit parts of
the headquarters of the UN (as well as other offices) that are closed to the general public; finally,
the global public, who has access to the collection through media stories about the donations.

The audiences of the collection

As Edward Marks mentions in his piece in A World of Art: The United Nations Collection (1995),
the only publication dedicated to the collection, the intended audience (or audiences) of the col-
lection is (or are) not immediately clear. Elements of the collection are mentioned during tours
of the headquarters in New York (see Gimlette 2012). UNESCO’s headquarters (in Paris) also
offer guided tours to the public (see UNESCO, no date).4 However, there is a second audience
that only partly overlaps with that of the participants in its tours. Indeed, Marks writes that:

quite a number of these artworks, for security and other reasons, are not accessible to the
public, even in those buildings where there are guided tours. They are seen only by UN staff,
delegates of member nations and visitors on official business. Since they are not in museums
or established galleries, their existence is relatively unknown, even to art connoisseurs.
(1995, p. 15)

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In a similar direction, in the interview that was quoted earlier, Adlerstein states that ‘a lot of
the collection is not visible to the public because it is in the delegates’ areas. The delegates
enjoy the collection, it is their art, and it is their house’ (2014, p. 152). That is, the collection
is seen as having a similar identity-building effect in these two audiences (those who visit
the headquarters of the UN and other offices as either visitors or as members of staff ), clearly
communicating the values and the diversity of the institution. This experience, if it does in-
deed take place, has important consequences. To understand why, it is enough to read Carol
Duncan’s ‘The Art Museum as Ritual’ (1995), in which the art historian discusses the values
associated with the buildings that house public art collections and argues that ‘to control a
museum means precisely to control the representation of a community and its highest values
and truths’ […] (Duncan 1995, p. 8). Crucially, however, Duncan stresses not the role of
collections but that of visitors:

In art museums, it is the visitors who enact the ritual […]. The museum’s larger nar-
rative structure stands as a frame and gives meaning to individual works […]. A ritual
experience is thought to have a purpose, an end. It is seen as transformative: it confers or
renews identity or purifies or restores order in the self or to the world through sacrifice,
ordeal, or enlightenment.
(1995, pp. 12–13)

Nonetheless, such statements highlight the need for research aimed at understanding
how visitors from different cultural, social and national backgrounds interpret the art
collection of the UN and to test to what extent its visit might be associated with the
enactment, to use Duncan’s words (1995, p. 478), of a stronger sense of belonging to
the international community, as suggested by Adlerstein. In a similar direction, Susan
Pearce also discusses the role of museums in constructing or sustaining specific identities
in Interpreting Objects and Collections, in which she analyses museums such as the Louvre.
Pearce demonstrates that:

museums can be powerful identity-defining machines. To control a museum is to

control the representation of a community and some of its highest most authoritative
truths […]. What we see and do not see in our prestigious art museums […] involves the
much larger questions of who constitutes the community.
(1992, p. 286)

Read in light of these comments, the UN art collection emerges as contributing to the defi-
nition of both its visitors and its professionals as part of a common group – the international
community uniting peoples beyond borders and in the name of which the preamble of the
Charter of the UN starts (‘We the peoples of the United Nations’, UN, 1945). Although this
notion is discussed in the literature as legally complicated (Greenwood 2011), one can also
interpret it rhetorically, i.e. as making the case for the relevance, and hence the legitimacy,
of the UN itself.5 The collection can be read in the same way: as strengthening the idea that
the global mission of the UN (to represent and advocate for the global community) is worthy
of support. This is significant in that it attests that the UN, even without having the power
to curate the artworks in a way that would organise them according to a supranational nar-
rative, can use the collection to support its mandate.
It is also interesting to consider the partial closeness of the collection vis-à-vis the wider
public in view of a further comment made by Adlerstein:

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 The art collection of the United Nations

the UN Headquarters is not a museum. The UN could not afford to open itself up in a
way of a museum, to open up all its floors on a regular basis, because the UN Headquar-
ters is the functioning office of an inter-governmental organisation.
(2014, p. 155)

This quote suggests that contrarily to most art museums, which have as their main goal to
disseminate their collections to audiences that are as broad as possible, evaluating the art
collection of the UN exclusively based on those two dimensions (i.e. on its elements and on
its dissemination within a multifaceted audience) would be limiting. Rather, as I will discuss
in the following section, the art collection of the UN could also be seen as a platform for soft
power. This idea is connected with the third audience of the collection: the global viewers
who read or watch news pertaining to specific items within the collection. Indeed, the de-
cision by nation states to contribute to the art collection of the UN is often accompanied by
strong media campaigns.
This analysis resonates with the argument of Simon Mark in ‘A Greater Role for Cultural
Diplomacy’ (2009), which affirms the importance of cultural diplomacy within public di-
plomacy, particularly in terms of the broader audiences the former reaches both domestically
and internationally. Mark follows the definition of Mark Leonard (1997), who organises it
(i.e. public diplomacy) into three tiers:

The first tier, short term, reactive news management, takes hours and days. The next
tier, medium term strategic communications, takes months. The third tier, cultural di-
plomacy, is about the development of long-term relationships, and can take years.
(Mark 2009, p. 13)

That is, in this definition the audiences of cultural diplomacy also differ from those of public
diplomacy because the former includes, contrarily to the latter, ‘politicians, diplomats and
other government officials’ – an idea that is confirmed in the partial availability of the art
collection to the visitors. In this view, the motivation for giving to the UN art collection
is more complex than a simple one-sided demonstration of support towards the UN. This
complexity – both in terms of audiences and, potentially, in motivation for giving – demands
that one revisit the notion of soft power.

Soft power within the collection

Let us then consider some of the artworks included in the collection from the point of view
of this hypothesis, i.e. to test whether their donation to the UN art collection may function
as a form of soft power. As is well known, this term was originally defined by Joseph S. Nye
Jr. (1990) in opposition to hard power (i.e. military and economic resources). Writing after
the fall of the Berlin Wall, Nye opposed the idea of geopolitical multipolarity and affirmed
that the United States was the major global potency, stressing the changing nature of power.

The appropriate response to the changes occurring in world politics today is not to
abandon the traditional concern for the military balance of power, but to accept its
limitations and to supplement it with insights about interdependence […]. Creating and
resisting linkages between issues […] becomes the art of the power game. Political lead-
ers use international institutions to discourage or promote such linkages.
(1990, pp. 156–158)

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As examples of soft power, Nye mentions American culture and lifestyle,6 which allow the
country ‘to get its messages across and to affect the preferences of others’ (1990, p. 169). By
giving artworks to the art collection of the UN, member states are also ‘getting their messages
across’, both within the UN and internationally. That is, they are potentially reinforcing
their positions in regard to ongoing geopolitical disagreements or tensions as well as, in Nye’s
terminology, discouraging or promoting linkages (as we saw in the case of the elephant cast).
However, as Melissa Nisbett carefully demonstrates in ‘Who Holds the Power in Soft
Power?’ (2016), Nye’s discussion of the term has evolved and its definition remains unclear,
particularly regarding its position within canonical discussions of power (not to mention the
lack of evidence regarding the effectiveness of practices inspired by the term). Specifically,
the author argues that Nye’s concept of soft power can be understood according to Steven
Lukes’s 1974 third dimension of power, which regards the ways individual beliefs and pref-
erences are influenced by the powerful.

In the words of Joseph Nye (2004, p. 2), soft power is the ability “to influence the be-
havior of others to get the outcomes one wants”. Soft power can therefore reside both
in the realm of the imagination, as well as within some kind of operationalized action.
Soft power involves the assimilation of thoughts, beliefs and values, through sometimes
subtle and imperceptible means. This idea of the power to shape desires and beliefs maps
very neatly onto the concept of soft power.
(Nisbett 2016, no page)

Nonetheless, I do think that the concept is relevant for this discussion in that it hints at the
nation-centric order of the UN. As Nisbett suggests when she discusses the British approach
to soft power and cultural diplomacy during the last 10 years (2016), while the latter strategy
combined the goals of cooperation and competition with other nations, the more recent fo-
cus on soft power has mostly abandoned the idea of collaboration. To put it differently, soft
power suggests and is associated with the idea of competition between states – namely, as I
will now argue, regarding the visibility or the control of a narrative.
A well-known piece of the UN art collection that confirms this analysis is Evgeniy
Vuchetich’s Let Us Beat Swords into Plowshares (1957), a bronze sculpture depicting a power­
ful man using a hammer to transform a sword, which was offered to the UN in 1959 by the
former Soviet Union. Along the same ideological lines (albeit with a much more violent
undertone, making the case for the continuous geopolitical relevance of the former Soviet
potency), the Soviet Union also offered the UN Zurab Tsereteli’s Good Defeats Evil (1990),
another sculpture that depicts St. George slaying a dragon and that is composed of ‘fragments
of USS Pershing nuclear missiles and Soviet SS-20 missiles that were destroyed under the
terms of the 1987 Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty’ (Halcyon 2015).
Although this artwork fulfils the definition of appropriateness of the committee, it would
be impossible not to read in it a subtle critique of the American stance in the Cold War.
This cunning way of making a political statement without targeting a specific nation state
as responsible for the current state of affairs is evident throughout the collection. It is worth
quoting the journalist Ian Williams at length:

The visitor’s hall to the General Assembly typifies the highs and lows of the collection.
Going through doors with Ernest Cormier bas reliefs more reminiscent of the interwar
art of the Palais des Nations in Geneva, visitors see a replica of Sputnik hanging in the air
above a statue of Zeus, while visitors file past a moon rock in a glass case from the US […].

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Everyone seems too polite to point out the Chinese gift—the huge ivory carving
celebrating the opening of the Chengtu-Kunming Railway, a period piece from 1974
representing a combination of Mao’s proletarian triumphalism and traditional Chinese
artistry, contains the ivory from no less than eight dead elephants.
(Williams 2014, pp. 148–149)

All of these artworks have clear political undertones and reveal details about the particular
geopolitical position of the nation states that gifted them. This is not only the case of the
most evidently political pieces (such as those mentioned in Williams’s quote), but is also
manifest when one considers the story of Per Krohg’s painting, which adorns the Security
Council. In the essay ‘The iconology a new world order: Per Krohg’s paintings in the UN
Security Nations’ (2014), the art historian Maria Veie Sandvik argues that Krohg received
his mandate from the Norwegian architect Arnstein Arneberg, who was commissioned to
design the chamber and was a good friend of the first Secretary-General, Trygve Lie. Al-
though there is no evidence that Arnsberg played a direct role in this selection, neither are
there historical records of an open tender.

Secretary-General Lie was apparently able to place the order completely to Norway,
although the country paid only for the decoration of the hall […]. Members of the Art
Board at UN Headquarters, who had to evaluate proposals for works of art in board-
rooms, expressed strong reservations about the use of figurative painting […]. But then
a Royal Norwegian Decree of 7 January 1950 tied the donation of dollars 15 000 to the
condition that Krohg’s work would be mounted in the hall of the Security Council.
(Sandvik 2014, p. 158)

Clearly, this incident may be read as attesting to Norway’s wish to take a central role within
the UN even if it isn’t one of the permanent members of the Security Council.
Another example that is relevant in this context is the tapestry reproduction of Pablo
­Picasso’s Guernica. After being gifted by the Nelson Rockefeller Estate in 1985, it was placed
in the corridor leading to the Security Council until 2009 and is now shown in Madrid’s
Reina Sofia Museum (Halcyon 2015). Interestingly, in what points to the awareness of politi-
cians and diplomats regarding the political undertones of the collection and their potential in
supporting or opposing a political narrative, and following Colin Powell’s 2003 case in the Se-
curity Council for military intervention in Iraq (Dowd 2003), Picasso’s tapestry was famously
covered by a cloth in order to avoid appearing in the background of Powell’s press conference.7
The idea that the artworks illustrate both the relations between the UN and those who
gifted them and, at the same time, the political history of the latter goes in the direction of
the analysis made by Vivien Fryd in ‘The Politics of Public Art: Art in the United States
Capitol’ (1994), where the art historian analyses the art collection of the US Capitol building
in Washington. Combining formal and iconographic art historical analysis with social and
political history, Fryd discusses Thomas Crawford’s Statue of Freedom (which decorates its
dome) and two artworks decorating the

central staircase of the Capitol’s east facade – Luigi Persico’s Discovery of America and
Horatio Greenough’s Rescue […]. An examination into the meanings of these state-­
supported sculptures reveal political controversies that involve slavery, ethnic identities,
and racism against African Americans and Native Americans.
(Fryd 1994, p. 327)

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Mafalda Dâmaso

Although a similar analysis of the potential controversies associated with the art collection
of the UN would justify an even closer engagement with the collection, unfortunately it is
impossible to do so within the constraints of this chapter. Nonetheless, to try to understand
how the collection navigates similarly unresolved tensions, I can briefly consider a recently
commissioned project by the UN resulting from an international competition: a memorial
for the victims of slavery and the transatlantic slave trade.
Ark of Return (2015) by Haitian-American Rodney Leon is an abstract sculpture that is
presented as a ‘reminder of the bravery of those slaves, abolitionists and unsung heroes who
managed to rise up against an oppressive system’ (Ban Ki-moon quoted in Sanches 2013).
The artist sees it as:

a spiritual space of return [of the slave ships and slave trade routes], an ‘Ark of Re-
turn, ‘ a vessel where we can begin to create a counter-narrative and undo some of
that experience” […]. Mr. Leon […] hopes the monument can become both a pilgri­
mage for the public and a totem for dignitaries at the UN, reminding them […] of
mistakes made in the past. Highlighting some of the features of the monument, he
notes the triangular marble panels […]. “These three triangular patterns describe
the slave routes from specific locations in West Africa and throughout Africa to
South America, to the Caribbean and Central America, and to North America, “
he says  […]. “It’s about acknowledging that condition and thinking about future
generations.
(UN 2015)

Nonetheless, and interestingly, these maps aren’t truly specific; they fail to identify the coun-
tries that were (or still are) responsible for such practices. This resonates with a point made by
Winfield on the absence of maps in the collection: ‘with borders on nearly every continent in
dispute, maps are considered too politically sensitive to be displayed as part of the vast U.N.
art collection’ (2000).
Despite not naming the member states responsible for the history of slavery, the Ark of
Return reiterates the importance of the values and mission of the UN in identifying this issue
as a tragic past that must be acknowledged and whose repetition must be avoided. Addi-
tionally, the artwork serves a narrative that has two audiences – the global media consumers
and the individual nation states – and, by supporting unquestionable principles, cannot be
criticised by the latter. This allows the UN to attempt to influence its members without
opposing any of them directly, which exemplifies Center’s argument (2009) regarding the
ways the institutional ambiguity of the UN is reflected in its communications work. As
a result of this analysis, the collection emerges as a platform of soft power, suggesting the
existence of competition (following Nisbett’s discussion) not only between the nation states
but also between the UN and the former (i.e. between the international/supranational and
the national levels).
In this context, it is important to consider to what extent similar artistic practices would
be compatible with the strengthening of the role of the UN, namely in terms of setting a cu-
ratorial narrative. In this context, it is helpful to return briefly to the notion of cultural diplo-
macy. Mark (2009, p. 15), whom I referred to earlier, also sees public and cultural diplomacy
as ‘elements of soft power’. However, he stresses the need for changes in the implementation
of cultural diplomacy, especially in terms of limiting political control over the delivery of
cultural content. Similarly, ambassador Cynthia Schneider (2006) agrees with the need for
its increased independence from political entities. This is because:

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cultural diplomacy when delivered through an independent entity is more likely to in-
corporate aspects of a state’s culture opposed to, or critical of, a government, its policies
or its performance […]. [Hence, one should] establish an independent entity within a
foreign service. It should be accountable to an independent board.
(2009, pp. 33–34)

Specifically, writing about the American case, the ambassador affirms that:

Cultural diplomacy succeeded during the cold war in part because it allowed and
even fostered dissent […]. That the United States permitted critical voices as part of
­government-sponsored performances and emissaries astonished audiences everywhere,
parti­cularly behind the Iron Curtain.
(2006, p. 193)

This quote, stressing the importance of independent cultural practices, also goes in the di-
rection of the argument made by Roger Blomgren’s in ‘Autonomy or Democratic Cultural
Policy: that is the question’ (2012), which discusses the role autonomy plays in cultural pol-
icy debates. Such independence is evident in the arm’s length principle, which – as is well
known – refers to the institutional settings that guarantee independence for cultural institu-
tions and artists. In this model, cultural policy emerges as neutral regarding artistic content.
By comparison, the autonomy of the art collection of the UN is extremely weak.
This said, one must stress that these discussions are focused on national practices. It could
be argued that, at an international level, increased artistic independence and dissent would
risk originating or increasing diplomatic conflicts, hence making the resolution of said issues
(particularly when they require international collaboration) more difficult. Following this
logic, if its art collection were to be given increased independence, the UN would have to
strike a difficult balance between using the collection to highlight ongoing issues requiring
increased attention from the international community and being respectful towards the his-
tory and current foreign policy positions of its member states.
Nonetheless, a compromise is possible. One can envisage strengthening the art collection
of the UN as a form of cultural diplomacy serving the international community without
‘colonising’ (to use the terminology employed by Lähdesmäki 2012) the gifts of the nation
states – it suffices to reiterate that any international organisation with supranational elements
originates from the decision of its member states to transfer part of their sovereignty, as ar-
gued by Kal Raustiala’s (2003, 846–847). In this direction, the curatorial work of the collec-
tion could be organised around a set of topics agreed to by majority in the General Assembly
while avoiding shaming specific member states publicly: i.e. in the words of Center (2009,
pp. 896), to actively ‘embrace activism in the conduct of […] policy’ without politicising the
content of said policies or, in this case, curatorial practices.
That is, even within these constraints it is possible to strengthen the institutional frame-
work of the art collection of the UN and its potential in its communication strategy. If one
were to expand the role of the collection in representing the UN and the international com-
munity rather than only its member states, that would require, first, a clear reformulation of its
aims, as well a clear redefinition of its framework and mission and, more broadly, of the strat-
egy that it supports. This requirement is clear when one reads the four recommendations of
the UN Joint Inspection Unit. Despite being from 1992, their urgency remains – ­particularly
the need to strengthen the autonomy of the collection, professionalising the art committee
and ensuring specific funding for the conservation of the collection and for dedicated staff.

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Second, and more specifically, strengthening the autonomy of the art collection would
require establishing new agreements between the donors and the UN (that is, making the
donations gifts both de jure and de facto). Additionally, once there was a clear mission and
dedicated staff, the UN could then curate the art collection and commission artists to engage
with it. This said, it is important to reiterate that such curated exhibitions would have to strike
a balance between communicating the values of the UN and respecting the principle of neu-
trality, i.e. to reveal the complexity associated with specific challenges facing the UN without
assigning direct responsibilities for them. Doing so would finally allow the UN to use culture
(through its art collection) strategically, joining some European member states who already
do so (as evidenced in Fisher and Figueira, 2011). Indeed, although Rod Fisher and Carla
Figueira argue that there isn’t ‘evidence of a paradigm shift in EU Member States cultural re-
lations […] to more strategically focused international cultural co-­operation’ (2011, p. 5), the
report reveals nonetheless that ‘cultural policy [has] become more strategically integrated into
foreign policy objectives in some EU states’ (2011, p. 14) – as is evident in the adoption by the
European Council of the conclusions on the role of culture in the European Union’s external
relations (EU, 2017). Finally, it would also allow the art collection of the UN to be managed
in a way that is consistent with the most recent discussions and definitions of sovereignty.

Conclusion
The analysis of the United Nations art collection foregrounded its lack of clarity in terms of
its goals, the audiences that it serves and the motivation behind the donations. It was argued
that this lack of clarity reflects the central tension between the sovereignty of the member
states and the supranational order of the UN. However, the essay also highlighted the need
for further research on this art collection, including a qualitative study of the experience of
the audiences that see the collection dedicated to measuring its impact on their thoughts re-
garding their membership in the international community represented by the UN, as well as
an analysis of the importance of the art collection in the organisation’s communication strat-
egy (and, particularly, within the work of the Department of Public Information). Two other
studies emerge as crucial: a historical analysis of the process of commissioning of artworks for
inclusion in the collection and a comparison of the national official communication strategies
that accompany the donations by member states.
Such research would allow us to better understand to what extent the intentions of the
UN, the nation states and the artists are reflected in the reception of these artworks. It would
also confirm whether the collection plays a role in influencing ongoing political and/or
intercultural relations. Finally, doing so would contribute to evaluating the effectiveness or
lack thereof of strategies framed by the ideas of soft power and cultural diplomacy.

Notes
1 An argument that I apply to the modes of presentation of the UN in my doctoral thesis (Unstable
Mediation – Regarding the United Nations as a Visual Entity, 2017).
2 In 2017, this number is 193.
3 The members were, at the time of Adlerstein’s interview, ‘Yukio Takasu, Under-Secretary-­
General for Management (Chairperson), Peter Launsky-Tieffenthal, Under-Secretary-General
for Communications and Public Information, Zainab Hawa Bangura, Special Representative on
Sexual Violence in Conflict, Joseph V. Reed, Special Adviser to the Secretary-General, Michael
­Adlerstein, Assistant Secretary-General, Capital Master Plan, Levent Bilman, Director of Policy
and Mediation Division, Department of Political Affairs, Yeochol Yoon, Chief, Protocol ­Liasion

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Service, Executive Office of the Secretary-General (EOSG), Victor Kisob, Director, EOSG,
­Claudio Santangelo, Secretary of the Arts Committee’ (Adlerstein 2014, p. 153).
4 Indeed, according to UNESCO (2010), it holds “a collection of 600 works of art by Masters such
as Picasso, Miro, Arp, Appel, Afro, Matta, Calder, Chillida, Giacometti, Moore, Tamayo, Soto,
Vasarely, Cruz-Diez and many others”. Interestingly, the website also notes that “UNESCO’s
Headquarters boasts the largest artistic heritage within the United Nations systemæ,” which points
to the lack of a clear listing (UNIS, no date).
5 An argument that I develop in my Ph.D. thesis, mentioned earlier.
6 The relation between soft power and neoliberalism is discussed in detail by Melissa Nisbett in
‘Who Holds the Power in Soft Power?’ (2016).
7 An incident that I discuss in detail in ‘Images against Images – On Goshka Macuga’s The Nature
of the Beast’, included in Meta- and Inter-Images in Contemporary Art (ed. by Carla Laban, Leuven
University Press, 2013).

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 15
Exporting culture
The Confucius Institute and
China’s smart power strategy

Tony Tai-Ting Liu

Introduction
Since the turn of the century, China has gradually taken on new roles in the international
community. Supported by a fast-growing economy, China has not only developed into a
regional power with expanded roles in Central and Southeast Asia, but the country also
shows aspirations to become a great power through increased military capacities and po-
litical influences. While traditional power provides the mainstay for China’s rise, political
elites in Beijing have taken notice of the unintentional challenges China may bring to
the world as it continues to grow. For Beijing, such anxieties must be eliminated if China
seeks to improve its global status. Employing the concept of “smart power,” this article
examines the Confucius Institute, a language institution established by Beijing to serve
as a channel for disseminating traditional Chinese culture to the world while shaping
­China’s international image. The Confucius Institute is an important part of cultural pol-
icy exploited by China to complement its hard power strategies and achieve its interests
in the world.
The discussion is carried out in four parts: part one examines China’s rise and Beijing’s
gradual adoption of a soft power strategy in foreign policy; part two discusses the develop-
ment of the Confucius Institute and its strategic functions; part three notes the definition of
“smart power” and the success and challenge China has encountered through the Confucius
Institute, most notably the Braga incident; part four concludes with some reflections on the
benefits and limitations of using cultural attraction as a diplomatic strategy.

China’s rise in the twenty-first century

China’s economic rise is arguably one of the most important phenomena of the new cen-
tury. New York Times reporter Nicholas Kristof (1993, pp. 62–63) recognized the pheno­
menon as early as 1993 and pointed out that China is growing at an approximate rate
of 9% per annum. Table 15.1 shows the trend of China’s economic growth since 2000,
with growth accelerating in 2002 and recording double digits for five straight years from
2003 to 2007.

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Tony Tai-Ting Liu

Table 15.1  C
 hina real GDP growth 2000–2013 (%)

Year GDP growth Year GDP growth

2000 8.4 2007 14.2

2001 8.3 2008 9.6
2002 9.1 2009 9.2
2003 10.0 2010 10.4
2004 10.1 2011 9.3
2005 11.3 2012 7.7
2006 12.7 2013 7.7

Source: The World Bank, “GDP Growth,” http://data.worldbank.org/indicator/

NY.GDP.MKTP.KD.ZG.

In 2010, China surpassed Japan to become the second largest economy in the world and
the largest economy in Asia. Adjusted for purchasing power, China stands as the second larg-
est economy in the world after the US with USD 9.872 trillion in GDP (2010) (WTO 2011).
China’s total export has grown from USD 1,400 million in 2005 to over USD 1,500 million
in 2010 (WTO 2011). Regardless of debates, in 2014, according to statistics provided by the
International Monetary Fund (IMF), the Chinese economy edged out the US (USD 17.4
trillion) to become the largest economy in the world at USD 17.6 trillion (Duncan and
Martosko 2014).
Although long-term growth of China’s economy remains unpredictable, the country’s
economic performance has already caused observers such as Noble Laureate Joseph Stiglitz
(2015) to tout the twenty-first century as the Chinese century. Besides growth, China’s
economic power is reflected in other aspects. For example, in terms of foreign exchange re-
serves, or the holding of gold and other convertible foreign currencies, China leads the world
with USD 3899 billion, a figure that reflects the country’s surplus trade. In terms of foreign
direct investment (FDI), in 2013, the Chinese market attracted USD 123,911 ­m illion, a fig-
ure topped only by the US (USD 187,528 million) and led the next largest market, Russia,
by more than a margin (Arnett 2014; UNCTAD 2014). Another indicator of China’s new
wealth can be found in the amount of official development aid (ODA) Beijing provides to
other countries. According to a comparative study by Kitano and Harada (2015), Chinese
ODA was estimated to reach USD 7.1 billion in 2013, a figure that made China into one of
the largest donors in the world.
As China’s economic status advanced, skepticism from the world grew as well. Perhaps
noting Beijing’s hard hand against student demonstrations in the summer of 1989, instead
of peace, Japanese scholar Tomohide Murai (村井友秀) (1990) noted the rise of an aggres-
sive China intent on threatening and destabilizing regional peace and stability in the early
1990s. Kristof and Murai’s position represents two contrasting images of China that con-
tinue to shape the debate on China today, a country that has yet to relax its pursuit of great
power status. After China’s test firing of missiles aimed at influencing Taiwan’s first direct
presidential election in 1996, outcries over the so-called “China threat” grew stronger. Pes-
simistic observers such as Richard Bernstein and Ross Munro (1997) pointed to the poten-
tial conflict scenario between China and the US, while political scientist John Mearsheimer
(2004; 2010; 2014), based on the theory of offensive realism, hints at the inevitability that
a rising power such as China will challenge the global status quo and provoke great power
conflict.

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In response to critics and so-called “China threat” theorists who saw China’s increasing
power as a danger to international peace and order, at the Boao Forum for Asia in 2003,
former Vice Principal of the Central Party School, Zheng Bijian (郑必坚), introduced the
concept of China’s “peaceful rise” (和平崛起, hepingjueqi). As Zheng (2005) propounded in
an article in Foreign Affairs in 2005, “China does not seek hegemony or predominance in
world affairs. … China’s development depends on world peace.” Zheng’s statement eventu-
ally set the grounds for the commencement of efforts by Beijing to defend and re-validate
China’s global status as a peaceful and benevolent power that seeks to integrate into the
world and contribute to the international community. In the Asia-Africa Summit held in
Jakarta in 2005, former President Hu Jintao (胡锦涛) stressed that countries from Asia and
Africa should jointly “promote friendship, equal dialogue, prosperity among civilizations
and jointly establish a harmonious world” (Tsai et al. 2011, p. 27). Hu’s proposal later became
the concept of a harmonious world (和协世界, hexie shijie), an idea that eventually served as
the theoretical mainstay for China’s promotion of good neighbor policies including the es-
tablishment of the Confucius Institute.

Returning to kongfuzi for guidance

Despite the sacred and revered status of   Confucius or kong fuzi (孔夫子, literally
“­ Master Kung”) in China’s long history, there was a time when the “most venerated m ­ entor”
(至圣先师, zhishengxianshi) did not have a place in contemporary China. Following the
establishment of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) regime in 1949, Mao Tse-tung set
China on a path of reforms that sought to elevate the country to the ranks of strong states.
For Mao, in order for China to “stand up on its feet,” it must break with its feudal past,
a past foremost grounded in the teachings of Confucius. Besides replacement of the Analects
(四书, sishu) with the Quotations of Mao Tse-tung (毛主席语录, maozhuxi yulu, also known as
the Little Red Book) as required curriculum in classrooms throughout China, the derision of
China’s Socrates included the abolishment of the “four olds” (四旧, sijiu) during the Cultural
Revolution and the exploitation of the sage as a political tool in the “criticize Lin, criticize
Confucius” movement (批林批孔运动, pilinpikong yundong). While the Cultural Revolution
and the defilement of Confucius ended with the death of Mao Tse-tung in 1976, China’s
most revered mentor did not return to his traditional status until recent years.
Perhaps noting the world’s growing anxiety over the future intentions of a rising China
and its increasing interest in understanding China’s language, culture and history (so-called
“China fever” or zhongguore), in 2004, Beijing established the first Confucius Institute in
South Korea (Wang 2009, p. 290). Headquartered in Beijing and overseen by the Chinese
National Office for Teaching Chinese as a Foreign Language, a department usually known
by the simple name of “Hanban” (汉办), the Confucius Institute was established as a formal
channel for the world to learn about China. Through the establishment of Confucius In-
stitutes in higher education institutions around the world, Beijing hopes the international
community can gain a better understanding of China and recognize the rising power as a
peaceful country that seeks no harm to the world.
It is interesting to note that from a cultural studies perspective that emphasizes the shar-
ing of history, language, customs, beliefs, institutions and arts among a particular society as
“culture,” the Confucius Institute, though commonly regarded as an agency for the distri-
bution of culture, is not in itself a conspicuous cultural entity. However, as Stuart Hall (1997,
p. 2) argued, “culture is concerned with the production and the exchange of meanings – the
‘giving and taking of meaning’ – between members of a society or group.” In such sense, the

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Confucius Institute, as a unit with trained teachers that repetitively interpret the Chinese
language and disseminate knowledge of China to pupils, hence becomes a cultural entity.
As Cynthia Weber (2014, p. 3) points out, “culture has to do with how we make sense of
the world and how we produce, reproduce and circulate that sense.” While not comparable
to language, customs, beliefs or a piece of art in their characteristic of being produced, re-
produced and circulated, the fact that the Confucius Institute provides a particular view of
China that can be produced, reproduced and circulated among teachers and students alike
deems the institute a cultural entity that warrants examination.
According to the Constitution of the Confucius Institute released online, it is a non-profit
educational institution devoted to enhancing the understanding of the Chinese language
and culture to people from different countries and strengthening educational and cultural
exchange and cooperation between China and the world (Confucius Institute 2016). Besides
the provision of language teaching service and organization of cultural exchange activi-
ties with other countries, the Confucius Institute also carries out related tasks such as the
training of language instructors, provision of language teaching resources and information
on  China’s education and culture, as well as holding the Hanyu Shuiping Kaoshi (HSK)
exam (汉语水平考试) and tests for the Certification of Chinese Language Teachers (Con-
fucius Institute 2016). It is important to note that in addition to language service, the HSK
exam, also known as the Chinese Proficiency Test, has become the standard examination for
Chinese language ability across the world. The HSK exam is currently held and monitored
in more than 120 countries.1
Currently (as of December 1, 2015), there are 500 Confucius Institutes established in
134  countries throughout the continents of Asia, Africa, America, Europe and Oceania.
In addition, 1000 Confucius Classrooms (孔子课堂, kongzi ketang) are established in high
schools and primary schools spread across 72 countries in the world. Table 15.2 shows the
current distribution of Confucius Institutes and Classrooms in the world.
In contrast with Asian countries that are notable for soft power and the export of cultural
products, China’s investment in the Confucius Institute stands as one of a kind, as the strat-
egy essentially follows a top-down instead of a bottom-up approach in terms of the dissemi-
nation of cultural influences. Compared with the Japan wave or Korean wave, developments
founded on popular cultural forms such as cartoon (anime), music, television drama and
food (Cho 2005; Kim and Ryoo 2007; Shim 2008; Lee 2009), or areas that did not catch the
attention of officials until their evolution into regional and global subcultures, China chose
to tackle the issue of soft power and cultural export from Beijing. By establishing language
institutes across the world, China looks deeply into its culture and history first before letting
subcultures such as movies, television dramas and martial arts or kung fu take over the task of

Table 15.2  Number of Confucius Institutes and Confucius Classrooms

Region Confucius Institute Confucius Classroom

Asia 110 90
Africa 46 23
Americas 157 544
Europe 169 257
Oceania 18 86

Source: Confucius Institute Headquarters (Hanban), “About Confucius Institutes/

Classrooms,” www.hanban.edu.cn/confuciousinstitutes/node_10961.htm.

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constructing its outer image. Through such method, Beijing may in some sense oversee the
Chinese image that is disseminated – benevolent, cordial and virtuous – and look forward to
positive responses from the world. For such reasons, the selection of Confucius, an upright
figure and a master of Chinese traditions, is appropriate to represent China. Despite the
irony, the scholarly image of Confucius serves the purpose of dispelling claims and quelling
anxieties to the China threat while promoting the status of China as a friend to the world –
a function a rising power well needs.
In tangible terms, China has set out specific requirements for the establishment of Con-
fucius Institutes. In other words, Beijing chooses its partners. As Article 19 of the Consti-
tution of the Confucius Institute states, higher education institutes that seek the language
centers must be legally registered with a demand for the learning of Chinese language
and culture, accompanied by personnel, facilities, equipment and funds for collaboration
(Confucius Institute 2016). In the initial start-up period of the Confucius Institute, the
collaborating higher education institute will receive a set amount of sponsorship funding
from Hanban; following the initial stage, annual funding for the Confucius Institute is
generally split between Hanban and its partner institution on a one-to-one ratio (Confucius
Institute 2016).
As stated in the Constitution, one of the main goals of the Confucius Institute is the aim
of constructing a harmonious world (Confucius Institute 2016).2 In a sense, such objective
corresponds well with Beijing’s strategic view of the world since the Hu Jintao era – a world
in which China enjoys peaceful and friendly relations with other countries. China’s moti-
vations aside, higher education institutes across the world may have independent reasons for
pursuing the establishment of the Confucius Institute. In general, the lack of government
funding in humanities and social sciences programs in higher education institutes globally
has encouraged many universities and colleges to look towards Hanban and the Confucius
Institute as a potential source of support.3 On the other hand, as China continues to rise
economically, the increasing level of public interest in Chinese language and culture means
that institutions with a Chinese program or the Confucius Institute may be more competi­
tive and lucrative for students (Hill 2014).4 In short, while one may safely make the claim
that a certain symbiotic relationship may be developing between the Confucius Institute
and higher education institutes – a relationship that sees China in pursuit of a more peaceful
global environment through the Confucius Institute while universities and colleges seek
more student enrollment – whether such relationship develops into a general phenomenon
awaits further evidence and investigation.

China’s smart power strategy and Confucius’ secret ambitions

While China attempts to teach the world about its language, culture and history through
the Confucius Institute, it does not remain idle on traditional issues pertaining to political
and economic interests. In other words, besides a demonstration of soft power, China is
willing to demonstrate its muscle and tougher side when the situation demands such moves.
China’s behavior in the South China Sea offers a clear example of Beijing putting its hard
power to use. Meanwhile in Southeast Asia, China continues to expand on economic and
cultural relations with countries in the region, hence giving rise to a smart power strategy
at work – a strategy that seeks to strike a balance between hard and soft power. Nonethe-
less, beginning in 2014, expansion of the Confucius Institute seemed to have struck a reef
in North America and Europe, which has since raised questions about the true face of the
Chinese initiative. This section examines the case of China’s growing smart power strategy

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in Southeast Asia and describes the potential challenges such a strategy may face in light of
missteps in cultural policy.

Smart power: the case of China in Southeast Asia

The concept of “smart power” is generally believed to have been first introduced by Suzanne
Nossel (2004). Observing the George W. Bush administration and its neo-conservative poli­
cies that emphasized unilateralism and the use of force, Nossel concluded that US policy
under Bush was a mistake and called for Washington’s return to liberal internationalism.
Besides outright military force, trade, economic aid and the promotion of cultural and po-
litical values should also be considered important diplomatic means (Nossel 2004). In terms
of foreign policy, smart power implies that a reliance on hard power is not necessarily the
best choice; rather, states are encouraged to attract recognition of their values and promote
their interests through a combination of allies, international institutions, foreign policy and
moral attraction. Following Nossel’s proposal, in 2006, Joseph Nye and Richard Armitage
authored the report “A Smarter, More Secure America,” in which the meaning of smart
power and its application in foreign policy is elaborated. For Armitage and Nye (2007), smart
power is “a combination of hard and soft power, a way to achieve America’s goals through
the integration of strategy, resource and foreign policy.”
Despite its appearance, smart power has not enjoyed as much attention as the concepts
of hard and soft power, a fact perhaps contributed by the limited number of states in the
world that have enough capability to wield both the carrot and the stick. However, as China
continues to grow, one may argue that to a certain extent, alongside the US, Beijing is be-
ginning to demonstrate that it holds enough influence to be smart about the use of power.
Among different regions in the world, Southeast Asia remains the site where China’s smart
power is most vividly played out. In the sense that China applies both hard and soft power
strategies towards countries in Southeast Asia, the relationship between Beijing and coun-
tries such as Singapore, Vietnam and Thailand is complicated and difficult to define.
In terms of hard power, in recent years, China has not been shy to resort to the use of
force or aggressive means to defend its interests in the South China Sea. As an important sea
of transport that links Asia with the Middle East and Europe and an area that boasts rich pe-
troleum and natural gas reserves, the South China Sea has long given itself to sovereign dis-
putes among neighboring states. In March 2010, in response to the US strategy to rebalance
towards Asia, Beijing claimed the South China Sea as its “core interest” (核心利益, hexin liyi)
(Hung and Liu 2011, p. 100), a notion previously reserved for Tibet, Xinjiang and Taiwan.
While no major conflicts have broken out in the South China Sea since 2010, a smattering of
short maritime standoffs and skirmishes have strained the relations between China and the
Philippines and Vietnam. Since 2014, Beijing began to reinforce its position on the South
China Sea by commencing the building of islands in the region (McKirdy and Hunt 2015),
an action deemed by many states, including the US and Japan, as a reckless act of aggression.
Interestingly, regardless of sovereign tensions, China and the Association of Southeast
Asian Nations (ASEAN) continue to move forward economically. In terms of regional in-
tegration, China continues to vow its support for Southeast Asia and establishment of the
Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP) as the center of free trade in Asia
(Miller 2015). The RCEP serves as a counterweight to the US-led Transpacific Partnership
(TPP), an initiative that advocates high-quality trade that challenges the survival of many
economies in the Asia Pacific. In terms of trade, as Kent Harrington (2015) points out, since

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the turn of the new century, trade between China and ASEAN countries has expanded
tenfold from 32 billion USD in 2000 to 350 billion USD in 2014, making China the largest
trading partner of Southeast Asia at the moment. Beyond the numbers, China’s Asia Infra-
structure Investment Bank initiative is expected to take effect in Southeast Asia in the near
future, while both Thailand and Indonesia have agreed to cooperate with China on railway
construction projects.
While tensions in the South China Sea pushed China and Southeast Asia apart and economic
cooperation draw the two neighbors together – a seemingly contradictory ­combination –
as efforts to improve relations, China has initiated a series of cultural exchange policies
towards ASEAN countries. For example, under the China-ASEAN Expo, an event first
introduced by former Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao (温家宝) in 2004 for discussions on
commercial and trade exchange between China and Southeast Asia, the China-ASEAN
Cultural ­Forum was introduced. The China-ASEAN Cultural Forum currently serves as a
channel for member countries to promote their respective artistic achievements each year.
In 2015, the 9th ­China-ASEAN Cultural Forum was hosted in Nanning, Guangxi (China-­
ASEAN Expo Secretariat 2015). On the other hand, 2014 marked the China-ASEAN Cul-
tural Exchange Year. At the opening ceremony, Chinese Premier Li Keqiang (李克强) noted
that “[China] attaches great importance to developing friendly relations and strengthening
mutually bene­ficial cooperation with ASEAN, hoping to take advantage of the Cultural
Exchange Year to demonstrate the outcome of cultural cooperation of the two sides” (China
Daily 2014a).
In terms of the Confucius Institute, ASEAN countries make up more than a quarter of all
institutes established in Asia, with the Philippines (4), Malaysia (2), Thailand (14), Singapore
(1), Indonesia (6), Cambodia (1), Laos (1) and Vietnam (1) contributing to 30 of 110 institutes
established in the region.5 Although conflicts in the South China Sea have not stopped as
a result of the establishment of Confucius Institutes in Southeast Asia, the latter is ever be-
coming a foreign policy tool for advancing state relations. A recent example can be found
in Chinese President Xi Jinping’s (习近平) state visit to Vietnam in 2015, during which the
mutual establishment of cultural centers and the success of the Confucius Institute in Hanoi
were noted (People’s Daily 2015). The event was significant in that both leaderships from
China and Vietnam seemed to have ignored or deliberately forgotten bilateral tensions in the
South China Sea that served as the reason for massive anti-Chinese protests in Vietnam in
2014. Xi’s gesture followed his address at the 15th China-Vietnam Youth Friendship Meet-
ing, in which the Chinese leader called for the prosperity of friendship among young people
from both China and Vietnam (Nie 2015). It remains to be observed whether increased
establishments of Confucius Institutes can indeed foster deeper cultural understandings that
can potentially transform state relations.
In short, in Southeast Asia, China clearly adopts a dual handed or “smart” approach that
seeks to strike a balance between the use of hard and soft power. Despite tensions in the
South China Sea, China’s relations with Southeast Asia have not broken down completely,
an outcome perhaps contributed in part by Beijing’s continued efforts to strengthen re-
lations through the Confucius Institute and other cultural exchange activities. However,
beyond Southeast Asia, the success of China’s smart strategy is unclear, particularly in
2014, when an academic gathering in Portugal unexpectedly became the starting point
of a series of questions and doubts against the Confucius Institute. The following section
turns to the Braga Incident and its implications for the development of the Confucius
Institute.

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The Braga incident and challenges for the Confucius Institute6

Since its advent in Korea in 2004, the Confucius Institute has met little friction in its expan-
sion abroad, a matter that was perhaps only slowed by the amount of time and funds Beijing
could devote to the project at once. In terms of the impact of the Confucius Institute, hous-
ing 100 Confucius Institutes and 356 Confucius Classrooms – the highest total among all
states – the US is a case in point. According to a New York Times report in 2010, as a result of
Beijing’s support for the Confucius Institute, the landscape for the study of foreign languages
in the US has changed significantly. A survey carried out by the Washington-based research
group Center for Applied Linguistics showed that in the decade from 1997 to 2008, among
US middle and high schools that offer at least one foreign language, the offering of Chinese
increased from 1% to 4% (Dillon 2010). Rough estimates in 2010 suggested as many as 1600
public and private schools were teaching Chinese, a large increase from 300 almost a decade
ago (Dillon 2010). In September 25, 2015, after receiving Chinese President Xi J­inping at
the White House, US President Barack Obama announced the “One Million Strong Ini-
tiative” that seeks to increase the number of students learning Chinese in America from
20,000 to 100,000 by 2020, a further sign that as a language, Chinese is taking root in the
US (Klein 2015).
Nonetheless, elsewhere around and outside the US, different thoughts have emerged
against China’s language export. In 2012, after preliminary reviews of the Confucius Insti-
tute program in the US, the US Department of State claimed that a significant number of
­university-based Chinese language teachers sponsored by China violated visa regulations and
had to pay the consequence of returning to China upon visa expiration (Fischer 2012). The in-
cident alerted many observers, who speculated on Beijing’s true face to carry out espionage or
propaganda through the Confucius Institutes (Mattis 2012), some calling the language schools
China’s own Trojan Horse (Carlson 2012). Although the visa incident was quickly forgotten
following leadership change in China, (political) “subversion” and “subterfuge” remained
deep concerns that awaited opportunities to break out again following missteps by China.
2014 proved to be the break-out year for China in recent memory. Besides making in-
ternational headlines with grand initiatives such as the One Belt One Road, the Silk Road
Fund and the Asia Infrastructure Investment Bank (AIIB), China’s expanding influence also
began to make parts of the world uneasy, giving rise to the Sunflower Movement in Taiwan,
the Umbrella Revolution in Hong Kong and anti-China protests in Vietnam.7 While the
Confucius Institute did not directly contribute to the anger of protesters in China’s vicini-
ties, connections with Beijing made the institute a target of constant scrutiny and attack. In
the months before the start of summer in 2014, little did the world know that the Confucius
Institute would generate controversies again, this time triggering fallouts that may have im-
portant consequences for China.
On July 22–26, 2014, the European Association for Chinese Studies (EACS) hosted its
four-day annual conference at the cities of Braga and Coimbra, Portugal. As an important
gathering for researchers on China, the event attracted more than 400 participants world-
wide. Unfortunately, on the evening before the commencement of the event, an incident
that would change the course of the conference occurred. Displeased with the conference
program and abstracts, Xu Lin (许琳), Director General of the Hanban and Chief Executive
of the Confucius Institute Headquarters, noted that a portion of the content in the abstracts
violated China’s sponsorship guidelines and demanded the EACS organizing team remove
the title of the “Confucius China Studies Program” from the abstracts. In addition, Xu
Lin was disgruntled by the EACS’ description of the Chiang Ching-kuo (CCK) Foundation

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(蒋经国基金会), a long-time sponsor of the annual conference from Taiwan, amidst the
pages of the program. Xu later ordered the removal of the remaining copies of the program
from the conference venue to prevent their distribution the following day.
Unsurprisingly, more than 300 participants were baffled by the lack of a conference pro-
gram on July 22. While the EACS organizing team negotiated with Xu Lin prior to the
morning of the conference, Hanban and the EACS failed to reach an agreement. H ­ anban
demanded the removal of the descriptions of the CCK Foundation from the program, to
be replaced by the logo of the foundation without any textual details. Although Carmen
Mendes from Coimbra University – a main organizer of the EACS conference – rejected
Xu’s request, a settlement that saw the removal of four pages from the program, including
descriptions on the CCK Foundation, was eventually reached later, out of consideration for
the smooth functioning of the event.
On the second day of the conference, July 24, the tempered program was distributed
to registered participants. By noon, President of the EACS Roger Greatrex, greatly an-
noyed by Hanban’s demands, ordered the reprinting of 500 copies of the forcefully removed
CCK Foundation descriptions and redistributed the print copies on the afternoon of July 24,
when participants were to travel from Braga to Coimbra on the chartered bus arranged by
the conference organizer. On July 25, in the speech given at the opening ceremony of the
conference at Coimbra University, Greatrex publicly denounced Hanban’s intervention in
academic freedom and voiced his support for the suppressed CCK Foundation. Following
the annual conference, the EACS released a formal statement criticizing Hanban’s actions at
Braga and emphasized that the association “cannot and will never tolerate the censorship of
conference material” (Greatrex 2014).
In the aftermath of the Braga incident, observers around the world vowed their sup-
port for the EACS, a phenomenon that translated into a flurry of harsh critiques against
the Confucius Institute and China’s international image (EACS, 2014). In December
2014, the ­British Broadcasting Company (BBC) interviewed Xu Lin in Beijing and brought
up the topic of Braga (Sudworth 2014). Xu not only refused to address the Braga incident
but also demanded BBC to remove many portions for public broadcast. The latter refused.
Regarding the interview, scholar Gary Rawnsley (2014) noted that “Xu Lin not only refused
to answer difficult questions, she also politicised the Confucius Institutes and reinforced the
idea that they are led by dogmatists.”
In terms of real effects of the Braga incident, many higher education institutes in Europe
and North America began to re-evaluate their cooperation with the Confucius Institute,
with several institutes shutting down the China-sponsored programs altogether. For exam-
ple, in the US, the University of Chicago and Pennsylvania State University subsequently
terminated their contracts with the Confucius Institute in September and October 2014
(Penn State College of the Liberal Arts 2014; Redden 2014), while the Toronto District
School Board decided to end its cooperation with the Confucius Institute in the same year
(South China Morning Post 2014b), prior to Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s scheduled
visit to Beijing. In December 2014, confronted by a wave of public criticism against China
domestically, Stockholm University, the first higher education institute in Europe to es-
tablish the Confucius Institute, decided to follow in the footsteps of its counterparts in the
US as well (Fiskesjo 2015). Although the domino effect generated by Braga seems to have
diminished since 2015, the retraction of renowned higher education institutes has already
cast a heavy shadow over Beijing’s international image and uncertainties on the future of the
Confucius Institute.

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The use of culture in foreign policy: benefits and limits

In short, China’s effort to re-establish its image through the Confucius Institute has met with
both success and challenges. To a large extent, the Confucius Institute can be considered a
success in terms of its number of establishments and the level of interest it has generated in
the study of Chinese language and culture around the world. As a harmless cultural policy
intended to raise attention and awareness for China, Beijing’s experiment with the Con-
fucius Institute may have much to teach. However, in the case that cultural policy touches
on and becomes a part of foreign policy, the crossing-over between realms entails that cross-­
fertilization of extended connotations and implications, both positive and negative, may be
inevitable. In other words, when the Chinese leadership promotes the Confucius Institute
abroad while making claims to territorial sovereignty in the South China Sea at the same
time, one may find the true face of Beijing’s policy hard to distinguish. While one may
be drawn to what the Confucius Institute has to offer, China’s strategic ambitions may
raise doubts and questions about the underlying motive of China’s language establishments.
Noting China’s experiment with the Confucius Institute, this section concludes with some
considerations for the benefits and limits of exploiting culture in foreign policy.
In a sense, if the sheer number of institutes established, currently totaling 500, serves as
evidence that China’s Confucian venture is a success, the amount of positive claims that may
be made based on such a fact becomes endless. For example, Beijing may point to the num-
ber of institutes as evidence that China is a peacefully rising state that is keen on realizing
global harmony. The fact that Confucius Institutes are established across different countries
suggests that China enjoys good relations with the international community regardless of
disputes and conflicts. On the other hand, perhaps as a way to rebuff arguments against
China’s peaceful rise, Beijing may also make the claim that China is revealing its true nature
through the Confucius Institute by allowing the international community a chance to see
for itself. Such gesture speaks to the honesty and benign nature of the Chinese. Still further,
the number of students enrolled in Chinese programs in the Confucius Institutes could only
suggest that many individuals identify with Chinese values.
While part of the success may come from China’s rising economy and large investments
placed in the Confucius Institute project, distinguishing the driving force for expansion be-
comes difficult: is expansion driven by state investments by China or is expansion driven by
higher student interest? In turn, coupled with the image of Confucius the sage, the foregoing
question becomes almost irrelevant, as the provision of education itself is a virtuous deed
that overshadows other priorities, including political and strategic objectives that may easily
be considered as separate interests. Perhaps because policymakers delegated to make political
or strategic decisions are generally expected to be pragmatic and self-interested, cultural
projects such as the Confucius Institute thus become good ways to replace pragmatism and
self-interest with charity and good will while pragmatism is not entirely lost. A touch of
culture in such sense wins the benefit of the doubt for policies (for example, foreign policy)
that are usually self-serving, a common phenomenon in the international political arena.
Yet a fine line exists between success and failure when culture is adopted as a foreign
policy tool. In light of the controversies related to the Confucius Institute in recent years,
limitations of how far such policy can be carried on as a charitable foreign policy warrant
consideration. Three issues are particularly relevant: the potential for soft power strategies
to accomplish tangible political goals, the “mismatch” problem between “soft” means and
“hard” goals and the sustainability of culture based foreign policies. The three issues chal-
lenge the continued success of the Confucius Institute.

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First, as a common definition of “power” states—power is the ability for A to get B to do

something he would otherwise not do—regarding soft power, one must consider whether
influencing others is possible without resorting to force. An extended consideration relates to
the effect of soft power: what should one expect to accomplish through soft means? In terms
of the Confucius Institute, while the project receives strong support from Beijing, achieving
short-term political goals through the institute is difficult if not far-fetched. It is hard to
imagine that through issue linkage, the de-establishment of Confucius Institutes from a state
can be used as a bargaining chip towards high politics issues such as territorial sovereignty or
military conflict. On the other hand, it is equally questionable how language education may
be brought out in one’s favor in trade negotiations. As with most culture-based strategies
that harbor the characteristic of slowly transforming the heart and mind of peoples through
attraction, the Confucius Institute can be expected to accomplish the minimal goal of gen-
erating popular interest in the study of the Chinese language, history and culture.8 Beyond
general interest, the Confucius Institute may remain limited in its outreach. Previous studies
on comparable institutions such as the Goethe Institute, Alliance Francaise and the British
Council suggest that the initiating countries have all kept to the objectives of promoting re-
spective state values and cultural exchange (Wyszomirski et al. 2003; Ngamsang and Walsh
2013). One may be surprised if the Confucius Institute can achieve more.
For China, a further challenge that confronts the Confucius Institute is the mismatch
between the priority of reducing claims to the perceived China threat and the means of
language education. Two points are worth noting. First, through the Confucius Institute,
China seems to be pursuing a long-term strategy that seeks to influence young Chinese
learners who may play critical roles in changing China’s relationship with the world in years
to come. Yet current learners usually do not play any role in the decision-making process of
a state; how much influence language instructors and students alike have on foreign policy
is quite vague. Second, while education may potentially bring about the outcome of trans-
forming the outlook of a generation of China watchers, its effects are negligible in the face of
ongoing geopolitical conflicts and economic disputes. While some experts have recognized
the continued importance of building trust with China through education and other chan-
nels for exchange,9 such outcries are few and shy in the presence of those with misgivings
on China’s political system and ambitions (Sahlins 2013; Hughes 2014; Brady 2015). For
skeptics, issues such as the South China Sea and the Senkaku/Diaoyu Islands provide ready
evidences of China’s threat. Education is a long process, while international affairs change
constantly. As suggested by the Braga incident, a slight misstep may severely undermine
Beijing’s hard-won image while giving way to criticisms that pile up and spread quickly.
Finally, in contrast with subcultures such as music and movies that are flowing and con-
stantly refreshed, perhaps more than fads and popular trends, the Confucius Institute faces
the problem of sustaining mass interest in the learning of the Chinese language. In retro-
spect, besides individuals having a strong interest in China, an important reason that interest
for Chinese increased rapidly in recent years relates directly to China’s rise and its impli-
cations for international business and economy. If language learning correlates positively
with a state’s expansion in power, one may also suppose that as a state declines, interest in its
language and culture may decline as well. Hence depending on China’s economic perfor-
mance, general interest in Chinese may wax and wane and challenge the functioning of the
Confucius Institute. On the other hand, as mentioned above, the Confucius Institute uses a
top-down strategy that should ideally connect with other subcultural forms that would, in
a sense, sustain popular interest in China. In such case, the development of popular culture
in China becomes a critical issue that bears on the maintenance of Beijing’s foreign policy.

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Tony Tai-Ting Liu

In the face of Japanese, Korean, Taiwanese and Western cultural exports into China, Beijing
may need to ponder how the Chinese language can be given new life and how Chinese cul-
ture can maintain its foothold amidst competition in a globalized world.
Looking towards the future, the cultural turn in Chinese foreign policy has brought
forth several issues that await further research. For example, the relationship between Chi-
na’s central government and Hanban remains under-explored despite doubts and criticisms
against the Confucius Institute. While discussions on the Confucius Institute abound with
individual experiences dealing with Chinese personnel, such stories may only start to scratch
the surface of a complex system governing the works of language establishments. More rev-
elations are needed to support the fact that individual stories are not random, independent
incidents. On the other hand, more studies into the texts and materials used in Confucius
Institutes are necessary in order to gain a better understanding of the image China is trying
to construct on the international stage and its effects on the perception of others on China.
How China establishes itself in the international community will inevitably decide how
much space the country has in which to maneuver its foreign policy.

Notes
1 “hanyu kaoshi fuwuwang” (HSK service net), www.chinesetest.cn/goKdInfoOrPlan.do
2 See Article 1 of the Constitution of the Confucius Institute.
3 See: Ella Delany, “Humanities Studies Under Strain Around the Globe,” The New York Times,
December 1, 2013, available: www.nytimes.com/2013/12/02/us/humanities-studies-under-
strain-around-the-globe.html?_r=0
4 See: Michael Hill, “The Debate Over Confucius Institutes Part II,” www.chinafile.com/
conversation/debate-over-confucius-institutes-part-ii
5 The number in the parentheses denotes the current number of Confucius Institutes in the country.
Currently, Myanmar and Brunei do not host Confucius Institutes. Myanmar hosts three Confucius
Classrooms, while Brunei hosts neither Institutes nor Classrooms.
6 This section’s description of the Braga incident is based on the testimony provided in an open
message by Roger Greatrex, President of the European Association for Chinese Studies (EACS).
See: Roger Greatrex, “Report: The Deletion of Pages from EACS Conference Materials in Braga
( July 2014).” www.chinesestudies.eu/index.php/432-report-the-deletion-of-pages-from-eacs-
conference-materials-in-braga-july-2014
7 These events are all examples of reactions by neighboring communities against China’s expansion
in recent years. The spurt of demonstrations began with the Sunflower Movement in Taiwan. On
March 18, 2014, infuriated by the ruling Nationalist (KMT) Party’s attempt to forcefully pass the
Cross-Strait Service Trade Agreement with China, student activists charged into the legislature
and stagnated the functioning of government for three weeks. The movement provided a prece-
dent for student activists in Hong Kong, who carried out street protests against China’s decision to
curtail proposed reforms to the electoral system in Hong Kong. The Umbrella Revolution lasted
for almost three months from late September to mid-December 2014. Outside the greater Chinese
community, anti-China protests broke out in Vietnam in May 2014. Demonstrations broke out
across Vietnam as a result of China’s move to deploy an oil rig in a contended area in the South
China Sea.
8 As Thorsten Pattberg points out in an interview, “The CI first wins the hearts and minds of [peo-
ple]… frankly, I don’t think the CIs are very successful in promoting Chinese culture. The West
brought western values to China – concepts like democracy, human rights… China, on the other
hand, has nothing to offer in return.” See Thorsten Pattberg interview with BRICS Business
Magazine, available online at: http://bricsmagazine.com/en/articles/has-beijing-s-trojan-horse-
developed-a-limp
9 See US-China Bi-National Commission on Trust-Building and Enhancing Relations, “Building
US-China Trust through Next Generation People, Platforms and Programs,” April 2014, available
online at: http://uschinaexchange.usc.edu/sites/default/files/us-china-trust-2014.pdf

244
 Exporting culture

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 16
From arts desert to global
­cultural metropolis
The (re)branding of ­Shanghai
and Hong Kong

Kristina Karvelyte

Introduction
Since the late 1990s, an urban policy model of culture-led development has become increas-
ingly “fashionable” (Kong 2009) and an influential trend in many cities around the world.
A vast number of rapidly developing East Asian cities, irrespective of their political systems,
sizes or locations, have also suddenly rediscovered their cultural resources and one after an-
other started to pursue the titles of ‘creative city’, ‘cultural capital’, or ‘cultural and creative
metropolis’ (Yeoh 2005; Kong et al. 2006; Pang 2012).
In broad terms, the policy script of cultural/creative city1 is developed, mobilized and glo-
balized on behalf of neoliberal rationalities and capitalist interests (Harvey 1989; Pratt 2009;
Peck 2011b). It is commonly aimed at tackling a growing inter-city competition, boosting
consumption and powering up the economy. Nevertheless, considering different political and
economic settings of each city, it is evident that the primary objectives for the application of
the creative city policy script, as well as the meanings attached to the script, vary from place
to place. In other words, one model cannot fit all and certain adjustments always “need to be
made in order for it to work elsewhere” (McCann and Ward 2010, p. 176; see also Peck 2011a).
To gain a better understanding of how the ‘imported’ discourse of the cultural and cre-
ative city is translated and adopted in different urban spaces, this chapter examines the ra-
tionale behind the ‘cultural turn’ of two Chinese cities, Shanghai and Hong Kong, where
cultural development, until very recently, has been largely neglected and underfunded by
governments. It is argued that the objectives and meanings behind the notion of cultural/
creative city are continually re-adjusted to fit the dominant ideologies and political as well
as business interests of a specific place. This chapter thus suggests that the concept of the
creative city should be viewed as a floating signifier, which transforms in line with local
politico-­institutional specifications as it travels from one place to another.
The main reason for selecting Hong Kong and Shanghai for this study was a unique com-
bination of the cultural and ethnic affinities that bind these two cities together and the his-
torical and political differences that divide them. Both cities are predominantly Chinese and
seem to share similar cultural roots and social practices. This means that cultural differences

247
Kristina Karvelyte

should have a minimal impact on their understanding and interpretation of the ‘cultural
turn’. On the other hand, due to the historical and political divergences, the two cities have
developed different civic identities and distinct approaches to urban policymaking, thus pro-
viding an excellent ground for comparative research.
The study was based on the concurrent analysis of local policy documents and semi-­
structured elite interviews. A diverse range of documents, including annual policy state-
ments, government reports, policy guidelines and research papers that deal with government
research or policies directly related to the cultural affairs or cultural/creative city discourse
were selected for analysis. In addition, a total of 21 interviews, including five written
­responses, were carried out between September 2014 and January 2015. The interviews were
conducted with the key members of the institutions responsible for (or involved in) planning
and supervision of cultural and creative development in Shanghai and Hong Kong, including
government officials, policy advisors, academics and industry practitioners.

Globalizing discourse of the cultural and creative city

The idea of the cultural/creative city is centred on the utilization of cultural and creative
­resources in urban planning and management, which are argued to make a city more
­attractive for investors, businesses, skilled workers and visitors (Landry and Bianchini 1995;
Landry 2000; Florida 2002; Cochrane 2007; Mommaas 2009).
The concept of the ‘creative city’ was first coined in relation to the application of culture
and the arts for urban regeneration purposes (Landry and Bianchini 1995). However, due
to the rapid technological advancement of and increasingly market-oriented approach to
urban restructuring, the cultural realm was soon merged with the creative sector that entails
more commercially appealing industries, such as design or advertising. As a result, today the
dominant narratives linked to the creative city discourse include cultural as well as creative
industries and initiatives (Landry 2000; Florida 2002; Comunian 2011).
Along with the expanding scope of the notion, the expectations attached to the concept
of the creative city have also increased. Today, it is commonly associated with four major
policy objectives. First, as noted before, the notion of the ‘creative city’ is used to attract and
retain a talented and skilled workforce (Florida 2002; Sassen 2006; Grodach and Silver 2013).
Second, it is employed to lure foreign investment and businesses (Zukin 1995; Mommaas
2009). Third, it serves to boost and sustain cultural production and consumption (Landry
2000; Mommaas 2009; Pratt 2009). Fourth, it is applied to differentiate the city in a global
marketplace (Landry 2000; Florida 2002; Leslie 2005). An overarching role attached to the
policy model of the ‘creative city’ that encapsulates all four objectives stated above is that of
enhancing the image and reputation of the city (Zukin 1995; Yeoh 2005; Mommaas 2009;
Pang 2012; Grodach and Silver 2013). This role, as will be shown further in this chapter, can
emerge from both market-centred and state/city-centred considerations.
The idea of setting the city apart from others by promoting its cultural and creative prop-
erties has captivated the interest of many urban policymakers across the world, leading to the
emergence of a vast number of self-proclaimed ‘creative cities’, all aspiring to “differentiate
themselves, and to sell themselves as centers of culture” (Leslie 2005, p. 403; see also Gibson
and Klocker 2004). Undoubtedly, one part of the success formula behind a global appeal
and transferability of the cultural/creative city policy script rests on the unique competitive
advantage it was believed to offer (Landry 2000; Florida 2002). However, the major reason
for the contagiousness of this policy model was its conformity to the dominant neoliberal or
‘entrepreneurial’ approach to urban planning and development (Harvey 1989; Peck 2007).

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 From arts desert to global ­cultural metropolis

Since the late 1970s, rapid deindustrialization coupled with a growing mobility of capital
and labour has brought an intense inter-urban competition. In order to strengthen and boost
their appeal in a global marketplace, cities were forced to engage in a number of entrepre-
neurial practices, including urban restructuring projects and place marketing campaigns
(Harvey 1989; Hubbard 2006; Comunian 2011).2 This does not mean, however, that cities
became better places for everyone to live, because the primary focus of the entrepreneurial
city has always been to serve the interests of global businesses and investors (Harvey 1989;
Pacione 2009). Thus, only certain forms of urban experience that conform with expectations
and resources of the middle or upper-middle class are encouraged in entrepreneurial cities.
In this sense, as Harvey (2008) rightly observes, the quality of urban life, just like cities
themselves, has been turned into a commodity for those with money.
The concept of the cultural/creative city not only complements the framework of urban
entrepreneurialism (Peck 2005; Pratt 2008); it is, in fact, a product of it. Peck (2007) accu-
rately depicts some of the major crossing points between the urban entrepreneurialism and
creative cities:

whereas the entrepreneurial cities chased jobs, the creative cities pursue talent workers;
the entrepreneurial cities craved investment, now the creative cities yearn for buzz;
while entrepreneurial cities boasted of their postfordist flexibility, the creative cities
trade on the cultural distinction of cool.
(par. 28)

This shows that a distinguishing characteristic between the entrepreneurial and creative cit-
ies is a strategy, not an ultimate objective. In a sense, being a creative city can be viewed as
a strategy in itself, because ultimately, it assists in the efforts of becoming a more successful
entrepreneurial city. As noted before, cultural policies and creative development are argued
to differentiate the city in a global marketplace, to attract and retain certain groups of skilled
labour and capital, to boost consumption and to improve the reputation of the place. In
other words, like entrepreneurial cities, creative cities are focused on sustaining the power
of capital and serving the interests of the middle class and elites. Furthermore, in a pursuit
of displaying the attractive side of the urban core, like entrepreneurial cities, they tend to
neglect vulnerable social groups “that do not fit this narrative of economic development”
(Grodach and Silver 2013, p. 4), such as migrant populations, the urban poor and, ironically,
artists whose work does conform to the envisioned format of the cultural and creative city. In
other words, it is evident that there is nothing “revolutionary” (Peck 2005) about the policy
script of the cultural/creative city: it does not challenge an existing policy framework and
does not require any significant structural changes in urban governance models, provided a
city is ‘entrepreneurial’.
Another important characteristic that strengthens a universal appeal of the ‘creative city’
is the assumption that a positive impact of culture and creativity on the city can be proved
in numbers. A tendency to overly rely on what is perceived to be ‘solid’ quantitative data
has emerged as a result of increasingly ‘evidence-based’ policymaking (Belfiore 2004; Peck
and Theodore 2010; Prince 2014). Richard Florida’s Creativity Index (2002), which rests
on the assessment of talent, technology and tolerance (3Ts), could be viewed as one of many
examples of a commonly adapted practice to render the value of creativity and/or culture
in quantitative terms. Although the methodology behind this index, particularly the direct
connection between the 3Ts and economic growth, has been severely questioned in the
literature (see Markusen 2006; Malanga 2004),3 a number of cities have embraced Florida’s

249
Kristina Karvelyte

measurement criteria to enact and promote their cultural and creative turn. This has also en-
abled the cities to see where they stand in terms of their ‘creativity’ (that is, in fact, Florida’s
version of ‘creativity’) in relation to other cities. However, rather than providing them with
an assumed competitive advantage (Cochrane 2007), the ability to compare and contrast has
only thrown the cities deeper into a vicious circle of more aggressive, zero-sum competition
(Peck 2005).
Besides Florida’s Creativity Index, there are plenty of scales and ranking systems ­designed
to measure the cultural and creative potential of the city, each with its own criteria and
methodologies. Some notable examples include the Creative City Index developed by
Landry and Hyams (2012) or the criteria laid out for the UNESCO Creative Cities ­Network.
The absence of a singular framework for the cultural/creative city implies that each city
can adopt somewhat different descriptions of what ‘creative city’ means. This enables urban
policymakers to reinvent and manipulate the meanings, roles and focal points of the creative
city in accordance with their policy goals and objectives.

Hong Kong’s attempt to transform from the ‘arts

desert’ to cultural and creative global city
Since the late 1990s, urban policy models linked to culture and creativity have been grad-
ually integrated into Hong Kong’s policy trajectories (Kong et al. 2006; Chu 2012). This
section examines specific historical, political and socio-economic conditions that prompted,
shaped and defined Hong Kong’s cultural and creative restructuring.
Historically, Hong Kong was often referred to as “an excellent current example”
­(Friedman 1981, p. 34) and a success story of laissez-faire capitalism (see also Rabushka
1979). The British colonial government in Hong Kong was praised for embracing a policy of
non-interventionism that has transformed a small fishing village into a vibrant commercial
centre (see Friedman 1981).
It should be acknowledged, however, that the presence of the government’s ‘non-­
interventionism’ has been repeatedly questioned in the academic literature. A number of
scholars identified a vast number of policy areas, where the colonial regime appeared to be
involved in the economic and social development processes of Hong Kong (see, for example,
Youngson 1982; Ngo 1999; Ngok 2007). In other words, it is now evident that an allegedly
‘non-interventionist’ model of governance was (and continues to be) based on a selective
interventionism, which is a common practice in neoliberal states (see Peck 2004; Purcell
2009). Through selective interventionism, the government is not only able to “facilitate the
accumulation of capital” (Purcell 2009, p. 142), but it can also neglect those fields or areas
that are deemed unprofitable or considered a poor fit for the policy agenda of the state. Take,
for example, industrial development in Hong Kong that for many years was perceived as a
potential threat to the interests of the British manufacturers (Ngo 1999; Ngok 2007). The
non-interventionist model enabled British colonial rule to conveniently refrain from inter-
vening in selected industrial sectors thereby delaying Hong Kong’s industrial development
until the 1950s (Ngo 1999; Lee and Yue 2001).
A similar logic was applied to the cultural sector. Until the 1970s, despite the relative eco-
nomic prosperity of Hong Kong, the cultural realm together with other non-trade r­ elated
public services was largely neglected by the government (Ooi 1995). Chinese intellectu-
als who visited Hong Kong during the 1920s and 1930s have severely criticized the city’s
‘cultural backwardness’, characterizing Hong Kong as a ‘cultural desert’ (wenhua shamo, Lu
1985 cited in Luk 1991, p. 660). Their impressions were undoubtedly influenced by strong

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 From arts desert to global ­cultural metropolis

anti-Western and anti-capitalist stances and reflected elitist views of culture (Fu 2003). At
that time, Hong Kong had a very small number of public cultural venues. Traditional forms
of Chinese culture were neither supported nor encouraged by the colonial government,
and its tertiary education was underdeveloped (Ooi 1995; Ngok 2007). However, a lack of
public cultural amenities or the absence of certain forms of culture does not make a city less
‘cultural’, and most certainly does not make it a ‘cultural desert’. Instead, this merely shows
that the city’s cultural development occurs through other means or forms of culture. In the
case of Hong Kong, for many years it was defined through the realms of popular culture,
particularly film, cartoons and comics (manhua), popular music and martial arts (see Fonoroff
1988; Wong 2002).
In post-1997 Hong Kong, the notion of the ‘cultural desert’ has been strategically rejected
as the remnant of the colonial past. First, this has served to re-shape the post-colonial iden-
tity of the city (Raco and Gilliam 2012). Second, this has helped to justify the contrasting
image of new ‘cultural’ Hong Kong and to firmly place it within a broader framework of the
neoliberal urban restructuring agenda. In the Policy Address 1999, Tung Chee-Hwa, then
Chief Executive of Hong Kong Special Administrative Region Government (HKSARG),
clearly echoes the rhetoric of culture-led urban development practices:

Hong Kong’s future development is not just a matter of pushing forward with physical
construction. What we also need is a favourable and flourishing cultural environment
that is conducive to encouraging innovation and creativity in our citizens. (…) I have
proposed to develop Hong Kong into an international centre for cultural exchanges.
This will help to strengthen our identity as a world-class city.
(HKSARG 1999, par. 164)

This quote serves as one of many examples indicating that by the early 2000s, Hong Kong
had embraced a global trend, a seemingly ‘new’ urban philosophy, where cultural develop-
ment is perceived as an important part of a ‘model’ global city. It should be noted that this
‘new’ urban development agenda was, in fact, not new to Hong Kong – similar ideas had
already been spotted in the (see Ooi 1995). Creating the effect of newness, whilst “not being
new at all” (Lawton et al. 2014, p. 193) is a common feature of ‘creative urbanism’ (Peck
2011b) practices. Coupled with what appears a ‘universal character’ (Prince 2014, p.  91)
of the cultural/creative city model, it allows for culture and creativity to be neatly placed
within a broader framework of urban restructuring projects (Peck 2005; Lawton et al. 2014).
Similarly, in many interviews and policy documents the adoption of cultural and cre-
ative urban development practices was often framed and perceived as a natural ‘way forward’
(industry practitioner A, personal communication, 15 Oct 2014). This is how the former
Chief Executive of Hong Kong, Donald Tsang, describes the emergence of the cultural and
creative industries discourse:

Globalization has brought about the rise of various cultural and creative industries. The
markets for leisure goods, advertising, film, television, tourism, design, architecture and
art are flourishing. These high value-added industries are environmentally friendly and
compatible with the mode of economic development for global cities.
(HKSARG 2007, pp. 25–26)

By framing the cultural/creative turn of Hong Kong as somewhat ‘natural’ and ‘positive’
outcome of globalization that could boost the economic development of Hong Kong, just

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like, as he suggests, it does in other global cities, Tsang escapes a deeper inquiry about the
­actual reasons behind Hong Kong’s interest in the development of the cultural and c­ reative
sector. As shown below, it appears to be prompted by both global and context-specific factors.
The socio-economic impact of deindustrialization is among the most commonly ac-
knowledged reasons behind the cultural turn of cities (see, for example, Hubbard 2006;
Mommaas 2009; Communian 2011). Despite lacking support from the colonial govern-
ment (Ngo 1999; Lee and Yue 2001), manufacturing industries in Hong Kong have been
rapidly developing since the early 1950s. However, over the years, the economic prosperity
and growth of the city led to rising labour costs, triggering a massive relocation of factories
and industrial plants to China in the 1980s (Yeung 2002; Lee et al. 2013), forcing Hong
Kong to reconsider its development strategies, or in Yeung’s (2002) words, “to rediscover
a new magic” (p. 5) for its growth. Like many other reindustrialising cities, Hong Kong
has turned its focus from traditional manufacturing industries to the service sector, par-
ticularly financial services, trading and tourism (Yeung 2002; Ngok 2007). This transition
required the government to increase public spending on education, social services and
culture (Ngok 2007).
Until the 2000s, the value of culture and the arts in the city has been discussed primar-
ily in relation to tourism. The tourism industry is one of four pillar industries in Hong
Kong, accounting for 5 percent of Hong Kong’s GDP (Census and Statistics Department
2013). Despite its rapid development in the 1980s, after the Asian financial crisis hit the
city in 1997, the industry experienced a significant decline (Song et al. 2003). To boost the
development of tourism, the government introduced a number of new civic ‘boosterism’
(Harvey 1989) strategies, including the promotion of Hong Kong as the “Asian centre of
arts and culture”:

In order to enhance our appeal as a tourist destination, we will promote new attractions,
which will complement our unique flavour and provide for a wider range of events in
Hong Kong. Our broader vision is to cultivate Hong Kong’s image as the Asian centre
of arts and culture, and of entertainment and sporting events.
(HKSARG 1998, par. 45)

Although since the late 1990s the cultural sector remains closely linked to tourism, it has
been employed in a broader spectrum of policy programs. The 1997 Asian financial crisis,
the SARS outbreak in 2003 and more recently, the global financial crisis have repeatedly
threatened the economic stability of Hong Kong. Re-establishing the city as not merely
a global centre of finance and business, but also as an ‘International cultural metropolis’
­(Culture and Heritage Commission 2003) is now perceived as one of the means to maintain
and strengthen the competitiveness of Hong Kong (see Lui 2008; Chu 2012). As stated in the
Policy Recommendation Report issued by the Culture and Heritage Commission in 2003,
should Hong Kong “neglect creative thinking and cultural education, it will lose its compet-
itive edge, let alone become an international cultural metropolis” (p. 1). This quote clearly
demonstrates how the culture-led urban development, as any form of urban entrepreneurial-
ism, can lock cities in a zero-sum competition with one another. With a globalizing format
of the ‘cultural/creative city’ impacting the policymaking processes in a growing number of
cities, places that refuse to inject some cultural and creative ‘vibes’ in their policy agendas put
themselves at risk of being viewed as losers in the competitive marketplace.
To what extent the cultural/creative city discourse can actually benefit the cultural life of
a city is another question. Lui’s (2008) study of the West Kowloon Cultural District project,

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which was launched by the government to pursue a vision of the ‘international cultural
metropolis’, suggests that the production of cultural value has never been among the driving
forces for this project. As Lui (2008) explains:

[T]he emphasis was placed on competing with other global cities on the basis of build-
ing equally competitive infrastructure, rather than on a shared vision of Hong Kong’s
future cultural development.(…) It was simply an attempt to be strategic in global competition.
(p. 222, emphasis added)

The last sentence could be easily applied to the whole policy model of cultural and creative
urbanism in Hong Kong. Selective interventionism has enabled the government to support
and facilitate primarily those cultural initiatives that are perceived as a good fit to the format
of ‘international cultural metropolis’ and that are regarded as capable of standing out and
competing in the global marketplace. For instance, interview data show that whilst the larg-
est and the most reputable cultural events in the city, such as the Hong Kong Arts Festival or
the Hong Kong International Film Festival, receive regular funding from the government,
most other cultural groups and organizations are forced to compete with each other for one-
off grants from the Arts Development Council (see also Lee et al. 2013). Moreover, until
now, the Hong Kong government remains a chief landlord of cultural venues and facilities.
This obstructs the development of private small-scale cultural initiatives (HKSARG official
A, personal communication, 14 Oct 2014).
In neoliberal cities, the culture-led urban development agenda is often framed around
a hyper-intense inter-urban competition and place marketing (Harvey 1989; Peck 2004).
What makes Hong Kong’s case different is that for Hong Kong, the narrative of cultural and
creative development means a lot more than just keeping in line with the global economic
competition. For Hong Kong, it is also a way of coping with the consequences of the 1997
political transition, when the city was handed back to China. The handover, or ‘return’,
was marked by widespread anxiety and speculations regarding the possible decline of Hong
Kong’s global status and influence (Abbas 2000; Kong et al. 2006). An exposure to new
­political liabilities and the prospect of being placed alongside other Chinese cities threatened
Hong Kong’s position in the region (Abbas 1997, 2000; Yeung 2000; Chu 2012).
In response to these concerns, the government decided to invest in a new city branding
campaign. In 2001, it established the Brand Hong Kong (BrandHK) office, a strategic com-
munication agency responsible for promoting Hong Kong as ‘Asia’s world city’. This brand-
ing strategy is designed to serve a dual purpose, that is, to help the city keep up with global
competition and most importantly, to differentiate Hong Kong from other Chinese cities. As
stated on the BrandHK website:

The idea of “branding” Hong Kong first emerged in 1997. At that time, much attention
was focused on the return of Hong Kong to China, and there was concern in some
quarters that Hong Kong might vanish from the international stage after reunifica-
tion. Various strategies were considered, and the decision to develop Brand Hong Kong
(BrandHK) was finally taken in 2000.
(BrandHK 2015a, par. 1)

The branding slogan, ‘Asia’s world city’, entails an overwhelming number of different catch-
phrases, including “international cultural metropolis”, “creative hub of Asia” or “events
­capital of Asia”. Clearly, it is all about the same candy wrapped in a different paper. Ultimately,

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Kristina Karvelyte

they all reflect on the attempt to adopt a globalizing policy model of the cultural/creative
city in order to create “a visionary unique identity” (BrandHK 2015b, p. 1) for Hong Kong.
This aim has been further elaborated in the interviews with government officials in Hong
Kong:

If we say we are a world city, then we certainly have to have something distinct, some-
thing to be proud of, in terms of cultu…in the cultural sense”.
(HKSARG official B, personal communication, 5 Sep 2014)

As a global city, you need now to have your sort of cultural identity.
(HKSARG official C, personal communication, 5 Sep 2014, emphasis added)

On the one hand, this feeling of necessity and “no one can afford not to do it” (industry
practitioner A, personal communication, 15 Oct 2014) attitude stems from the global pres-
sure to compete. On the other hand, however, it also reflects on a fear of being “merged and
submerged into the national” (Abbas 2000, p. 779; see also Chu 2012).
It could be debated whether labelling the city the ‘international cultural metropolis’
or ‘creative hub of Asia’ is really intended to help to facilitate a ‘unique identity’ of Hong
Kong or blend it with other global cities. Borrowing from Abbas (1997), these tags serve as
representations of Hong Kong’s culture as a “culture of disappearance” (p. 7). In this sense,
‘disappearance’, as Abbas (1997) further explains, “is not a matter of effacement but of re-
placement and substitution, where the perceived danger is recontained through representa-
tions that are familiar and plausible” (p. 7). A portrayal of Hong Kong as an ‘international
cultural ­metropolis’ could be viewed as one of many representations of that sort. Instead
of creating a unique identity of Hong Kong, it conforms to what is generally perceived as
a ‘global’ or ‘universal’ format of the cultural/creative global city. Thus, with other large
Chinese cities, such as Shanghai, Beijing and Taipei adopting very similar policy scripts and
formats, the cultural turn, rather than making Hong Kong ‘reappear’, seems to be directed
at its ‘disappearance’.

Re-establishing the past in the present: Shanghai’s

path towards global cultural metropolis
Contrary to the culture-led urban development in the Global North or some Asian
cities, where urban re-industrialization was among the major factors driving the devel-
opment of culture and the arts, a decline in manufacturing industries has never played
a primary role in Shanghai’s cultural turn (see O’Connor 2012; Gu 2012). Being an
emerging metropolis in the midst of a real estate boom, Shanghai has enthusiastically
embraced the process of deindustrialization as an opportunity for expansion (Zhang
2003). Empty industrial sites in the outskirts of and within the city were quickly de-
molished and replaced with modern office and apartment buildings. In other words, the
Shanghai Municipal People’s Government (SMPG) did not need to establish cultural and
creative quarters to boost a real estate sector. Therefore, as Gu (2012) argues, a cultural
economy in Shanghai “was never intended to be part of the plan for the new economy
of the inner city” (p. 195).
Yet, by the end of 2010, the city had 15 cultural quarters and 80 creative clusters (SMPG
2011a) established in line with a newly proclaimed vision of ‘International cultural metropo-
lis’ (Guoji wenhua da dushi, SMPG 2010). In 2008, the city also submitted a bid to U­ NESCO

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Creative Cities Network and after two years was awarded a title of UNESCO City of D ­ esign.
If deindustrialization was not a primary reason for culture-led urban development initiatives
to unfold in Shanghai, what provoked a sudden interest in the cultural/creative city policy
script? This section explores some of the major political and socio-­economic factors that
contributed to the ‘cultural-turn’ of Shanghai.
It is important to note that Shanghai’s path towards modern and global cultural ­metropolis
is strongly linked to its past. From the late 1920s to the early 1940s, when Chinese state
power was in turmoil, the city occupied a very special position in the world. This period is
commonly labeled Shanghai’s ‘golden age’, because of economic prosperity, booming inter-
national trade and cosmopolitan culture that co-existed with the emerging modern Chinese
culture in this semi-colonial city at the time. Back then, Shanghai was largely disconnected
from the rest of China and was openly criticized and condemned by both the Chinese
­Nationalist Party and the Communist Party for being too ‘foreign’ (Bergère 1981, p. 3).
After Mao took over the rule of China in 1949, the affluent cosmopolitan cultural life of
the city was discarded as “bourgeois and decadent” (Abbas 2000, p. 776) debris of the past.
In a few years, from a thriving international metropolis Shanghai was turned into the center
of domestic industrial production, where its main role was to “finance the modernization of
the rest of the country” (Abbas 2000, p. 776; see also Wu 2000; Gamble 2003). Although
accounting for only one percent of the population, the city became a major contributor to
the state’s budget, supplying around a sixth of the national revenue (Zhang 2002). Therefore,
even after the launch of fiscal decentralisation reform in 1978, the Party was hesitant to cut
off its major source of income and delayed the economic restructuring of Shanghai for more
than a decade (Wu 2000; Zhang 2002).
The reforms finally took off in the early 1990s. In order to become an equal player in the
world’s economy, China had to reposition its major cities from domestic to global players
and to develop them into global nodes of agglomeration for international services and firms
(see Sassen 2006). This meant it could no longer ignore the “infrastructure upgrading needs”
(Zhang 2002, p. 482) of Shanghai. The city’s government was allowed to keep 25 percent
of the tax revenue, to directly approve foreign investment, to issue and trade stocks, and to
open foreign stores in Pudong New Area (Gamble 2003; Zhang 2002).
Since the 1990s, the official approach to the past of the city has also radically changed.
­Today the history of 1930s Shanghai is presented as a badge of honor and serves as a bench-
mark or a base for re-establishing the brand of modern, cultural and cosmopolitan Shanghai,
capable of competing with other global cities in the region and beyond. As one respondent
explains,

Now, we seek to embrace this glorious history, embrace this as a resource (…) we dream
of revoking the glory of those years. Of course, it is impossible to completely go back,
but Shanghai is always under… Other cities [in China] do not experience such pressure
(…) [whereas] Shanghai has these high expectations. (…) On the one hand, the glory of
the past, provides the city with a base and capital, on the other hand, however, it puts
Shanghai under immense pressure.
(academic, personal communication, 17 Nov 2014, translated from Chinese)

This quote clearly demonstrates how much importance is now attached to Shanghai’s pur-
suit of its ‘glorious past’ in its attempt to build new imaginaries of the future. However, in
this “city of remake” (Abbas 2000, p. 778), the ultimate goal is not to revoke the past, but
rather to reinvent the past anew in the light of the present objectives of the Party (O’Connor

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Kristina Karvelyte

2012). Through the selective “demolition and preservation” (O’Connor 2012, p. 25) of the
city’s ‘golden age’, the government chooses to retain only those elements that conform to
the Party’s narratives of ‘Socialist modern international metropolis’ (Shehuizhuyi xiandaihua
guoji chengshi, SMPG 1991). Global fame and recognition of 1930s Shanghai, its cosmopoli-
tanism, economic prosperity and cultural maturity, all serve to reassert ‘internationalization’
and ‘modernisation’ of the ‘new’ Shanghai. At the same time, the government conveniently
dismisses the other side of the city’s past. The city used to be known for its strained and dis-
tant relationship with the central government, politically active middle class and somewhat
revolutionary ideas that circulated among local “intellectuals on the loose” (Bergère 1981,
p. 3). Such fragmented re-modernization of Shanghai seems to be set to integrate the ele-
ments of both an ‘entrepreneurial’ and ‘socialist’ city. This seemingly unlikely combination
manifests the dominant ideology of contemporary China that Harvey (2005) once defined
as “neoliberalism ‘with Chinese characteristics’” (p. 120).
Economic reforms in Shanghai boosted the growth of the city but proved insufficient in
keeping up with increasing inter-urban competition. To bring Shanghai and other Chinese
cities “in line with international practice” (Wu 2000, p. 1365), local authorities were impelled
to adopt ‘entrepreneurial’ models of urban management. In an attempt to appeal to foreign
businesses and investors, cities have started to actively invest in the infrastructure, local ameni-
ties, cultural facilities and city branding campaigns (Zou 1996; Wu 2000). In this context, the
argument that in the past Shanghai used to be a ‘global cultural metropolis’ is evoked to reassert
a unique experience and capabilities of the city, particularly in relation to other Chinese cities.
With other cities within China, Shanghai competes primarily for foreign capital and
tourist inflows. However, outside China, at regional and global levels, its major goals and
objectives extend far beyond the economic dimension. As a state-centered world city (Hill
and Kim 2000), Shanghai does not fit into the conventional template of the ‘world’ or ‘global
city’, where the city, and not the state, is recognized as a key node of command and control
(see Friedmann 1986; Sassen 2006). Instead, Shanghai’s growth and development is largely
guided by the nation-state and shaped by national rather than urban policy agendas. A state-
led developmentalism adds a political dimension to the cultural turn in Shanghai. Therefore,
the cultural/creative city discourse in this context should be examined not only as an entre-
preneurial urban practice, but also as part of a broader national project.
Today China is recognized as the most likely world power to challenge the hegemony of
the United States (Layne 2009). A rapid accumulation of economic capital has already helped
the nation to achieve a leader status in the world’s economy. This position, however, does
not guarantee global recognition and respect or, borrowing from Bourdieu (1977), ‘symbolic
power’, which reflects on “a major dimension of political power” – the “power to impose
the principles of construction of reality” (p. 164). As Bourdieu (1989) elsewhere explains,
only “those who have obtained sufficient recognition”, and thereby, ‘symbolic capital’, are
“in a position to impose recognition” (p. 23, emphasis added). It is evident, that China still
struggles to ‘impose recognition’ in many areas of social life. Human rights violations, en-
vironmental issues, corruption and censorship seem especially to hamper the reputation of
China (Ding 2007; Wang 2011; Creemers 2015). Therefore, despite rapidly growing eco-
nomic might, China’s image in the Global North is still largely negative (Wang 2011). Sub-
sequently, its ‘symbolic power’ remains relatively weak.
In its quest for alternative sources of influence, the Chinese government has discovered
Joseph Nye’s (2004) notion of ‘soft power’, defined as “the ability to shape the preferences
of others” (p. 5) through the power of attraction. Peck and Theodore (2010) observe that
policies and policy programs tend to travel as “selective discourses” rather than as “complete

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 From arts desert to global ­cultural metropolis

‘packages’” (p. 170). The notion of ‘soft power’ has also reached China as the ‘selective
discourse’, and it has been greatly altered in line with political realities and imaginaries of
the state. Nye (2004) based his concept of ‘soft power’ on the power of seduction and abil-
ity to attract, arguing that it is inherently relational and is not interchangeable with influ-
ence. However, in Mainland China, a subtle seductive aspect of ‘soft power’ is increasingly
“eschewed in favor of a communications stance that seems passive-aggressive” (Creemers
2015, p. 12) with the word ‘influence’ (yingxiangli) time and again reiterated in the policy
narratives of the ruling elites. As a result, in addition to Nye’s (2004) three major sources
of soft power that entail culture, political values and foreign policy, the Chinese version of
soft power accommodates a number of other deeply politicized practices that include global
propaganda-oriented media production, membership in multilateral organizations, and even
overseas aid programmes (Kurlantzick 2007; Li 2008; Creemers 2015). In other words, the
Chinese model of soft power clearly departs from the original concept and rests on a per-
ceived ability to accumulate influence and to gain “‘power over’ rather than ‘power with’
others” (Nye 2011, p. 90, emphasis added).
Culture, particularly in a form of traditional Chinese culture and values, is commonly
singled out as a major ingredient of Chinese soft power (Li 2008; Creemers 2015). Not a
surprising choice, given that the Chinese culture generally receives a high degree of respect
and admiration from the foreign audience (Wang 2011). In 2007, the Chinese government
officially instated the development of ‘cultural soft power’ (wenhua ruanshili) as one of the key
national initiatives in a pursuit of making China “more influential politically (yingxiangli),
more competitive economically ( jingzhengli), more appealing in its image (qingheli), and more
inspiring morally (ganzhaoli)” (Wang 2011, p. 8).
Following on the ‘cultural soft power’ policy strategy, many cities in China, including
Shanghai, have actively started to promote their cultural properties. In the 12th Five-Year
Plan (2011–2015), Shanghai outlines its aspiration to enhance the international influence and
soft power of the city through its cultural and creative advancement. The plan strategically
places the narrative of the ‘international cultural metropolis’ within the ultimate vision for
2020, which is, to turn Shanghai into the “International centre of economy, finance, trade
and shipping” (Guoji jingji, jinrong, maoyi, hangyun zhongxin, SMPG 2011b). With culture
now recognized as a ‘symbolic capital’ of Shanghai (Gu 2015), it is increasingly utilized to
gain respect, recognition and, ultimately, influence in the global city networks. In this sense,
the policy script of the creative city is transformed into one of the Chinese soft power strate-
gies, where an ultimate goal is political influence rather than economic success. Accordingly,
the cultural and creative development strategy of the city is strongly linked to the Party’s
ambition for Shanghai to gain access to the elite group of ‘model’ global cities, specifically to
reach and surpass two of the highest integrated world-cities, London and New York (GaWC
2012). The Shanghai Municipal Government sends numerous delegations to leading cities
around the world, to learn what they consider best cultural policy practices and to determine
ways to compete with them. As a senior government official from the Shanghai Municipal
Administration of Culture, Radio, Film and TV indicates:

We aim to become one of the front-ranking cities in the world. World-class city. Par-
ticularly in the field of culture. In the field of culture, we are now learning from some
other foreign… Some international world-class cultural metropolises serve as… as mod-
els [for us]. For instance, now our focus lies on studying London, also New York. In
Asia, it’s Tokyo. These [cities] serve as certain benchmarks for us.
(personal communication, 19 Nov 2014, translated from Chinese)

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Kristina Karvelyte

Clearly, the adoption of the ‘best practices’ from the developed cities in the Global North,
which seem to be accepted as flawless and impeccable policy models, is viewed as a major
contributing factor in Shanghai’s efforts to catch up with other world cities. As the same
official further maintains:

We can’t claim that Shanghai and England’s London are the same now, that Shanghai
has reached those standards yet. We have not reached those high standards yet. We have
not reached that level yet. However, we are working hard to learn from the UK, to learn
from London, [we] strive to turn Shanghai into the ‘creative city’.
(personal communication, 19 Nov 2014)

For Shanghai, reaching ‘those high standards’ equals acceptance into the elite global com-
munity. For China, this equals more power and influence. Therefore, in this context, the
‘influence’, encompassed by both ‘international influence’ (guoji yingxiangli) and ‘reputa-
tional influence’ (zhiming yingxiangli) becomes a crucial indicator in assessing the value of
cultural activities in ‘globalizing’ Shanghai. Research data suggest that opting for ‘the best’,
‘world-class’ performances and generating influence through their presence is a key reason
for the large-scale cultural events in Shanghai. As one respondent explains in relation to the
­Shanghai International Arts Festival:

This is so important for Shanghai to make a statement. The outer appearance, the sur-
face is very important to Shanghai. (….) What is important to them, the number of
performances that they have, the number of high level artists that are in. Again, it’s the
report that they put together to send to [the] Ministry of Culture. It’s a major, major
focus for the [Arts] Festival. Because this is how they are judged, this is how they are
evaluated.
(industry practitioner B, personal communication, 17 Nov 2014)

A desire to generate more international influence also resonates with another clear ten-
dency in the cultural turn of Shanghai, that is, an increasing ‘internationalisation’ of the
events content, where local Chinese culture and cultural production is accommodated and
adapted to what is perceived as ‘foreign taste’. As a staff member from the Shanghai Inter-
national Arts Festival indicates, “Chinese elements need to be expressed using the world’s
language” (industry practitioner C, personal communication, 23 Jan 2015, translated from
Chinese). Such ‘staged authenticity’ (MacCannell 1973) assists in creating a ‘global’ iden-
tity of the events that subsequently conforms to the image of ‘globalizing’ Shanghai. Local
artists as well as audience, on the other hand, tend to be largely discounted from cultural
display sites because gaining ‘local influence’ (difangxing yingxiangli) is deemed of a little
value for the international image of the city (industry practitioner B, personal communi-
cation, 17 Nov 2014).
In sum, it is evident that the cultural turn in Shanghai’s urban development satisfies the
needs and objectives of both the state and the market. It is perceived to reflect on the ad-
vancement and re-modernization of the city, to connect it with other cities through a global
model of a cultural/creative city and to stimulate the middle class consumption and invest-
ment demand. However, similar to Hong Kong, it appears that this strategy is adopted to
assimilate Shanghai with other global cities rather than to assist in the emergence of a unique
model of modern socialist metropolis.

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 From arts desert to global ­cultural metropolis

Discussion: tracing connections and disconnections between cities

This chapter sought to demonstrate how globalizing policy patterns of culture-led urban de-
velopment pervade the policy agenda of cities, and how cities translate and alter the meanings
of these patterns in accordance with their historical, political and socio-economic settings.
Both the colonial government in Hong Kong and the communist government under Mao
in Shanghai did little to encourage cultural development in the cities. This by no means in-
dicates the absence of cultural or creative practices; certain forms of culture and the arts have
always been there. However, the cultural realm has never before been utilized to address
such major political and economic issues as it is today. By adopting very similar, at times
identical, narratives of cultural and creative development, both cities adhere to a neoliberal
framework of a ‘new’ urban development. Their ‘cultural turn’ is undoubtedly influenced
and powered by inter-urban competition for talents, investment and tourist inflows that, as a
global trend, is commonly associated with neoliberal or market-oriented practice.
Nevertheless, it appears that the adoption of the same policy narrative does not necessarily
derive from the same policy objectives. Due to the different governance models and policy
interests of the cities, the ‘creative city’ script is deeply contextualized and continuously
reframed to pursue specific policy agendas. For instance, in Shanghai, it reflects the attempt
to enhance global influence and power of the state, whereas Hong Kong’s ‘cultural turn’
has been directed at boosting tourism industry and assisting in the city’s efforts to maintain
its ‘global city’ identity. In other words, the notion of the cultural/creative city seems to be
approached as a currency or a floating signifier, disconnected from any specific signification
and imbued with meaning by contextualized policy discourses.
Clearly, political systems and governance models have a huge impact on the way cities
attend to their cultural and creative development. Under state-led developmentalism, local
authorities in Shanghai have very limited decision-making power. Therefore, the city’s ‘cul-
tural turn’ is shaped predominantly by national interests. The narrative of the ‘international
cultural metropolis’ has also been established to, first and foremost, fulfill the ambitions of
the Party rather than to assist in Shanghai’s re-industrialization efforts. In this context, cul-
tural development is perceived as Shanghai’s ticket to the elite group of global cities. As a
result, the government gives preference to large-scale cultural groups or initiatives that are
perceived as more likely to generate a global impact.
In Hong Kong, policymaking is deeply rooted in neoliberal ‘non-interventionist’ ide-
ology. Its ‘cultural turn’ was launched in relation to the commonly acknowledged market-­
development needs of the post-industrial city resulting from growing global competition and
the rise of service industries, specifically tourism. Hong Kong’s handover to China has not
only accelerated the pace of the culture-led urban development but has also altered its scope
and direction. A growing concern about being “merged and submerged into the national”
(Abbas 2000, p. 779) has prompted the government to embrace a global policy script of the
cultural and creative city as an opportunity of ‘display’ (Williams 1984). As a result, it has
been incorporated into the broader branding strategy, designed to maintain a ‘world-city’
status for Hong Kong. In this context, the title of the cultural and creative city once again
entails more than just economic interests. In Hong Kong, it is also about preserving an inter-
national identity of the city.
A number of crossing points between the two case studies pinpoint four important im-
plications. First, this comparative study demonstrates that the adoption of cultural/creative
urbanism practices is not optional: every city that seeks to be part of a global network has to

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Kristina Karvelyte

fit in the frames of what is broadly defined as a cultural/creative city. Originally, the notions
of ‘world’ and ‘global’ city were coined and discussed in relation to the world economy and
international division of labor (see Friedmann 1986; Sassen 2006). However, it seems that
in the last decade, a new, cultural/creative dimension has been added to this concept (see
Krätke 2006). Framed along neoliberal lines of economic restructuring, inter-urban compe-
tition and a commodified notion of ‘quality of life’ (Harvey 2008), the narrative of cultural
development is now perceived as a necessary component for any city aspiring to fit in a for-
mat of the global city. Hong Kong has been labelled a ‘cultural desert’ since the 1920s, and
yet this has never stopped it from being very successful on a global stage of finance and trade.
However, with an increased pressure to compete for investment, skilled workers and tourists
coupled with an arguably weakened position after the handover, Hong Kong was forced to
take the ‘cultural turn’ in urban development and to seek for the recognition as ‘international
cultural metropolis’. Shanghai, on the other hand, is a re-emerging global city and simulta-
neously a re-emerging ‘international cultural metropolis’. Thus, it has lot to prove, as both
a global and a socialist city. The ultimate goal for Shanghai is to access the elite group of the
two highest integrated world cities, London and New York. To assimilate with those and
other cities in the global city network, Shanghai is now also impelled to follow and emulate
their strategies of culture-led development.
This brings us to the second major implication. It appears that in a non-western context,
the policy script of the cultural/creative city is adopted as a tool for convergence rather than
divergence. With a rapidly expanding number of international cultural metropolises around
the world, the narrative of the cultural/creative city is no longer a novelty, but a common
characteristic. It has clearly lost the scent of uniqueness that was originally used to promise a
competitive advantage for cities (see Landry 2000; Florida 2002). Ironically, the ‘common-
ness’ of the script is now part of its appeal for many marginalized cities. It is approached as
a guarantee of a certain status at the international stage and reflects on the “belonging to a
particular type of global city” (Pang 2012, p. 136). As noted above, the policymakers that
guide the ‘global city making’ process in Shanghai and Hong Kong seem to share the same
belief that in order for their city to become (or remain) a ‘global city’, it must be established
as not only the central hub for finance and trade, but also as a cultural and creative city.
Third, it is evident that a globalizing policy model of the cultural/creative city escalates
the pace of the inter-urban competition. Although it often leads to a zero-sum game (Harvey
1989), cities cannot escape the somewhat vicious cycle of continuous monitoring, assess-
ment, comparison and at times imitation of their counterparts. In a sense, they all seem to be
playing a classical “Simon Says” game, where one inaccurate move or failure to repeat the
actions of the leading player leads to an immediate defeat.
Fourth, it is important to acknowledge that the ‘cultural turn’ in the cities seems to ben-
efit only selected cultural groups and organizations. The distribution of funds is unbalanced
and correlates with the perceived advantage rather than with the actual need. In order to be
recognized as cultural and creative cities, municipal governments throw large amounts of
money in the development of ‘flagship’ cultural and creative industries, cultural landmarks
and large-scale events. As several interviewees have suggested, the policymakers in Shanghai
and Hong Kong often fail to provide a platform for local artists and smaller-scale cultural
initiatives that cannot guarantee international impact or commercial success (see also Lui
2008; Chu 2012; O’Connor 2012; Lee et al. 2013). This, in effect, further increases the seg-
regation between larger and more influential cultural groups and those smaller, locally based
organizations.

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This study only begins to reveal the role of the ‘cultural turn’ in Shanghai and Hong
Kong. Considering that it has focused predominantly on the policymakers’ approach to
cultural/creative city ‘making’ as well as the major rationales behind it, further studies are
needed to determine the full spectrum of implications of this process, particularly in relation
to local citizens and individual artists. Future research could shed some light on this ques-
tion by examining the perceptions of local artists and/or citizens about the ‘cultural turn’
in their cities. How do they feel about it? How are they included in and excluded from this
process? What opportunities and challenges, if any, does the ‘cultural turn’ bring to them?
Such and similar studies would help to link the context with the actual experience. Over-
all, it seems that there are more connections than disconnections between the cultural and
creative trajectories of Shanghai and Hong Kong. Culture-led urban development has now
become a vital part of the brand for both cities. Nevertheless, different adoption patterns and
contextualized objectives indicate that this trend is not uniform and cannot be generalized.
Therefore, another important task for future research could be to investigate the rationales
for the ‘cultural turn’ in cities in the region. Such studies would help to refine and further
elaborate on the findings of this research by providing a more definite view of what being a
cultural/creative city in East Asia now really signifies.

Notes
1 In this chapter, the terms ‘creative city’, ‘cultural city’, ‘cultural and creative city’ and ‘cultural/
creative city’ will be used interchangeably.
2 Although urban entrepreneurialism has originated in the Global North, in the last two decades,
it has also been widely adopted in many developing cities across East Asia (see Yeoh 2005; Pratt
2009).
3 Recently, the author himself has also recognized some limitations in his methodology (see Florida
et al. 2015).

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 17
Making cultural work
­visible in cultural policy
Roberta Comunian and Bridget Conor

Introduction
Cultural work, also referred to as creative labour (McKinlay and Smith 2009), has recently
received more attention in academic journals and literature. This is in clear contrast with
economic and cultural policy interventions in the last two decades that, while increasingly
highlighting the role of culture and creativity in the economy and society, have failed to
consider the centrality of cultural work and its practices and specificity (Banks and Hes-
mondhalgh 2009; Oakley 2013). Taking further the argument of Banks and Hesmondhalgh
(2009) that cultural work has been mostly invisible in cultural and social policy, this chapter
argues that there have been critical moments in recent years where cultural work has become
more visible, contextualised and contested. We use a selection of these moments to highlight
the need for a more sustained engagement with what Banks (2007) calls the politics of cul-
tural work. Using these moments, we illustrate that the politics of cultural work become vis-
ible when a specific critical point is reached in which questions of its value, sustainability or
ethics are raised. Furthermore, we highlight the role of academic engagement and research
in this area and its potential impact. This is at the centre of recent UK-based projects fo-
cused on key issues in the field of cultural work studies. For example, recent AHRC-funded
projects on cultural value and ‘improving cultural work’ have contributed to an increasing
focus on examining inequalities in cultural and creative industries, a hitherto unspoken but
pervasive problem in this sector. This kind of research, which seeks to connect academics
with policymakers, union representatives, external stakeholders and practitioners, highlights
the need to reflect and reconnect research with policy and practice to enable cultural work
to become consistently visible and understandable.
In the chapter, we focus on three critical but different moments in the last decade that have
made cultural work more visible and have facilitated interventions from policymakers, mass
media and academia. First, we consider the emergence of new critical debates around the
value of creative education and cultural work that have followed the introduction of full fees
for UK students. This event has specially questioned the role of education in the sector as well
as how higher education policy interconnects and shapes the future of cultural work (Comu-
nian and Faggian 2014). Second, we consider the implementation of sector-based research

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and policy. Here we take the case of the recent role played by Creative Skillset in evidencing
and implementing policy to promote diversity and gender equality in creative and cultural
industries (CCIs). We highlight the importance of data but also the temporality of the actions
and concerns around equality as well as how visible issues often return to invisibility (Gill and
Pratt 2008). Following our discussion of temporality, we finally take the case of a union-led
protest against working conditions of film workers in New Zealand to consider how specific
industrial disputes in cultural sectors make the role of unions and workers momentarily visi-
ble in the creative and cultural industries (Conor 2015). All three moments make visible the
politics of cultural work, the contestations that characterise them – in relation to access and
inequality in particular – and the policymaking and legislative practices that shape them. The
conclusion highlights other possible bottom-up responses to the invisible nature of creative
and cultural work and the absence of it in current cultural policy.

Cultural work: definition, patterns and criticalities

The importance of cultural work is often understated and hidden behind its metonym:
cultural and creative industries. However, while the creative and cultural industries are cel-
ebrated globally for their contribution to economies and to societies (UNESCO 2013), very
little is acknowledged about the role of cultural work within them and/or about the everyday
experiences of cultural workers. This is an important contradiction both in qualitative and
quantitative terms. In relation to qualifying the importance of cultural work, all the litera-
ture (and the very first definition of creative industries in 1998 by the UK’s Department of
Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS)) points towards the fact that these industries rely heav-
ily (sometimes exclusively) on talent (i.e. on skilled or ‘creative’ individuals). In relation to
quantifying the role of cultural work, it is also widely acknowledged that most of these indi-
viduals are sole-traders, freelancers or contractors or are working in the context of small and
medium size enterprises – again highlighting that cultural workers and cultural industries
are often the same thing (Comunian 2009). Therefore, this chapter first considers the key
contradictions that surround cultural work. On the one hand, there is a tendency to celebrate
and promote the role of the creative economy and the cultural industries at local, national
and international levels, and central to this tendency is the celebratory valuing of these in-
dustries via neoliberal milestones of economic growth, exports and ‘success’ (DCMS 2015a).
On the other, we see a growing literature highlighting the unstable careers (Menger 2006),
inequalities (Conor, Gill, and Taylor 2015) and fluctuating salaries (Comunian, Faggian, and
Li 2010) offered to workers in creative and cultural occupations, suggesting the wider issue
of a ‘creative under-class’ in these same economies (Morgan and Ren 2012).
Many of the issues faced by cultural workers seem to be placed within the pre-­existing
frameworks and business models of the CCI and their production systems and thus
­policymakers consider these challenges as endemic to the system and prefer to support its
self-regulation.1 This often leads to further inequalities and forms of exclusion as specific
sections of the society are not able to adapt to the most challenging conditions of the sector.
For example, the exclusivity of arts education favours the presence of certain classes within
the arts and ensures that only the most privileged students can undertake the free or unpaid
labour (via internships for example) that is now considered to be ‘essential’ to securing paid
employment in the CCIs (Banks and Oakley 2016). While the working dynamics of the cre-
ative and cultural industries favour risk-sharing business models and unstable contract con-
ditions, these are not the only industries that rely heavily on intellectual property and have
to manage high levels of risk. For example, the science & technology and pharmaceutical

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 Making cultural work ­visible in cultural policy

industries operate via similarly high-risk business models. However, what is perhaps unique
to work undertaken in the CCIs is that the majority of the weight, risks and costs are in-
dividualised, placed on the individual worker, and this is now the modus operandi of these
industries. Interestingly, the individualisation of work and the structural imposition of pre-
carity as a business model have been expanding beyond the CCIs and are now reaching
other sectors (higher education, for example). Neilson and Coté (2014) confirm the con-
tinuous expansion of precarity beyond cultural work, and Ivancheva specifically highlights
the increasing pressure of “self-exploitation, impoverishment and insecurity” (p. 40) within
academia. Furthermore, with new professions emerging linking the creative economy with
higher education, and new external impact agendas, there is also an increasing demand on
new researchers to be freelancing or engaging in short-term contracts that lie somewhere
between university work and external creative work (Comunian and Gilmore 2015).
In the sections that follow, we focus on three specific and divergent issues that often make
work invisible within the CCIs and are particularly related to these dynamics of individu-
alisation and precarity. Part of this invisibility is connected to the individualised nature of
cultural work in many industries, but some of it we argue has been created also by a ten-
dency of policy circles, at local, national and international levels, to promote the creative
economy as the new answer to economic development without questioning or investigating
its inner workings. The first is training and education. There is broader acknowledgement
that creative and cultural industries workers are amongst the most highly qualified across a
range of sectors; more than half (58.8%) of jobs in the Creative Economy in 2014 were filled
by people who had at least a degree or equivalent qualification, compared to 31.8 percent
of all UK jobs (DCMS 2015b). However, there is also a recognition that compared with
other highly qualified individuals, they do not enjoy the same level of salary and economic
stability ­(Comunian, Faggian and Jewell 2011). It is also important to recognise that cultural
workers are often required to invest in continuous training and professional development
(which often needs to be self-funded, as they are freelance or employed part time). In respect
to training and education, we see a tendency towards it being seen as a personal investment,
and in this chapter we question how this has stretched to also include debates within the
provision of higher education and its funding models.
The second issue is diversity and access to cultural work. Oakley and O’Brien have
­recently highlighted what they term “unprecedented media interest in questions of repre-
sentation and inequality in cultural production” (2015, p. 19). Their examples highlight the
preponderance of recent headlines about the lack of gender and minority ethnic represen-
tation in the UK and US in, for example, Academy Award nomination lists or art school
graduates. This is relatively new and novel, however, because as Conor, Gill and Taylor
have also recently written, there has been a distinct lack of attention to inequalities in these
fields in policymaking and cultural analysis and, as we noted above, this “is particularly
striking and dissonant given the prominence attached both to ‘creativity’ in general, and the
CCIs [cultural and creative industries] in particular, in national policies across the world”
(2015, p. 1). While the CCIs benefit from a positive image as being open, flexible and anti-­
hierarchical, it is easy to present supporting evidence of the lack of diversity in the sector, in
relation to gender (Conor, Gill, and Taylor 2015) ethnicity (Freeman 2007) and social class
(Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2013).
The third is the role of unions and collective action in the field of cultural work. The
unionisation of cultural workers such as actors, advertisers or visual effects workers is
­often viewed as rare, irrelevant or unnecessary in highly individualised, flexible and mo-
bile ­industries. Unions or guilds are not routinely visible in cultural policymaking and the

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overall policy agenda, in the UK at least, has become “increasingly linked to educational and
employment policy, but under the sign of economics rather than social reform or cultural
equity” (Banks and Hesmondhalgh 2009, p. 428). Unions in the CCIs are at the frontlines
when it comes limiting the adverse effects of insecure or unsustainable working conditions,
and they also face significant challenges in representing their freelance and precarious mem-
bers. There are crucial and isolated moments at which cultural workers become visible; these
are times of disagreement, when collective action by actors, screenwriters or journalists
makes cultural workers visible. The final section of our chapter focuses on one particular
and highly visible dispute.

Problematising the relationship between

higher education and cultural work

Arts degrees become the preserve of the wealthy

The Guardian, 26th September 2010

Don’t stifle creativity with more cuts to arts education, say experts
The Guardian, 8th May 2015

As these headlines highlight, one of the debates that has made cultural work visible concerns
its relation with creative (higher) education. More specifically, in the last three years – from
the introduction of full fees for UK students to attain higher education – concerns have
grown about the value of creative education per se and in relation to the opportunities to
work in the CCIs. Of course, the introduction of full fees following the Browne Review
in 2009 has opened up a debate around the value of education in general across all subjects
(Wilkins, Shams and Huisman 2013). However, while most subject areas can demonstrate an
economic return on salary for graduates attending those courses (Blundell et al. 2000), arts
subjects have struggled to make the same arguments (Comunian, Faggian, and Li 2010). Even
more, 40.82 percent of graduates from creative disciplines themselves in the longitudinal
Higher Education Statistical Agency (HESA) data collection suggested that “the qualification
was ‘not required’ at all” for their job (Abreu et al. 2012, p. 317). This is not only a short-term
outcome but persistent in the long term (three and a half years after graduation). So aspiring
creatives might risk investing more than £30,000 in a degree that would result in a job they
could have secured without any tertiary degree (Comunian, Faggian, and Jewell 2015).
The literature on the poor economic rewards and unstable careers of cultural workers
is extensive. However, only recently has the focus of this debate moved to embracing ed-
ucation, and this is partially in response to these policy changes (Oakley 2007; Banks and
­Oakley 2016; Comunian, Gilmore and Jacobi 2015). On one side of this debate of course
rests a serious concern that higher education should not be only or primarily understood
in terms of economic value and that the value of undertaking a university degree in a cre-
ative or arts & humanities-based discipline should rest in its cultural value and its ability to
­develop students into mature members of society with the ability to think critically (Belfiore
and Upchurch 2013; O’Brien 2014). However, these arguments have been undermined by
the market-driven approach adopted by many higher education institutions as well as by
considerations that this kind of education might have become a luxury that only certain
sectors of the population might be able to afford (Oakley and O’Brien 2015), as suggested by
the first The Guardian headline at the opening of this section. Furthermore, it might lead to

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class-based stratification in the selection of degree courses students are accessing or attracted
to (see Born and Devine 2015 for their recent work on music education).
In this brief account of new visibility in the role of education in cultural work, we focus
on two key issues. The first is the role of the providers (higher education institutions) and
cultural policy in shaping and connecting with opportunities and (existing or non-existing)
demand in the sector; the second is about the true value of creative education beyond the
creative industries as well as how cultural work could play a broader role in the economy
and society.
In the academic literature, the lower economic rewards of cultural work have been
strongly linked to issues of oversupply (Towse 2001; Abbing 2002). The same has not been
explored by policy and higher education providers. In fact, the main argument explaining
a considerate expansion of creative courses in higher education needs to be more focused
on a new market-driven and neoliberal approach to education (Comunian, Gilmore and
Jacobi 2015). This expansion is undeniable; however, it seems to be led by the demand and
attractiveness of these courses to students, rather than by a growth in jobs and employ-
ment opportunities. From the early 2000s, HESA (2009) highlights the steady growth of
creative subject areas. Between 2003/2004 and 2007/2008 Creative Arts and Design have
shown a 14.2 percent increase, while Mass Communication and Documentation has shown
a 7.3 ­percent increase. This compares to an overall growth across all subjects of 4.8 percent.
A similar growth seems to extend until 2011 (Table 17.1, from HESA 2015) when there is a
sudden drop in enrolment in these subjects (but also overall).
A similar accelerated positive trend seems to characterise staff numbers in these subjects
until the fees introduction. Between 2004/2005 and 2011/2012 a Universities UK report
highlights that two creative areas exhibited the highest level of expansion in percentage
terms across all subjects in Architecture & Planning (+ 29.3%) and Design, Creative &
­Performing Arts (+ 24.0%) (Universities UK 2013). The same data published late in 2015
(Universities UK 2015) sees the same subjects towards the bottom of the list for growth;
between 2012/2013 and 2013/2014, Design, Creative & Performing Arts (+ 8.5%) and
­A rchitecture & Planning (+ 2.0%).
We argue that cultural policy – and specifically New Labour’s cultural policy agenda
(Hesmondhalgh et al. 2015) has played a strong role in making the sector attractive and ap-
pealing both to prospective students and to higher education institutions aiming to expand
their course offerings. As Heartfield (2005) highlights, many universities have expanded their

Table 17.1  Data extracted from HESA (2015) to highlight specific trends for creative disciplines

First year first degree enrolments by subject area 2007/2008 to 2013/2014

7 year %
Subject area 2007/8 2008/9 2009/10 2010/11 2011/12 2012/13 2013/14 change

(E) Mass 13,400 14,360 15,090 14,470 15,550 13,010 14,050 5%

communications
&
documentation
(H) Creative arts & 46,725 48,490 51,600 50,685 53,775 46,545 48,880 5%
design
Total 460,240 493,650 518,850 518,280 552,240 495,275 521,990 13%

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provision in these fields without questioning the real opportunities available to graduates.
Overall, this strategy has promoted the creative industries and creative work as a whole, but
in fact the data shows that few of these sectors are able to deliver sustainable career paths
and a healthy job market for students graduating in creative disciplines (Comunian, Faggian
and Jewell 2011). Furthermore, Buckingham and Jones (2010) critically point out “there is a
danger that ‘creativity’ and ‘culture’ will come to be seen as magic ingredients that will au-
tomatically transform education” (p. 13). Cultural policy has translated, in higher education
provision, into a belief that creativity and creative courses would automatically translate to
employability and high economic competiveness, under the banner of the greater economic
and social contribution of creative activities in our national economy. The introduction of full
fees for higher education studies has exposed further issues of access to education for aspiring
cultural workers. The introduction of fees has led to the perception that in a market-driven
higher education system – where it is important to evidence returns on significant financial
investments – arts degrees are not as ‘valuable’. This connects also with further issues of the
exclusivity of creative careers (O’Brien et al. 2016), which make arts degrees unaffordable
for many students. These changes have also led to increased public debate and new advocacy
groups – such as Arts Emergency2 – that argue for the value of arts and humanities education
in the face of ongoing funding cuts. However, in opposition to the arguments that led to the
introduction of full fees for higher education, there has been limited debate about the ‘re-
payment’ problem and its long-term economic sustainability. In the long term, arts degrees
might become cross-subsidised if employment opportunities do not grant for the repayment
necessary – which seems more likely to happen from science and business courses3.
Another key issue, connected to the educational infrastructure surrounding cultural work
and highlighted by the limited benefit of creative education in relation to employability and
salary satisfaction, relates to the ability of both graduates and higher education institutions
to articulate the value of creative education beyond the creative industries and its broader
role in the economy and society. Alper and Wassall (2006) tend to justify this poor return on
investment in higher education by saying that artists are ‘risk-takers’ in their career choices
and are aware that they are trying to maximize their opportunities and earnings in the long
term. However, they do point out that the return on investment in education is low and that
this does not tend to significantly increase their artistic earnings (but has a positive effect on
their non-artistic earnings (Alper and Wassall 2006)). So interestingly while education might
not make a difference to an individual’s success as an artist, it possibly gives one a better
opportunity to engage with other sectors of the economy. If we look beyond the creative
industries to gain a broader understanding of the impact of creative knowledge and talent
in the economy, it seems clear that creative graduates are undervalued in the labour market,
especially when they do not enter a creative occupation (Faggian, Comunian and Li 2014;
Comunian, Faggian, and Jewell 2015). This raises questions about the value of the education
they receive in relation to the overall economy. Specifically, we can articulate two difficul-
ties: first, there is a difficulty for the graduates themselves in articulating the value of their
skills and training, possibly because during their education they have not been exposed or
asked to think about how their knowledge and skills could apply more broadly across a range
of careers and occupations. Second, there is a difficulty in terms of the economy: to place a
value (and therefore offer a reasonable salary) on the contribution that creativity and artistic
skills can add to a variety of sectors, not just the cultural economy.
Partially, it can be argued that the excessive emphasis of governments on the creative and
cultural industries has limited understandings and applications of creativity to a narrow area
of economic potential rather than supporting a broader understanding of the creative and

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cultural  dimension of each economic activity (Hartley 2004; Mato 2009). This is partially
confirmed by the data on digital graduates, because although there has been great emphasis on
the role of digital technologies in cultural and creative industries and their convergence (Deuze
2007), there is little evidence of the embedding of these skills in the broader cultural and cre-
ative industries (Comunian, Faggian and Jewell 2015). Higher education institutions have the
positions and the leverage to increase the visibility of creative education and cultural work in
society more broadly, rather than silo’ing them within a few sectors of the economy; avoiding
narrowly defined artistic career pathways would help creative graduates to position themselves
more successfully within the wider economy (Oakley 2009). Overall, this section suggests that
the strong emphasis on creative and cultural industries rather than on cultural work has con-
tributed to the continued invisibility of cultural work. Recent work from NESTA (Bakhshi
and Windsor 2015) highlights how half of creative occupations are now outside the creative in-
dustries and despite different ‘creative intensity’ across sectors, this should be made more visible.
The creative skills of graduates in these disciplines are not visible enough in the labour market
while the hype surrounding the creative industries has created an ‘economic bubble’ that has
further expanded the provision of those skills without sustainable corresponding opportunities.

Making gender and diversity visible: policy work

and interventions

Women successful yet sidelined in film writing and directing

The Guardian, 26th November 2013

UK’s creative industries ‘must back regional and ethnic diversity’

The Guardian, 24th February 2014

In this second section, we highlight the role of sector-based research and policy in providing
evidence, as well as tracking changes, in relation to cultural work. In particular, we take the
case of the recent role played by Creative Skillset in evidencing and implementing policy to
promote diversity and gender equality in creative and cultural industries. We highlight the
importance of data but also the temporality of the actions and concerns around equality; we are
concerned here with how ‘visible’ issues can often return to invisibility (Gill and Pratt 2008).
Every year, the DCMS publishes data on employment in the UK’s creative industries.
For the past year the growth and success of the creative industries have made headlines as
the total employment continues to show growth: “between 1997 and 2013, employment in
the Creative Economy has increased from 1.81m jobs to 2.62m jobs. This was equivalent to
a rise of 2.3 percent each year, around four times greater than the 0.6 percent increase each
year in the number of jobs in the UK Economy” (DCMS 2015b, p. 7). However, in 2015,
for the first time the DCMS published data to consider also the role that gender, ethnicity
and class play in determining rates of employment, workforce entry and workforce retention
in these industries. In relation to gender, the report highlights that women accounted for
36.7 percent of jobs in the Creative Industries (compared with 47.2 percent in the whole UK
Economy). In relation to ethnicity, 11.0 percent of the jobs in Creative Industries were un-
dertaken by Black, Asian and minority ethnic (BAME) workers “an increase of 8.0 percent
between 2013 and 2014 (34.3% since 2011)” (DCMS 2015b, p. 21). However, in relation to
class the ‘more advantaged groups’ (which usually make up 66 percent of the UK workforce)
make up 92.1 percent of occupations in the Creative Industries. This is highlighted as a

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Roberta Comunian and Bridget Conor

growing trend as ‘more advantaged groups’ have benefitted from a 17 percent employment
growth since 2011 in the sector, in contrast with a 2 percent growth for the ‘less advantaged
group’ (DCMS 2015b). However, the report does not attempt to link this information and
consider how class might intersect with ethnicity and gender. Recent work from O’Brien
et al. (2016) does highlight how class plays a role not only in creating barriers to entry in the
creative industries but also – for the people who are employed in creative fields – remains
a factor connected with lower career achievements and salaries. This is crucial as Oakley
and O’Brien (2015) also note that there is hugely varying information about inequality, and
some categories of disadvantage are more visible than others. We know quite a bit about
gender inequality, something about inequalities of ethnicity and age, but relatively little
about inequalities of class, sexuality, disability and region or place. We certainly know that
patterns of inequality in relation to gender and ethnicity often replicate from industry to
industry. But there are real gaps in our knowledge about how these inequalities intersect in
any particular industry and then how these inequalities link up across regional, national or
supra-national boundaries.
We discussed above how this also interconnects with the role played here by higher
education as the level of entry in these sectors is high and degree qualification is a com-
mon trend. The greatly reduced opportunities for entrants from less advantaged or BAME
backgrounds to successfully access higher education might be an initial barrier to future
employment in the CCIs (Faggian et al. 2013). While in every sector there is a degree of
difference across the range of sectors included within the creative industries, we are inter-
ested here to highlight some of the policy work and campaigns that particularly focused on
the film and television sector to consider their role in making cultural work and its issues
more visible.
In relation to the importance of diversity and its analysis, we argue that this increased
attention is a result of a previous ‘crisis’ usefully highlighted in media and policy circles with
the publication of the Creative Skillset Labour Force Survey in 2012, which then led to an
increased emphasis and policy attention towards the level of diversity in cultural work. We
explore this through two specific campaigns and media interventions; one is the Directors
UK and BBC partnership “to improve work opportunities for women directors”, the other
is the establishment of the Creative Diversity Network as an umbrella body to support and
­monitor diversity in the sector.
In 2013, following and deepening early data provided by Creative Skillset, Directors
UK commissioned a report specifically on the presence of women directors in UK screen
­production. The report highlighted “a worrying decrease in employment for women di-
rectors in the most recent two years analysed (i.e. 2011 and 2012), specifically in drama,
entertainment and comedy” (2014, p. 2). While this is not only an issue in the UK (Walters
2015), it explored key barriers and dynamics in the sector, which created barriers for wom-
en’s progression though the industry and more general access to opportunities. Others such
as Wreyford (2015) have more recently highlighted the struggle of women in film to rec-
oncile unstable working conditions with motherhood and personal life. Wing-Fai, Gill and
Randle (2015) use the term career ‘scramblers’ to describe the gendered nature of freelancing
in the UK film industry. They also highlight the ways in which motherhood is a key theme
in sexist discourse in these industries, discourse that ensures that the challenges of juggling
parenting or care work with work in this industry are relegated to ‘women’s problems’. The
advocacy of sector associations like Women in Film and Television UK (WFTVUK) as well
as policy bodies like Creative Skillset, and the added attention of mainstream media (Cri-
ado 2014), has allowed new visibility for these issues. As well as visibility, interventions and

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 Making cultural work ­visible in cultural policy

support initiatives, a number of career guidance documents have been published such as the
‘Why her? Report’ (Skillset and Women in Film and Television UK 2009) investigating key
factors that have influenced the careers of successful women working in film and TV – these
paved the way for further conversations and possible policy interventions.
Similar to the gender gap recognised in the previous paragraph, Skillset work has also
given visibility to the continued lack of BAME cultural workers. The 2012 Skillset ­Census
revealed a steady decline of their contribution from 12,250 in 2009 to 10,300 in 2012
(BAME people represented 7.4 percent of the total workforce in 2006, compared to 6.7
percent in 2009 and 5.4 percent in 2012). Again, the data and report have made an issue
secretly acknowledged widely visible. This has triggered further media headlines (Wiseman
2015) and even media patrons to the cause with actor and comedian Lenny Henry ( Jackson
2015) taking a leading role. However, the debate and interventions seem to have specifically
targeted the media and television sectors, with many key players in this sector contributing
to a new umbrella forum called The Creative Diversity Network and a new industry-wide
diversity monitoring system (Diamond) being launched in 2016 to facilitate monitoring of
diversity across activities and organisations.
However, the same campaign seems to have received less visibility in other areas of cul-
tural work despite an attempt from the Creative Industries Federation (2015) to map initia-
tives across a range of sectors. The invisibility of diversity is here explored both in current
trends and business opportunities but also in relation to barriers and possible facilitators. In
particular, and linking across our previous reflection on the role of higher education, ac-
cess to education for BAME students seems to represent an initial hurdle often too high to
­overcome (O’Brien 2015).

Union-led protest and collective action in cultural work

An October 2010 amendment to the New Zealand Employment Relations Act 2000, to
exclude from the statutory definition of “employee” all those engaged in film produc-
tion work, thereby r­ emoving employment-based rights and protections.
(International Labour Organisation 2014, p. 2)

Following our discussion of inequalities and their visibility or lack of it, in the CCIs, we
­fi nally take the specific case of a union-led protest against working conditions of film work-
ers in New Zealand to consider how specific industrial disputes in cultural sectors make the
role of unions and workers momentarily visible in the creative and cultural industries (Conor
2015). As the above quote indicates, in a recent ‘issues paper’ on ‘employment relationships
in the media and culture industries’, the International Labour Organisation highlighted a
change to New Zealand employment legislation as one that signalled the increasing erosion
of labour rights for cultural workers. This threatened or actual erosion is often visible at
moments of crisis: particularly during disputes, strikes or other moments of collective ac-
tion. A prominent example here would be the 2007–2008 screenwriters’ strikes in which
the relatively robust US Writers Guilds were able to mobilise their members to strike against
producers in a collective action to secure future revenue from digital circulation of their
work. Screenwriters are a good example of the individualised freelance cultural workers we
discussed above – those who move from project to project and often have no guarantee of
long-term job security. But where unions exist and can exercise some power in a particular
industry, they ensure that their members can bargain collectively and thus secure minimum

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Roberta Comunian and Bridget Conor

pay rates, benefits and due credit for their work. A less prominent and more worrisome
­example is the one signalled above by the ILO.
To briefly summarise, a dispute developed in New Zealand among New Zealand ­Actors
Equity (NZAE, representing around 400 local actors), the Australian actors’ guild (the Media
Entertainment and Arts Alliance, MEAA) and the producers of The Hobbit films, concerning
the use of non-unionised actors in the production. In New Zealand, film workers unions (such
as the NZAE or the New Zealand Film and Video Technician’s Guild, NZF&VTG) are vol-
untary organisations who work with two agreements (The Pink and Blue Books) as guidelines
for film industry working conditions, both negotiated with the Screen Producers and Direc-
tors Association of New Zealand (SPADA), which covers best practice in the engagement of
screen cast and crew (SPADA 2016). These best practices cover a range of issues from contracts
and residuals to harassment and discrimination. These are guidelines only and not legally
binding. Producers can offer their own contracts to engage cast and crew in New Zealand
and can incorporate all or none of the Pink and Blue Book recommendations. As Kelly (2011)
highlights, there had been ongoing concerns that New Zealand film workers had experi-
enced ‘deteriorating’ conditions in the industry, with both local and international producers
­‘reducing conditions’ and not complying with various aspects of the Pink and Blue Books.
In October 2010, International Federation of Actors (FIA) issued a ‘do not work’ order to
its members and affiliates because the producers of The Hobbit films were offering non-union
contracts with no minimum payments and conditions of work. When these New Zealand
cultural workers raised concerns about their labour conditions, the producers of the films
including the director Peter Jackson refused to offer union contracts and threatened that
the production would “go east” (to Eastern Europe) if the dispute was not quickly resolved.
Over the proceeding days, New Zealand union representatives met with the producers, but
the dispute was also recast in the New Zealand media as a ‘boycott’, and this led to street
protests, both by other local film workers concerned about their job security and members
of the public.
The resolution to the dispute came after the widespread vilification of the NZAE and its
members.Very quickly, the NZAE and MEAA had reached a resolution, in discussion with
the New Zealand Council of Trade Unions (CTU), Warner Brothers, the principal Holly-
wood financers of the films and New Zealand government ministers. But in the mainstream
New Zealand media, writer/producers Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens characterised the
New Zealand creative economy as inherently ‘risky’ and precarious as a result of the union
action (Kelly 2011). In this context, Warner Brothers’ executives flew to New Zealand to
negotiate a settlement directly with the New Zealand government. Generous tax breaks and
forms of marketing subsidisation were offered by the New Zealand government and will-
ingly accepted by Warner Brothers, and these totalled nearly $NZ100 million (McAndrew
and Martin Risak 2012, p. 71). But more than simply subsidisation, the agreement detailed
‘emergency’ overnight changes to New Zealand employment legislation that ensured that
New Zealand film workers would never be legally considered employees in this industry in
the future. They will always and by default be temporary contract workers. As McAndrew
and Risak characterise it, such legislation is “effectively ‘immunizing’ the New Zealand film
industry against union activity and legislated employment regulation” (Ibid., p. 57). But it
is also another very interesting example of cultural policymaking (and law-making) used to
shore up the model of the individualised and fully ‘independent’ cultural worker. McAn-
drew and Risak go on to note in their analysis that this specific legislative change can now
be extended to other workers or workplaces in New Zealand, a “textbook example of an

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 Making cultural work ­visible in cultural policy

effective strategy to keep a workplace, an industry or even a national labour market union-
free and unregulated” (Ibid., p. 74).
To connect this very distinctive case to the other critical moments we have presented in
this chapter, it is important to highlight that this resolution is arguably an inevitable out-
come of trends in cultural policymaking in New Zealand that have consistently side-lined
or ­d irectly undermined issues of access and equality as they are understood within collec-
tive employment rights. This case represents a modest attempt by a small group of cultural
workers to bargain collectively in order to secure those employment rights on a high-profile
international film production; it was designed to enable exposure and visibility for these
workers and their current and future conditions of work. The extreme and remarkable
­response by the New Zealand government, the further stripping out of those basic rights,
also enabled visibility for this cultural work; in this case, it illuminated the lengths to which
employment policy and legislation can be pushed in favour of cultural employers and pro-
ducers as o­ pposed to employees and workers. As Conor (2015) has discussed elsewhere, this
case actually represents the latest episode in a long history of the dismantling of collective
employment legislation and policy that would otherwise ensure that workers have recourse
to voice and representation when it comes to issues such as workplace discrimination.
This is crucial because the New Zealand film industry replicates the patterns of inequality
visible in many other cultural industries as we outlined above. In contrast to the UK, how-
ever, diversity statistics have not been routinely collected by organisations such as the New
Zealand Film Commission although this has very recently changed (see New Zealand Film
Commission 2014). Studies from Handy and Rowlands (2014) and Jones and Pringle (2015)
have illustrated the ‘inequality regime’ in which New Zealand film workers operate. But as
this case study indicates, cultural policymaking in New Zealand has been entirely geared
to workforce ‘flexibility’, encouraging individually negotiated employment contracts deter-
mined by employers as opposed to workers. This sits within a wider policymaking context
concerned with securing New Zealand’s long-term position as a competitive service provider
for international productions. For example, a Screen Advisory Board that was announced in
2014 will consult over issues such as gender equality but will primarily be focused on ensur-
ing “the New Zealand screen sector create the skills and connections to be able to generate
their own intellectual property, compete internationally and attract overseas finance” ( Joyce
and Finlayson 2014). Members of this Board include Peter Jackson and James Cameron, who
has announced he will film his next three Avatar films in New Zealand (Trevett 2013) with
unprecedented tax rebates, another cornerstone of New Zealand’s film policy agenda.
After the resolution to The Hobbit dispute, a new SPADA/NZAE Individual Performance
Agreement was introduced. This is an individual agreement only, to be negotiated between
individual workers and producers and as NZAE describes it: “SPADA will be responsible for
issuing the Agreements to producers on a production-by-production basis, and Equity New
Zealand members will be able to access the Agreements for review” (New Zealand Actors
Equity 2014). But the NZAE considers this to be an improvement over the unenforceable
Pink Book and they have seen an increase in membership since The Hobbit dispute, from
438 members in 2012 to 613 in 2013 to 725 in 2014 (New Zealand Companies House 2016).
Thus, this ‘bottom-up’ action has increased the visibility of the NZAE. The emergency
legislative changes have also starkly illuminated the everyday working conditions of New
Zealand cultural workers and the lengths to which both international and local producers
and policymakers will go to ensure a cultural industry and its workers are framed as ‘risk
free’ and ‘open for business’.

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Roberta Comunian and Bridget Conor

Conclusions
In this chapter, we have tried to highlight some key issues surrounding cultural work and
its understanding in academic, policy and media literature. We acknowledged the lack of
visibility of cultural work within policy as highlighted also by Banks and Hesmondhalgh
(2009). We also posed that this invisibility has been a barrier for cultural workers themselves
to engage in debates about their working conditions as well as for durable and lasting policy
interventions to take place. However, we also presented three very different examples of
key critical moments where academic work, policymaking and media coverage have led
to broader debates and interventions within this field. We argue that while these critical
­moments have been useful in framing the issues and making them visible, long-term change
will happen only through continuous and sustainable bottom-up responses from cultural
workers and their organisations. These responses may be newly influential in terms of poli-
cymaking and legislation. Our New Zealand case study above represents an extreme example
of top-down legislative change having deleterious effects on cultural workers, but the case
also indicates that local cultural workers can very effectively make visible the politics of their
work and potentially the inequalities therein. We sketch here some further possible interven-
tions that represent opportunities for cultural work to become more central to the general
debates about working conditions and highlight some relevant areas for future research.
First, we would highlight the importance of sustained advocacy campaigns that engage
workers – as well as the companies they work for – to critically reflect on access, opportuni-
ties and ethical practice. An interesting example of this has been the campaigns run by Car-
rotworkers’ Collective and others (such as Intern Aware) focused on the established practice
of unpaid internships in cultural work. These interlinked campaigns have been successful in
arguing that alongside making an ethical case for the importance of paid labour in the cre-
ative and cultural industries, it is important to empower workers – in this case future workers
entering the sector – as to the value of their work. The Carrotworkers have published and
circulated a ‘Counter Internship Guide in London’ (Carrotworkers’ Collective 2009) for
example, and they are now working on curriculum guides for HEI courses in the CCIs. The
Arts Council England followed suit, publishing its own guide for internships directed at arts
organisations in 2011. Thus advocacy groups are explicitly engaged in a critical dialogue
with policymakers as well as higher education practitioners and students in the full-fees era
we outlined in section one. They are again focused on raising awareness and increasing the
long-term visibility of the other issues we have discussed here: inequalities, exclusions and
the potentialities of collective, grassroots action. We would also urge further research in this
area, the documenting of grassroots or bottom-up initiatives and disputes (whether success-
ful or not) led by cultural workers. An understanding of how cultural workers can directly
effect change in policy and employment legislation will enable us to link up these otherwise
disparate and potentially (still) invisible campaigns and actions.
Second and relatedly, we would highlight the importance of platforms and opportunities
for cultural workers to come together and ‘organise’ in traditional and perhaps, new ways. The
fragmented, freelance and project-based nature of cultural work seems to be geared towards
individualisation and competitive behaviours as much of the CCIs and cultural work literature
has documented. However, as the work of de Peuter and Cohen (2015) and their research
network Cultural Workers Organise shows, there is evidence of an international emergence of
groups, collectives and platforms trying to make visible the political and social insecurities of
cultural work. It is crucial that popular and academic research, some of which we have high-
lighted in this chapter, continues to extend this visibility across industries, regions and places.

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 Making cultural work ­visible in cultural policy

Finally, while it is important to make cultural work visible, we think it is also important
to make it visible within and across sectors and alongside broader economic trends and is-
sues. This could give rise to further cross-sector alliances, for example on issues of precarity,
insecurity and visibility that go well beyond cultural work and have become a feature of our
knowledge-driven society (as the International Labour Organisation 2014, has highlighted).
If these common issues were addressed but also contextualised it would help unite cultural
workers with other workers, for example in education and higher education, as well as in the
rapidly expanding service sectors in which precarious, insecure and unequal experiences of
employment are also the new norm. In fact, analysing the politics of cultural work across a
range of sectors and disciplines is crucial, we believe, to understand, as Ross puts it “how it is
that contemporary media, or the so-called creative industries, have emerged as an optimum
field for realising the long-standing capitalist dream of stripping labour costs to the bone”
(2008, p. 37). This also could open up to new research that tries to map the expansion of
these dynamics beyond the cultural sector, for example, with recent literature emerging in
relation to precarity in research and academia (Cupples and Pawson 2012; Ivancheva 2015).
Overall, this chapter has made the argument that the invisibility of cultural work should
not be justified or accepted as endemic to the nature of the sector and its fragmentation or
‘risky’ business models. The invisibility of cultural work and its deleterious conditions are
desirable and necessary for the continued exploitation of that labour and/or for the ongo-
ing erosion of labour rights in a context of widespread precarity and uncertainty. Cultural
­labour, whether in film production, the music industry or the art market, is a process fraught
with complex mobilities, temporalities and asymmetries. These should be openly discussed,
questioned and challenged in order to empower those workers and illuminate those experi-
ences that we do not otherwise see.

Notes
1 It is relevant here to reference David Cameron’s speech after his visit to the Silicon Roundabout in
East London (Geere 2010) where he highlighted that the government should play a minimal role in
the sector by, in his words “giving power away and trusting in the creativity of the British people”.
2 For more information visit www.arts-emergency.org/about-us/arts-humanities-matter/ (last ac-
cessed 23 March 2016).
3 For more details see McGettigan, A. (2015).

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 18
Fringe to famous
Enabling and popularising cultural
­innovation in Australia

Mark Gibson, Tony Moore and Maura Edmond

Introduction
If there is any general question that cuts across different national contexts for the development
of cultural policy it is the appropriate relation between government and commercial cultural
industries. This question has guided most comparative work in cultural policy studies, al-
lowing us, for example, to compare ‘American’ models of film production, broadcasting or
the visual arts and ‘European’ models, with their stronger emphasis on active government
involvement and state patronage. It also often provides the framework for historical analysis,
such as the voluminous work on the implications for cultural policy of ‘neoliberalism’ or
the relative withdrawal of government as an active player in the cultural domain, in many
countries over the past 30 years.
In this chapter, we take a position on this question in the Australian context. We argue
in general terms for a recognition of the essential role that commercial processes and models
can play in cultural development while refusing suggestions that commerce and culture will
always be harmoniously aligned. This may appear an unremarkable position to take, perhaps
even so obvious that it hardly needs an elaborate defence. As we will outline, however, there
has been a sharp polarisation in Australia in recent years between ‘pro-’ and ‘anti-’ market
positions in relation to culture, which has made the moderate or ‘compromise’ position
sometimes difficult to sustain. This situation is not entirely representative of longer-term
patterns in Australia, which can be seen in international terms as something of a model for
mixed approaches to cultural policy – giving considerable ground to commercial models
while also seeing a place for countervailing forces. The best-known example is probably the
‘hybrid’ television system developed, between the 1950s and 1970s, pragmatically combin-
ing many of the best aspects of American and European broadcasting systems of the latter
half of the twentieth century. However, some work is now required to recover this tradition.
There may be a particular tendency to polarisation in Australian work on culture, policy
and economy. The debates occasioned over the last decade by the emergence of a strong
pro-commercial position on culture have certain echoes, in form if not in content, of a de-
bate during the 1990s around the so-called ‘policy’ position in Australian cultural studies – and
indeed some of the protagonists have been the same. Then, as now, the provocations taken in

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these debates have often been seen internationally as somewhat extreme, distilling tenden-
cies found elsewhere only in more qualified forms ( Jameson 1993; McGuigan 2004). There
is, however, some value in the chiaroscuro quality of Australian debates. They have pro-
duced abstract diagrams that can be used to clarify stakes that are otherwise difficult to dis-
cern. They have their closest relation internationally with debates in the United ­K ingdom,
but can also be translated to many other contexts.

Fringe to Famous
The reflections in the chapter emerge more specifically from a three-year research project,
‘Fringe to Famous’, examining the conditions in Australia for crossover of fringe, indepen-
dent and avant garde cultural production and mainstream cultural industries. The project
started from the observation of a long tradition of circulation between small-scale exper-
imental initiatives in art and culture and the mainstream publishing, design, film, broad-
casting industries, as well as other cultural industries. This exchange between what Pierre
Bourdieu (1996) called the markets of ‘limited’ and ‘extensive’ production has been par-
ticularly fertile since the 1980s and has been an important factor in cultural development
and the growth of Australian cultural industries. The key research questions of the project
have been: What are the factors that have facilitated or inhibited crossover of fringe/in-
dependent/ alternative arts practice and mainstream cultural industries in Australia since
the 1980s? What are the policy settings that might affect such crossover? Understanding
this process allows us to ask questions of government interventions – how has government
assisted in (or hindered) the crossover between alternative and mainstream cultural produc-
tion in this context?
The project is centred on five case histories covering: the evolution of Australian indepen-
dent music scenes; the transformation of iconic local surfwear label Mambo into a successful
consumer brand; the establishment of a lucrative, aesthetically playful and internationally
oriented ‘indie’ gaming sector in Melbourne; the rise (and recent fall) of global short film
franchise Tropfest; and the significance of independent production companies for ­Australian
television comedy. The case histories have been developed through a combination of ar-
chival research and interviews with creative practitioners, cultural businesses, ­media entre-
preneurs, curators, journalists, policy-makers and institutional management. The research
is still in its mid-stages, so the following chapter reports on some of the findings emerging
from the initial round of interviews, focusing in particular on the example of innovation in
Australian television comedy.
‘Fringe to Famous’ has been concerned both with cultural and economic development.
Most of the examples considered in the case histories have made substantial contributions
to Australian cultural life. In the area of music, Nick Cave and Paul Kelly are generally
considered to be among the most important figures to have arisen from contemporary
­Australian music over the last 30 years. A more recent generation of musicians to emerge
from ­Australia’s cultural fringes – Tame Impala, Royal Headache, Courtney Barnett – have
had enthusiastic critical reception at home and abroad. The artists who designed for surf-
wear label Mambo gave a distinctive expression to a certain surreal eschatology to be found
in Australian suburbia. The ‘indie’ computer game Antichamber – developed in Melbourne
by a local digital media student – was celebrated for its complex and compelling gameplay
and dubbed a ‘first-person Escher’ by reviewers. The television comedy producers who are
­d iscussed in more detail later in the chapter – Steve Vizard, Paul Fenech, Mark Conway and
Mike Nayna – reflect and satirise diverse aspects of contemporary Australian life.

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But at the same time, these examples have contributed to the development of important
cultural industries. Despite the well-documented decline in total sales of recorded music,
the dollar value of wholesale sales from recorded music in Australia in 2014 was still over
AUD$317 million (ARIA 2014). Meanwhile ticket sales for live performances of contem-
porary music are growing, with total revenue estimated at over AUD$628 million (ACA
2014). The combined total is not far short of AUD$1 billion – not at the level perhaps of iron
ore (AUD$66.7 billion – Reuters 2013), which was, until recently, at stratospheric heights
as a result of the boom in infrastructure development in China, but certainly in the same
league as other major Australian industries such as wheat (AUD$4.8 billion), wool (AUD$1.9
­billion) or cotton (AUD$754 million) (all figures ABS 2012).
The other case studies offer their own examples of economic value. The video-game
Antichamber became a global best-seller, achieving more than a 100,000 sales in its first two
months on the specialist online store Steam (McElroy 2013). The game currently retails for
USD$19.95, putting a ‘back of the envelope’ total retail figure for the game at nearly USD$2
million, after just two months of sales. For all its surreal designs and tongue-in-cheek com-
pany branding, Mambo Graphics also has an important business dimension. Following the
2000 Sydney Olympics, where Mambo was the official designer of the Australian team’s out-
fits, the company was sold by its founders for over AUD$20 million (Carson 2008). Tropfest
was both a screen industry institution and, for a long time, a highly successful generator of
economic value and a significant player in what Mark Shiel and Tony Fitzmaurice (2008)
have called the ‘international film festival economy’. In a confidential audit done on behalf
of Steve Vizard’s production house Artist Services in 1994, it was estimated that the com-
pany’s successful comedy television programs had generated tens of millions in advertising
revenue for the Seven Network. Vizard later sold the company in 2000 for AUD$25 million
(Bedwell 2007, p. 261).
How then should we understand the relation between culture and economy? One of the
starting points for ‘Fringe to Famous’ was a frustration with a continuing tendency to dis-
miss the movement from the ‘fringe’ or ‘independent’ to the ‘mainstream’ or ‘commercial’
as ‘selling out’, ‘appropriation’ or ‘watering down’ of artistic integrity. Since the outset, we
have been interested in the much more complex lived experience of creative practitioners
transitioning between the two production markets. In finding support for this perspective,
the project has drawn on work over the past decade, both in Australia and internationally,
that has focused attention on productive links between cultural and economic development
(Caves 2000; Hartley 2005; Cunningham 2006; Howkins 2007; Anderson and Oakley 2008;
Flew 2012). This emphasis departs from more established approaches to cultural policy that
have tended to see cultural and economic value as divergent, such that attention to one will
generally be at the expense of the other. The Australian work of David Throsby is a good
example here. Throsby (2001, 2006, 2010) has been a pioneer in reviving the field of cultural
economics, and his work is remarkable in attempting to bridge economic and cultural anal-
ysis. His perspective, however, is generally ‘preservationist’, calling on governments to resist
or moderate the influence of markets to ensure the maintenance of cultural value.
Throsby’s argument is not a naïve one. He is by no means a simple opponent of the global
expansion of capitalist market relations: ‘There is no doubt that [this expansion] has brought
enormous benefits to many, in terms of improved consumption choices, employment pros-
pects, lifestyle patterns and so on’ (Throsby 2001, p. 156). Throsby also accepts that there
are areas of culture that could be seen as provided for by the market: there is a profit-making
domain in supply of the arts, which ‘embraces popular entertainments and cultural forms
where demand is strong’ (2001, p. 116). It is nevertheless clear that the function of cultural

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policy, for Throsby, is to offer a countervailing influence to the dominance of economic

priorities in government decision-making. This means that his focus remains very much on
the subsidised arts. The profit-making areas of the cultural industries fall outside his policy
vision. They are classified as ‘media and entertainment’ and implicitly distinguished from
culture proper.

Beyond preservationism
The starting point for ‘Fringe to Famous’, by contrast, was an interest in areas of consistency
or complementarity between commerce and culture. An important point of reference for the
project has been the perspectives that emerged from a particular moment in cultural studies
and cultural policy in Britain in the 1980s. A major influence on the project has been Simon
Frith and Howard Horne’s (1987) classic Art into Pop on the role of art schools in the explo-
sion of popular music styles in Britain from the 1960s. Frith and Horne’s study e­ xemplifies
the open and reflective representation of the relation between culture and the market to be
found in the best work of the period. It shows a depth of appreciation for the cultural qual-
ities of the art and popular music that emerged in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s, from the pop
art of Richard Hamilton to the Sex Pistols and David Bowie. The culture is viewed as having
important things to say about image, identity and style, youth, sex, capital, institutions and
organisations – as much more, in short, than a simple economic commodity. At the same
time, Frith and Horne are sensitive to the ways in which much of this culture was born on
the currents of capitalist market relations. It had a fluidity and dynamism that would not have
been possible within state-funded institutions and to which policy programmes merely of
‘preserving’ culture would not be attuned.
The approach can be seen as carrying forward the tradition of work in cultural studies of
taking seriously, as culture, the products of commercial media and entertainment systems. In
its original formation in Britain in the 1960s and 1970s, this tradition developed as a coun-
terpoint to the then dominant form of cultural preservationism in Leavisite literary criti-
cism. The Leavisites were trenchantly opposed, in particular, to popular commercial fiction,
which they saw as offering cheap ‘compensations’ and ‘distractions’ luring all but a commit-
ted minority from the ‘great tradition’ of serious English literature (Leavis and Thompson
1933; Leavis 1939). British cultural studies reacted first against the elitism of this perspective,
drawing attention to the patterns and structures that gave meaning to the everyday lives of
ordinary people, particularly the working class (Hoggart 1957; Williams 1958). But as the
field developed, it increasingly found cultural value not only in ‘folk’ traditions and everyday
life, but also in popular media and commercial cultural forms that were expanding rapidly
in the latter half of the twentieth century (Hall and Whannel 1964; Fiske and Hartley 1978;
Hebdige 1979).
The clearest expression of this perspective at a policy level was the cultural industries
policy of the Greater London Council in the mid-1980s. The key aspect of this policy, and
the reason for its subsequent influence, was its attempt to embrace the commercial cultural
industries – the sector produced the culture that the majority of the population actually
consumed (Bianchini 1987; Garnham 2005; O’Connor 2009). It was not that it was opposed
to the more established models of the subsidised arts; it was rather that it attempted to break
down the boundaries between state-funded and commercial culture, seeing them both, to-
gether, as part of a complex ecology of cultural provision. It is a sad irony that the policy was
never in fact implemented, as the GLC was disbanded by the Thatcher government in 1986,
but it left a substantial legacy nonetheless, with a number of its ideas being taken up in other

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local governments in the United Kingdom and eventually in national policies, both within
the country and abroad.
Australia has a parallel history around these questions, one that is by no means simply de-
rivative. The first national cultural policy fully to embrace the commercial sector was in fact
in Australia. While the most influential example has been the Creative Industries initiative of
the Blair government in Britain in the late 1990s (DCMS 1998), the latter was preceded by
Creative Nation, launched by the Keating government in 1994:

This cultural policy is also an economic policy. … Culture adds value. … It is a valuable
export in itself and an essential accompaniment to export and other commodities. It
attracts tourists and students. It is essential to our economic success.
(DCA 1994, p. 7)

More recently, this approach interweaving cultural and economic value was updated for the
digital age in Creative Australia, the national cultural policy of the Gillard Federal Labor
Government unveiled in 2013 just before it lost office. On the one hand the policy explic-
itly recognised, ‘our culture defines us and we’re unique in the richness of our Australian
identity’; on the other, we should also recognise an economic dividend: ‘A creative nation is
a productive nation’ (Crean 2013). Australia has also had its own cultural studies tradition,
giving serious attention to the cultural significance of popular commercial forms (see for ex-
ample, Fiske et al. 1987; Morris 1988; Martin 1994; Wark 1998). In both policy and cultural
studies, there has been a complex series of exchanges between Australian and British devel-
opments. There are resources in both for a cultural policy framework sympathetic to com-
mercial culture and moving beyond the perspective of cultural preservation or conservation.
The conception for ‘Fringe to Famous’ came initially from work by Moore (2012) on
the history of Australian bohemian traditions. Drawing inspiration from the British work of
Frith and Horne, but also on lessons from Australian cultural history, Moore draws attention
to numerous points of intersection between cultural development in Australia and the de-
velopment of commercial cultural industries. The case is made particularly in relation to the
1960s and 1970s. Many of the major figures to emerge during this period in experimental
work in avant-garde theatre, satire, literature and underground film were profoundly influ-
enced by mass media forms such as Hollywood film noir, gangster and western movies, tele-
vision and of course rock ‘n’ roll – not just as a negative ‘other’ to be resisted, but as a positive
creative inspiration. They also fed back into these forms in their creative practice, moving
between more esoteric work for small audiences or readerships and roles as journalists, pub-
lishers, television broadcasters, filmmakers, advertisers and music industry entrepreneurs.
A further input into these arguments has been the work of Pierre Bourdieu, – not so
much his analysis of taste in Distinction as his sociology of literary and artistic production in
The Rules of Art (1996) and The Field of Cultural Production (1993). ‘Fringe to Famous’ takes
from Bourdieu a scepticism about claims for the ‘autonomy’ of art from surrounding fields
of material interests. It is not that such claims should be entirely dismissed: writers, artists
and other cultural producers often make sacrifices, taking risks and foregoing immediate and
obvious material rewards for their art. It is rather that the relation between artistic autonomy
and art is a dynamic one. Autonomy, once achieved, acquires a material value. Precisely at
the point where it appears to transcend the ordinary sphere of material relations it becomes
an object of desire and is drawn into the sphere of economic calculation. This means that any
attempt to ‘preserve’ culture from the market is inherently paradoxical. The attempt itself
can often serve only to promote its market value.

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Australian culture as an innovation system?

If this sets a general background, ‘Fringe to Famous’ has also been formed by an encounter
with a more rigorous and theorised account of the relation between culture and econom-
ics around the idea of ‘innovation systems’. The main proponents of this in Australia have
been associated with the Centre of Excellence for Creative Industries and Innovation (CCI),
which was funded by the Australian Research Council from 2005–2013 and centred at the
Queensland University of Technology (Cunningham 2006; Hartley 2008; Potts 2008, 2011).
In its early development, many believed the CCI was only taking forward the general trajec-
tory of a cultural policy ‘beyond preservationism’, which we have sketched above. It was also
quite catholic in reach, involving a range of figures who had been part of the broad histories
of cultural studies and ‘post GLC’ policy development. Significant examples here included
Kate Oakley, Graeme Turner and Justin O’Connor. In the later phase of the CCI, however,
it developed a sharper, more refined, theoretical position. This has been highly controversial
and has seen a significant breakdown of an earlier consensus on general directions for pro-
gressive cultural policy.
At the centre of this development has been the adoption of Schumpeterian economics
and a reframing of creative industries around its capacity or otherwise to contribute eco-
nomically through ‘innovation’. This has opened up interesting lines of dialogue with man-
agement and economic theory on processes of industrial development, particularly around
the ideas of ‘open’ or ‘distributed’ innovation (Chesborough 2003; von Hippel 2009). As
the CCI authors have pointed out, there are a number of ways in which cultural or creative
industries might be seen as exemplifying conditions that increasingly affect all areas of indus-
trial production – the difficulty of maintaining proprietary control over intellectual inputs
to innovation; the role of consumers in the creation of value; the volatile ‘network’ character
of the field in which regimes of value are disrupted by high levels of feedback. This opens a
heady prospect for the creative industries not only of gaining a place at the table of industry
and economic policy, but of leading the conversations that might occur there.
There have also been costs, however, and the innovation systems perspective has attracted
substantial criticism (see for example, Miller 2004; Oakley 2009; O’Connor 2009; Turner
2011). It has been more radically and uncompromisingly opposed to the preservationist as-
sumptions of traditional approaches to cultural policy than the earlier departures from these
assumptions sketched above. A future-facing, market-oriented approach is no longer pro-
posed merely as a complement to established policy positions such as those represented by
­David Throsby. It appears rather as a comprehensive framework in which alternative ap-
proaches are systematically displaced. Value within the framework is associated, following
Schumpeter, with disruption and change, so that the ‘heritage’ aspect of culture comes to
be seen as merely residual, contributing to the present only as ‘infrastructure’. More impor-
tantly, the framework appears to cede the possibility of a discourse around cultural value, as
distinct from economic value, of the kind that can be found in older work in cultural studies
such as Frith and Horne. As Justin O’Connor (2009, p. 389) has argued, the model is one
of a seamless integration of the market and culture: the two converge as a single complex
mechanism for generating novelty and economic growth.
Our response in ‘Fringe to Famous’ to the innovation systems perspective has been
frankly conflicted. If approached in a piecemeal fashion, it can be appreciated as generating
some interesting and productive ways of deepening an analysis of the economic dimensions
of culture. A notable example is the attention it has brought to the role of audiences, readers
or consumers in processes of creative development. In each of the case studies for the project,

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this appears from our initial research to have been an important factor: small, dedicated
followings, in particular, have played a significant role in providing feedback and contribut-
ing to the growth of creative concepts or ideas. This is one area where the model of ‘social
network markets’ is an illuminating one in understanding the dynamics of contemporary
culture.
The provocative, activist character of the innovations systems perspective also holds some
attractions in disrupting tired or complacent assumptions, which often take form around a
view of culture merely as something to be preserved. It is relevant, for example, to our en-
gagement in ‘Fringe to Famous’ with Australia’s public service broadcaster, the Australian
Broadcasting Commission (ABC). Our starting position in relation to the organisation is
sympathetic: we believe from long observation – and indeed, for one of the project team,
from a previous career within the organisation – that it has often played a fundamental role
in nurturing emerging talent and allowing it to find broader audiences. We are critical,
however, of a frequent tendency – exemplified, for example, by the citizen’s lobby, Friends
of the ABC – to adopt a reactive position in which market-based processes are simply cast as
the enemy. Some of the most important and adventurous programming by the ABC over
the last 20 years has resulted from the organisation’s embrace of a complex hybrid economy,
including the outsourcing of production, co-productions and other forms of partnership
with commercial players, especially small scale emerging cultural cottage startups that form
around artists and projects.
It is difficult, however, to disagree with critics of the innovation systems perspective about
the costs of following it systematically to its logical conclusions. Kate Oakley (2009, p. 413)
lists these costs acerbically as ‘a thin notion of cultural value, declining cultural sectors and a
crude version of innovation, which conflates it with novelty.’ ‘As such’, she argues, ‘it seems a
fairly high price’. The members of the project team have all had long investments in cultural
creation and/or appreciation and are not about to renounce aesthetic discourses for a purely
economic point of view. One has been a long-time director of an art museum, another has
been a television program-maker and all have had a longstanding interest in the specifically
cultural qualities to be found in music, art, film, television, literature and other media.

Going to the empirical

‘Fringe to Famous’ might best be described, therefore, as adopting a ‘soft’ innovation per-
spective. There is, admittedly, a pragmatic aspect to our approach. ‘Innovation’ is a term
that currently opens doors with government, enabling advocates for culture and the arts at
least to get a hearing. In Australia’s case, the Federal Government conceives of its research
and development program as developing a ‘National Innovation System’. Similarly, Prime
Minister Malcolm Turnbull made his vision for an innovative Australia an essential part of
his pitch for leadership of the Liberal Party.
In his first press conference after a successful leadership challenge in September 2015,
Turnbull stressed, “The Australia of the future has to be a nation that is agile, that is inno-
vative, that is creative” (Turnbull 2015). These are terms that provide opportunities for the
cultural sector. As Tom O’Regan pointed out in the course of an earlier debate over direc-
tions for cultural policy in Australia, policy frameworks are always in part rhetorical. While
their authors may imagine them to have pure origins, such purity is rarely maintained at the
level of implementation. It is not necessary to use the language of innovation to subscribe
to a fully theorised position from which it may appear to be authorised. This is not to say

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that ‘Fringe to Famous’ is merely cynical in its use of this language. The project is serious in
attempting to identify areas of innovation, in an ordinary sense of the word, in Australia’s
cultural and media systems.
From the perspective of the project, the recent polarisation around creative industries and
innovation systems theory has been unfortunate. The general program of seeking to un-
derstand and support cultural development in hybrid commercial and state-funded systems
remains, in our view, as important now as when it emerged in the 1980s. But it is a program
that has become increasingly difficult to sustain. On one side of the argument over creative
industries and innovation, the innovation systems perspective has become increasingly ab-
stract, theoretical and focused on arguments at the level of high economic policy, losing
touch with the lived circumstances of cultural practitioners and organisations. Its proponents
have sometimes voiced frustration that their efforts are not more appreciated. As Stuart
Cunningham (2008, p. 3) has lamented, those in the cultural sphere have been their ‘own
worst enemy in many ways’, showing little interest in the innovation agenda and foregoing
the opportunity to make claims over resources available for R&D. As Cunningham wistfully
remarks, it is as if they existed in ‘parallel universes’.
On the other side of the argument, there has been a significant loss of the earlier ­hard-won
openness to commercial processes in the cultural domain. In seeking to puncture the blithe
optimism of the ‘win win’ proposition of the innovation systems perspective – in which,
as Jason Potts (2011, p. 21) puts it, ‘culture and economy co-evolve’ – the critics have been
driven to produce evidence of contradiction and divergence. A good example is the theme
of ‘precarity’ of employment in the cultural and creative industries – the reality for many
artists and cultural practitioners of exploitation, stress, overwork and financial insecurity (see
for example, Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2001; Murray and Gollmitzer 2012). The literature
that has developed around this theme has certainly succeeded in highlighting negative as-
pects of employment conditions in the cultural, media and communication fields. There is
also a serious purpose in documenting these aspects in highlighting the exploitation of cul-
tural workers and promoting policies to foster greater equality (Hesmondhalgh et al. 2015;
McRobbie 2015; Oakley and O’Brien 2016). But it sometimes seems that the motivation is
to rain on the parade of the innovation systems boosters and cheerleaders (as they would be
seen by the critics).
From the perspective of the earlier, more nuanced, work on the commercial infrastruc-
ture for popular culture, the basic proposition in the literature on precarity would have
been taken for granted. Most of those involved in developing this work had backgrounds in
Marxism and socialist politics; the idea that there is much about employment relations under
capitalism that is less than perfect would have appeared as obvious. However, the object in
view for Frith and Horne, for the architects of the cultural industries policy in the Greater
London Council, for many of those involved in cultural studies and in progressive cultural
policy in the 1980s and 1990s, was larger than simply critique. It was to understand the
ways in which cultural forms – or more particularly cultural forms that matter – can emerge
and develop within complex market-oriented economies and to find ways to support them.
Many would have preferred not to have found that commercial processes were an important
medium for culture, but restrained their critical reflexes in recognition of the reality. It is
this openness that risks being lost in the recent critical turn in debates around the relation
between economics and culture. And it is this openness and complexity to which we seek to
return by ‘going to the empirical’, the early results of which are recounted below.
The research team has so far conducted more than 50 in-depth interviews with
­leading Australian creative practitioners, cultural entrepreneurs, cultural policy-makers,

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commissioning editors, content producers and institutional staff. What we have discovered
so far is a diversity of attitudes and approaches to the relationship between economic forces
and cultural ones. Few of the interviewees occupy positions as polarised or entrenched as
those expressed by recent scholarship on creative industries and innovation systems. Instead,
the interviewees share an active and often self-conscious negotiation of market conditions,
even while many remain deeply wary, cynical or critical of the possible impacts of commer-
cial processes on creative work.
In this final section of the chapter, we focus on the emerging findings from the case his-
tory on Australian television comedy, highlighting in particular the work of Steve ­Vizard,
Paul Fenech, Mark Conway and Mike Nayna. Spanning a period from the late 1980s to
2015, these comedians reflect a variety of approaches to Australian comedy, each in his
own way responsible for ushering in culturally significant ‘soft innovations’ in the format of
screen satire. They also reflect a diversity of approaches to the value of commercial processes
and ‘mainstreaming’, from Vizard’s enthusiastic embrace of the challenge of ‘smuggling’
progressive content into the living rooms of everyday Australians to Fenech’s much more
pragmatic, yet overtly transgressive sensibility in which fast, guerrilla filmmaking is a finan-
cial decision put to aesthetic and comedic ends.
Like all the interviewees in the project, the examples discussed here began in the mar-
ket of limited production: Vizard in university revues and Melbourne’s theatre restaurants;
Fenech via entries in Sydney’s then small-scale Tropicana Short Film Festival, while work-
ing as a jobbing trainee in the Indigenous Unit of the ABC; and Fancy Boy working in
­Melbourne’s live comedy performance rooms. The project’s focus has been on cultural pro-
ducers who have crossed over from small-scale to popular markets, or are on the cusp of do-
ing so – and in this sense has looked mainly at those who might be seen as ‘successful’. This
is not to minimise the difficulties of many in making a living in the fringe. Indeed, most of
our interviewees have experienced significant setbacks at various stages in their careers and
empathise strongly with those who have struggled to establish and maintain their careers.
But this is tempered by a sense of the opportunities that have been made available for cultural
practitioners at different times, such as outreach and encouragement of experimentation by
mainstream public and commercial broadcasters, or potential for audience reach afforded by
online digital platforms. Unless otherwise stated, all quotes are taken from the transcripts of
‘Fringe to Famous’ research interviews conducted in 2014 and 2015.

Steve Vizard – smuggling the avant garde

into the mainstream
Steve Vizard was a successful IP and patents lawyer by trade but began his comedy career per-
forming while an undergraduate in university student revues and later working ­Melbourne’s
inner city cabaret venues in the late 1970s and early 1980s, before transitioning to television
sketch comedy. He is best known for the shows he produced (and often wrote for and starred in)
for the commercial Channel Seven network during the late 1980s and 1990s. Australia’s free
to air television landscape consists of three commercial networks, and public broadcasters the
ABC and the multicultural Special Broadcasting Service. In 1988 Vizard was commissioned
by Channel Seven to come up with competition to The Comedy Company, a character-driven
sketch show skewering the Australian suburbs, which was a huge ratings success for Channel
10 and had made stars out of many of Vizard’s fellow ­Melbourne comedy circuit colleagues.
The result was Fast Forward, a fast-paced sketch comedy that tackled contemporary media,
lampooning not just local media personalities and the media profiles of Australian politicians,

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but also the structure, formats and consumer habits associated with 1980s television (most
memorably in the show’s use of channel surfing, abrupt changes, fast-forwarding and re-
winding). Initial reviews were positive, often pointing out that Fast Forward seemed like
the first Australian television comedy show that was not carrying over old approaches from
theatre or stand-up; it was made entirely for television and by a generation raised on televi-
sion, re-inventing sketch comedy around what Raymond Williams discerned as the inherent
‘flow’ of the medium. The ratings for Fast Forward started solidly and grew impressively over
the first season’s eight-week run, and its popularity helped to launch the careers of Australian
comedians such as Magda Szubanski, Gina Riley and Jane Turner (of Kath and Kim fame),
colleagues of Vizard from student revue and the inner-city comedy fringe.
On the back of the success of Fast Forward, Channel Seven offered Steve Vizard a lucra-
tive role hosting and producing Tonight Live, a David Letterman-style late-night variety
show. Steve Vizard and Andrew Knight’s company, Artist Services, became one of the
largest production houses in Australia and went on to develop Full Frontal, which helped
advance the careers of its stars Eric Bana, Shaun Micallef and Kitty Flanagan. It also pro-
duced successful television shows like SeaChange and Big Girl’s Blouse and later experimen-
tal content for the Comedy Channel on subscription television (introduced in 1995) and
feature drama films.
As mentioned briefly in the opening paragraphs of this chapter, there is also an import-
ant economic dimension to Vizard’s oeuvre. The initial comedy and variety programs, Fast
Forward, Tonight Live, Full Frontal, were some of the highest rating comedy television shows
in the history of Australian TV. In 1994, Artist Services hired a media analyst to estimate
the value of the shows they were producing for the Seven Network. According to those
reports, in 1989 through 1994 the advertising revenue created for Seven Network by Artist
Services programs Fast Forward and Tonight Live was quoted at “between approximately
$130 million and $140 million over a five year period, yielding a surplus to the network
of between $65 million and $75 million” (Bedwell 2007, p. 173). Steve Vizard later sold
the company to British production house Granada in 2000 for AUD$25 million (Bedwell
2007, p. 261).
For Vizard, there is little contradiction between culture and commerce. All artists,
whether they are aware of it or not, are engaged, in his view, in negotiating both creative and
business decisions. As he put it in the interview for ‘Fringe to Famous’, “I don’t understand
what it is that people are talking about when they say, ‘I’m doing art’ – ‘I’m only doing art’…
We talk about art and commerce – it’s convenient – but actually you’re talking about art
and life, and commerce – money – is just a part of life”. Art and commerce are inseparable,
and so for Vizard the real measure of creative success is how well you can translate a new or
challenging idea for a broad audience, that is, how well you can transition from a sphere of
‘limited’ to ‘extensive’ production. It is not as exciting, for Vizard, to make culture solely for
an audience of likeminded peers, to “play to an audience that is already receptive to risk, and
to a certain cultural framework”:

If I take an audience that were already largely there, and I leave them largely where they
were, that’s an interesting exercise … but to me it’s not nearly as valuable as taking that
audience – a bigger audience – and saying, “have you thought about looking at things
this way?” […] What is the internal structure between the familiar and the challenging?
Between mainstream and fringe? … this is why I reject the idea of the polarities as being
offerings that should exist at one end or the other … I’m interested in places that woo
people in and challenge them – blur all that.

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This he believed could be accomplished on a commercial network, which in Australia has

much larger working class and suburban audiences than the more highly educated loyal ABC
audience. For Vizard it is harder and ultimately much more satisfying to “smuggle in some
more challenging ideas” into the mainstream (a skill and a creative drive he honed early on,
working Melbourne’s cabaret scene where the audiences were a mix of inner-city bohemian
types and couples in from the suburbs for a night out on the town). By gradually introducing
audiences to what might have been avant-garde, or cutting edge concepts, bit by bit Vizard
says “I can… actually inoculate people, as to what might have been contentious, by the end
of a season, becoming mainstream. I can educate an audience”.

Paul Fenech – ‘Wogsploitation’ and Guerrilla television

In stark contrast to Vizard’s efforts to gradually ‘woo’ mainstream audiences, Paul Fenech’s
comedy of the 2000s and 2010s is loud, lewd and wilfully offensive. Fenech is the CEO of his
own production company, and the creator and star of several popular and long-running ‘eth-
nic’ and ‘bogan’ comedies (‘bogan’ being Australian pejorative slang for the Anglo-Celtic
proletariat and underclass). Fenech hails from a working-class and mixed Maltese and In-
digenous background and got his start in the television industry as a stagehand, sweeping
the floors at the Australian Broadcasting Commission, before securing a place with their
Indigenous training program, an innovative initiative of the late 1980s. Ultimately Fenech
says he found the ABC too staid, too bureaucratic, too middle class and subsequently found
a platform for his fast-paced, bad-taste, ethno-comedy at the Special Broadcasting Corpora-
tion (SBS), keen to find local variants of their successful US import South Park.
SBS television was inaugurated as an ethnic broadcaster, governed by a charter to pro-
vide multilingual and multicultural programming, but over the past 20 years, its art house
reputation and government permission to take advertising has seen it transformed into a
cutting edge network, similar in style to Channel 4 in the UK. SBS local production was
turbo-charged by the Keating Government’s Creative Nation cultural policy, which pro-
vided funds for the establishment of SBS Independent, charged with commissioning and
developing diverse innovative projects from independent producers. SBSI operated as an
autonomous unit within the broadcaster from 1994 to 2007, providing opportunities for a
new generation of comedy, documentary and feature filmmakers.
Fenech’s comedies for SBS – most notably Pizza, centred on the employees of a greasy
pizzeria and Housos, about the residents of a fictional Sydney public housing estate – are po-
litically incorrect, vulgar, sexually explicit and often downright silly. Fenech rejects what he
sees as a British cerebral comedy tradition of languid talk in favour of the fast-paced action
and slapstick violence of vaudeville acts in the tradition of ‘The Three Stooges’. His mission
is to make fun of authority, notably the regulation, control and misrepresentation of margin-
alised people by state, media and the well meaning on both sides of politics.
Like the UK drama Shameless, Fenech’s comedy challenges the middle-class representation
of social housing tenants and immigrants as disadvantaged or victims, presenting them as en-
trepreneurial, artful dodgers. Shows like Pizza and Housos also reflect the ethnic diversity of
Sydney’s working-class western suburbs; a space where those in precarious employment and
from Non-English-Speaking Backgrounds collide (sometimes literally) with each other and
with marginalised, long-term unemployed, Ango-celtic Australians. The comedies depict a
spectrum of ‘brown’ ethnicities spanning Indigenous Australians, Polynesians, Lebanese and
Mediterraneans, which Fenech collectively refers to as ‘chockos’ and with which he himself
identifies. Pizza in particular is often located in the subgenre of ‘wogsploitation’ comedy

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(Speed 2005) and is routinely criticised for revelling in ethnic stereotypes, but Fenech’s vi-
sion of ‘ethnic diversity’ is more complex than this easy critique. Fenech’s ethnicised outer
suburbia is an important counter to the lingering whiteness of most Australian television,
especially prime time. Moreover, it is an innovative riposte to what Ghassan Hage (1998)
calls ‘governmental’ multiculturalism – a strategy for managing ethnic difference that denies
the complexity, vibrancy and hybridity of the ‘multicultural real’.
Paul Fenech’s background has necessitated a much more pragmatic approach to the
­interplay of market forces and creative ambition. Describing his work ethic in the inter-
view for ‘Fringe to Famous’, Fenech says “I never had the luxury of just being able to be
arty for the sake of it. In any job that I ever had, film or not, I had to survive by working
hard”. He explains that he is very willing to take creative risks but not financial ones. His
comedy is frequently transgressive and offensive, but it is made very cheaply: “…that’s just
my philosophy on surviving as a producer. If we’re going to make edgy stuff, you can’t
expect people to really pay top dollar, because if it’s a failure, whoever has supported you
is really going to cop it”. His approach is to do much of the work himself (write, direct,
produce, star), to keep production budgets low, to keep the overheads of the produc-
tion company low and to keep the shoot as fast and fuss free as possible. The last part is
made possible in part by Fenech’s rapport with communities in western Sydney where, he
says, the locals are much more ­relaxed about an impromptu film shoot. This fast, cheap,
‘guerrilla’ model of production in turn informs much of the look and feel of Pizza and
Housos, especially their appropriation of documentary techniques, breakneck pacing and
on-­location shooting.
In many ways Fenech’s approach resembles older traditions of exploitation ­fi lmmaking-niche
content made for as little as possible finding wider appeal by trafficking in outrage and titil-
lation, but here it has been applied to a multicultural television franchise (Pizza spans several
spin-off television programs, films and hundreds of live revue shows). Leveraging the pop-
ularity of the original television series, the feature film Fat Pizza (2003) was made for a tiny
budget of AUD $400,000 and took in AUD $3.6 million at the ­Australian box office, making
it one the top 100 highest grossing Australian films of all time (SA 2015). A similar spinoff
feature film, Housos vs Authority (2012), was made for even less, AUD $200,000, and made
almost AUD $1.4 million at the box office. Not all titles have been as successful, but with
such a small initial outlay the return on investment for many of Fenech’s comedies would be
the envy of any local production company, exploitation or otherwise.
Notwithstanding his success at combining audience appeal with innovation within the
comedy form, Fenech is yet to be embraced by the Australian screen establishment, perhaps
because of the overtly working-class and permissive tone of his work. In the interview for
‘Fringe to Famous’, he was critical of the precarious nature of current employment in the
television sector and the diminution of training opportunities he had enjoyed at the ABC.
However, in an environment where most comedy content commissioned by public broad-
casters is produced by outsourced entities, Fenech sees his own independent productions
providing opportunities for emerging talent to hone their skills and ideas working with more
experienced hands, in a less bureaucratically constrained and more risk-taking environment
than is available today in a large broadcaster. For example, Pizza was the first major comedic
acting role for the then unknown Rebel Wilson, who has since gone on to develop a sig-
nificant screen comedy career in the United States. He also provides employment for talent
drawn from a diversity of ethnic and other marginalised groups, such as working class and
disabled Australians, not ordinarily represented with this degree of agency on mainstream
television.

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Fancy Boy – finding creative autonomy in the cross-platform

environment
Fancy Boy is a Melbourne comedy collective best known for a fast-paced, scatological and
sexually explicit live variety show and short video sketches for YouTube. It is an entity that
has developed across a range of platforms, including live club nights, YouTube and (recently)
television following a successful submission to ‘Fresh Blood’ (an initiative jointly sponsored
by the national screen funding body, Screen Australia and the national broadcaster, the
Australian Broadcasting Corporation). As the name suggests, ‘Fresh Blood’ has been an
experiment in ‘unearthing’ new comedy talent through a progressive competition. On the
strength of the initial submission and previous success on YouTube, Fancy Boy was one of
25 emerging comedy acts chosen to produce sketches for distribution on the ABC’s digital
platform iView. It advanced to a second round of ‘Fresh Blood’, as one of five acts to receive
funding to develop a 30-minute pilot, and eventually the team was commissioned to pro-
duce an entire Fancy Boy series for distribution on iView and ABC2.
Fancy Boy satirises pop culture and media, but it is a product of the ‘post-South Park’ gen-
eration, with an altogether darker and more perverse flavour of comedy than earlier sketch
programs like Vizard’s Fast Forward or Full Frontal. It is also a product of a post-YouTube era.
Fancy Boy, along with other super low-budget, emerging Australian comedy acts like Bondi
Hipsters or Natalie Tran, has found a substantial aggregate audience online (in the case of Na-
talie Tran’s 1.7 million YouTube channel subscribers, these are audience numbers that would
be considered ‘mass’ by Australian standards).
Although the Fancy Boy team has shown some entrepreneurial flair, the principal produc-
ers Mark Conway and Mike Nayna see commercial and creative processes as inconsistent.
In their interview for ‘Fringe to Famous’, they go so far as to describe the two as ‘mutually
exclusive’ (except, they acknowledge, in the United States where economies of scale ensure
there is a viable audience for niche comedy). It is a view that we have seen echoed elsewhere
in the cultural industries, in the contemporary independent music and games sectors in parti­
cular. For the Fancy Boy producers, wider audience reach and mainstream validation is im-
portant, at least in terms of developing a profile and opening up more opportunities for paid
work, but not at the expense of ‘creative fulfilment’ and integrity. Success is not understood
primarily as mainstream audiences or financial reward, but as freedom from the time-sapping
tedium of chasing grants and the meddlesome oversight of funding bodies (of course achieved
through some level of financial success and audience impact). As Mark Conway explains:

So success to me would be not having to go through all these jumping hoops of fund-
ing, and justifying everything you’re doing, and explaining step-by-step, and constantly
having to check in. It would be that you’ve had enough success that – “Here’s the
money. Go do what you do and bring it back to us”.

Of course that kind of freedom comes at a cost. Nayna and Conway began by setting up their
own comedy club featuring performers they both liked. As Nayna explains this strategy,
“I don’t want to have to rely on someone else for the opportunities – I’d prefer to make it
myself…. It’s almost like artist/entrepreneur, and that’s kind of how you have to be unless
you want to be on the bottom rung of all this sort of stuff”. Eventually they bought their
own equipment and started a production company. Where at one time greater financial and
creative independence might have been hard won through a record of past success, here it is
acquired through a smart, prudential approach to business sustainability.

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Although the Fancy Boy producers frame what they do in the new millennial language
of start-up culture, being entrepreneurial and seizing opportunities, it can also be under-
stood as the latest expression of DIY culture, which has always involved a dynamic interplay
between economic and cultural value. The Fancy Boy franchise might seem worlds away
from the multi-million dollar comedy empire that Steve Vizard built during the heyday of
network television in the late 1980s and 1990s, but their more modest success across a range
of platforms is evidence of a similar creative and business verve. The key difference is that
in an era where even mainstream success is no guarantee of a financial windfall, Conway
and Nayna are aware that lean operations and creative integrity are essential to doing good
business in the long term.

Conclusion
These examples highlight some of the problems with the tendency to polarisation that has
characterised a number of recent debates around cultural policy and economy. It is impossible
to understand them without recognising the complex interconnection between commerce
and culture. A ‘preservationist’ perspective that understands the two as opposites simply
does not reflect the lived experiences or creative philosophies of most of the practitioners
we have spoken to in the course of our research. The relation between creative development
and business has many different forms. In the case of Australian screen comedy, Steve Vizard
set out to ‘woo’ mainstream audiences. He introduced calculated doses of subversive satire,
political critique, media analysis and formal experimentation within a popular, commer-
cial television format. Meanwhile Paul Fenech has won a broad popular audience with a
raucous, low-brow, low-budget brand of comedy and in doing so challenged the pervasive
middle-brow whiteness of prime-time Australian television. In both cases, there is a close
connection between aesthetic and business development.
This is not to say, however, that one can simply be reduced to the other. Contrary to
the full-blown innovation systems perspective discussed earlier in the chapter, there are
important moments of tension and divergence. Many creative practitioners we have talked
to, especially those from a younger generation, place a high value on creative freedom and
maintain a restless search for ways to prevent its subordination, either to business impera-
tives or the bureaucratic requirements of attracting government support. In keeping with a
long tradition of ‘indie’ and DIY culture, producers like Mark Conway and Mike Nayna
from Fancy Boy look continually for ways to gain some creative autonomy. While they are,
in many ways, ‘entrepreneurial’, always on the lookout for new opportunities in the new
cross-platform environment, business development is more a necessity than an end in itself.
Like many creatives, they are seeking no more than to find a sustainable economic base for
their practice.
There have been moments in Australian cultural policy where a certain balance has been
found. The twin focus on culture and economy that was embraced in the 1994 Creative
Nation policy was briefly revived under the 2013 Creative Australia policy introduced by
the Federal Labour government (Crean 2013). At other times, however, policy directions
have oscillated between extremes. In the two years following the defeat of Labor in late
2013, there was a marked return to preservationist policies under the conservative leader-
ship of Tony Abbott. Although Creative Australia was not officially revoked by the Abbott
Government, its pro-market liberalism was trumped by an instinct to subsidise the high arts
and reintroduce state paternalism under a rubric of ‘excellence’. Behind a romantic rhetoric
critical of the alleged philistine utilitarianism of Creative Australia was an elitist return to

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older notions of arts patronage (involving, most controversially, a transfer of funds away from
the ‘arms-length’ peer review process of the Australia Council to the ‘hand-picked’ control
of the Arts Minister).
With the recent toppling of Abbott from within his own Liberal Party by the small ‘l’
liberal Malcolm Turnbull – a former media lawyer, merchant banker, tech entrepreneur
and Communications Minister – there has been a return to a rhetoric of innovation and
entrepreneurship. In the area of cultural policy this has seen the creation of a new funding
program dubbed ‘Catalyst’, which “aims to support innovative ideas from arts and cultural
organisations that may find it difficult to access funding” from traditional sources (Fifield
2015). It remains to be seen how this will play out. Many arts workers and cultural commen-
tators are wary, wondering whether there is any functional difference between the Abbott
and Turnbull policies, with each mention of ‘excellence’ merely being replaced with ‘inno-
vation’ (Croggon 2015). What our research suggests is that there are dangers, in a complex
market economy, of purifying cultural policy around either of these terms. Making a totem
of ‘excellence’ by itself risks a static notion of culture that fails to register the real circum-
stances in which it is largely produced. To place the emphasis entirely on ‘innovation’, how-
ever, risks reducing creativity in the cultural arena merely to a business function, one that is
unsympathetic to the actual motivations of the majority of creative practitioners.
‘Fringe to Famous’ suggests a number of further areas for research. If, as we have argued,
the relation between commerce and culture should be seen as contingent rather than nec-
essary, questions arise about the conditions under which they complement and reinforce
each other and the conditions under which they diverge. Why is it, for example, that little
antagonism was felt by Steve Vizard in the 1980s between aesthetic innovation and working
in the heart of commercial television? Why is it that for younger creatives today, such as the
Fancy Boy producers, the two appear contradictory? The crisis of business models in com-
mercial media is probably a significant factor here. As the general profitability of the sector
has declined, it has lost what might be called its ‘margin of generosity’ in which figures such
as Vizard thrived. As the business dimension becomes tougher, less forgiving, it is perhaps
more often experienced as fundamentally hostile to cultural aspirations.
This raises a larger set of questions about the implications for our argument of the emer-
gence of digital media. How have digital media altered the relation between ‘fringe’ and
‘famous’? The digital turn has led to vastly improved access to low-cost production and
distribution and opportunities for self-curation. It is less clear, however, that it has actually
delivered a diversity dividend. The collapse of mass media business models has made it in-
creasingly difficult to make a living in creative practice, particularly in the early stages of a
career. This often means that the field is left to those with independent means or alternative
sources of income. Public broadcasters can perform some of the function of introducing new
voices, such as in the case of the ABC’s Fresh Blood initiative. However, they too are under
pressure and cannot provide, by themselves, the conduit for popularisation and distribution
that have been provided in the past by market processes. There are important questions for
further investigation here.
There are finally questions about the prospects for the tradition in cultural policy of at-
tempting to balance commercial and cultural imperatives. As we have outlined above, this
tradition, which had an early provenance in Australia with policy settings under the Keating
Labor Government, has had genuine successes, such as SBS Independent, connecting new
and diverse work and talent with audiences. It saw a brief revival in 2013 with the release
of Creative Australia, but its future is now uncertain. Internationally, policy approaches that
take a positive interest in the commercial cultural industries have been strongly associated

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with the ‘Creative Industries’ paradigm developed in the United Kingdom under the Blair
government during the late 1990s and early 2000s. Within the UK itself, the approach has
largely died along with the fortunes of the Blairite ‘third way’ program of which it was part.
While it has been taken up elsewhere, most notably in Asia, it has tended to have a harder
economic edge than its original formulation; it is now widely regarded as subordinating cul-
ture almost entirely to the status of an economic resource. There remains scope, however,
for recovering the older, more balanced approach – perhaps best represented, at the national
level, in the Australian case. There are significant opportunities for further work here.

Interviews
Mark Conway and Mike Nayna. Interview conducted 01 November 2015, Melbourne.
Paul Fenech. Interview conducted 30 October 2014, Sydney.
Steve Vizard. Interview conducted 02 December 2014, Melbourne.

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 19
Inside out
The role of ‘­audience research’ in
cultural p
­ olicies in the United States

Jennifer L. Novak-Leonard

Introduction
“Cultural policy” in the US is not what it is elsewhere in the world. Uniquely, the recog-
nized arts-related policies in the US have largely evolved from opportunities created within
US tax code and the influence and financial support of philanthropic entities. This chapter
discusses the evolution of arts policy-making since the mid-twentieth century in the US
and the role of audience research in policy-making over this time. While audience research
stemmed from a policy paradigm focused on supporting the nonprofit cultural infrastruc-
ture in the US, this chapter argues that social and policy contexts in the US and advance-
ments made to audience and arts participation research over the past 10 years are calling for
­policy-makers to focus on expanding the view of arts and culture and deepening the role of
arts and culture in democratic life.

“Cultural policy” in the United States1

While many countries have an identified policy-making body, such as a cultural ministry,
for matters related to arts and culture and/or hold a membership in the United Nations
Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), the US has neither (Rubin
2013). The US does not have a formal cultural policy, at least not in the tradition of many
other countries. An integral part of the nation’s fundamental beliefs is the freedom of ex-
pression, which is evoked as an aspect of policies related to culture in the US and is lawfully
protected under the US Constitution (Kreidler 2013). Akin to other countries, the US has
laws to protect intellectual property rights and to oversee exports. However, while the US
does have regulations and allowances like many other countries, they are predominantly ap-
plied to market-driven commercial art and culture and are more commonly understood and
handled as issues of trade as opposed to issues of “cultural policy” (Balassa 2008; Ivey 2008).
In the absence of a formal cultural policy or an official cultural policy-making body,
prominent governmental and non-governmental institutions and vocal actors all shape pol-
icies about arts and culture in the US. A particularly powerful influence that has shaped
cultural, or at least arts-related, policies in the US since the early twentieth century is the

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federal tax code. The tax code grants charitable organizations, which include arts and cul-
tural organizations, tax exemption and qualifies these organizations as “nonprofit” and eligi-
ble for philanthropic support (Peters and Cherbo 1998; Mulcahy 2006; Woronkowicz et al.
2012; Kreidler 2013). Mulcahy (2006) succinctly describes how policy-making is affected by
the structure of the tax code:

To an extent unknown elsewhere, the American government through its tax code has
delegated broad policy-making powers to private institutions in the pursuit of various
eleemosynary goals.
(Mulcahy 2006, p. 328)

Evolution of the nonprofit arts infrastructure

and its information needs
Since the 1960s, providing direct funding to nonprofit arts organizations has been a ­primary
policy intervention used by both non-government and government entities in an effort to
fuel the arts in the US. Kreidler (1996, 2013) has chronicled the establishment of the nonprofit
arts infrastructure in the US, which provides an important historical context for considering
the current state of cultural policies in the US. In the late 1950s, major foundations whose
endowments came from wealth accumulated during the Industrial Revolution worked to-
gether to examine the state of performing arts organizations. A product of these efforts was
the landmark work of Baumol and Bowen (1966), which led to the principal conclusion that
arts organizations faced structural financial challenges that the authors coined as “cost dis-
ease.” The implication of this phenomenon was that the arts required financial subsidies to
survive. At this time, there was also a general “cultural inferiority complex” in the US that
reinforced the conclusion that arts organizations would require substantial subsidies because
there was a desire to not only have the arts survive, but to have them thrive (Kreidler 1996,
2013). Kreidler (2013) characterizes this strategy as “supply side pump priming,” the basic
underlying theory being that subsidies would ultimately improve and expand the work of
the organizations, reaching more audiences and attracting more sources of revenues for the
organizations. Influenced by much of the same thinking, other philanthropic entities adopted
this strategy, and in 1965 the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) was founded (Kreidler
2013; Wyszomirski 2013). Wyszomirski (2013) describes financial sustainability as one of the
agency’s three fundamental, underlying policy aims, the other two being to support artistic
vitality and, vitally important as a public agency, acknowledging the value of arts for the US
public at large, originally referred to as “public access to the arts” in enabling legislation.
Given this supply-side focused environment, in the late 1960s and early 1970s the number
of nonprofit arts organizations in the US exploded, establishing a notable and vocal constitu-
ency reliant on the direct and indirect benefits of philanthropic and public funding (Kreidler
1996). As Toepler (2013, p. 167–168) explains, this era placed the NEA “at the core of an im-
plicit policy paradigm that kept most policy actors focused on the funding and support needs
of the nonprofit cultural infrastructure.” The NEA and philanthropic organizations support-
ing this system served as key policy-makers in the US, even if not formally designated as such.

Inside organizations: research on existing audiences

Alongside the increased number of nonprofit arts organizations in the 1960s and 1970s came
a penchant for research on the audiences of these organizations. This early research focused

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almost exclusively on the relationships between the organizations and the audiences who
came through their doors (DiMaggio et al. 1978; Pettit 2000). The surveys tended to in-
clude topics such as satisfaction with facilities and with the program attended. However, the
primary stakeholders for this research, by and large, did not have a clear sense of its purpose.
In their landmark review of 270 audience surveys, DiMaggio, Useem and Brown (1978,
p. 4) concluded that two of the chief motives for nonprofit arts organizations undertaking
audience research were (1) political leverage and (2) “a vague sense of concern for more
information of some sort.” DiMaggio et al. also identified the variable and overall low tech-
nical quality of the surveys as a key concern. The state of audience research made it difficult
to draw inferences from the disparate studies to inform systems-level policy conversations.
After establishing a research division in 1975, the NEA took active interest in coordinating
conversations and research about the arts at the national level. The NEA’s Research Division
worked to address concerns raised by the decentralized and inconsistent nature and quality of
audience research and, importantly, the goal of having data to address the government’s own
objective of equitable access to arts (Tepper and Gao 2008, p. 25). The most significant effort
was establishing the Survey of Public Participation in the Arts (SPPA), which was first implemented
in 1982 and remains the primary source of national data about arts participation in the US.
In December 1977, the NEA convened the Conference on the Policy Related Studies
of the National Endowment for the Arts. The creation of a national survey on arts partic-
ipation was discussed at this conference and the competing priorities for arts research were
articulated—study either what the public does or rather what select, high arts organizations
offer (Orend 1978). The establishment of the SPPA was the initial milestone that bridged
audience research into arts participation research. However, despite the fact that the fundamental
idea for a national survey was “a concern about democracy and equitable access” (Tepper
and Gao 2008, p. 25), another original driving force for establishing a national survey was to
help monitor the health of nonprofit arts organizations by capturing data on arts attendance
(AMS Planning and Research Corp 1995; Tepper and Gao 2008).
The earliest analyses using SPPA data largely focused on the differential rates at which
members of different racial and ethnic groups reported participation in the arts (Keegan
1987; Robinson et al. 1987; DiMaggio and Ostrower 1992). Examining the SPPA by race
and ethnicity, as well as other key demographic variables, has continued as a key analysis
to inform discourse about “access” (National Endowment for the Arts 1999; Nichols 2003;
Welch and Kim 2010; Silber and Triplett 2015). Early on, however, it was apparent that the
pump-priming hypothesis was not effective at attracting a wider and more diverse audience,
or at least not at attracting an adequately larger and more diverse audience (Kreidler 2013).
So, even though the focus on supply-side investments continued to shape arts policy in the
US, the tactics designed to bring audiences “into” the organizations evolved.
While the 1960s and early 1970s were generally a flourishing time for nonprofit arts or-
ganizations, the subsequent decades stood in sharp contrast, and the nonprofit arts sector as-
sumed a defensive posture. In the 1980s and 1990s, the NEA faced a great deal of controversy,
which ultimately resulted in significant funding cuts and staff reductions at the agency (Na-
tional Endowment for the Arts 2009b). However, for the particular matter of policy-making,
a critical impact of these resource reductions is the re-disbursement of influence on arts
policy-making. The NEA and philanthropic organizations supporting this system, even if
not formally designated, serve as key cultural policy-makers in the US. Therefore, declining
financial support for the NEA meant that the influence on discourse for arts policies began to
disperse from the centralized, influential voice and created the opportunity for more perspec-
tives on what policies related to the arts could be. Yet at the start of what Toepler (2013) refers

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Jennifer L. Novak-Leonard

to as the “post-NEA era,” there remained historical inertia favoring a centralized supply-side
focused paradigm for arts policy. While most research had been focused on understanding
differences between those attending and those not attending the arts, informing the policy
structures in place, the 1980s and early 1990s brought about a need for research to justify and
demonstrate the instrumental value of arts organizations and their work.

Efforts to bring audiences “in”: research on potential audiences

In the late 1990s and 2000s, there was a shift in focus away from discussing access to arts or-
ganizations based on current audiences and toward audiences and participants seemingly will-
ing to come “into” arts organizations. The general discourse within arts policy shifted from
“access” to “outreach” and “audience development.” It was during this time that the NEA
launched initiatives to bring arts into more rural and underserved communities across different
states as a quantifiable means to conclusively demonstrate public value (Wyszomirski 2013).
Several seminal pieces of research were produced, not under the auspices of the NEA,
but sponsored by major foundations during this time. Foundations were also helping to es-
tablish arts research centers in policy schools at major research universities during this time,2
signaling their desire and aims to contribute policy relevant research (Schuster 2002). The
Wallace Foundation (at the time known as the Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund) sponsored
seminal research conducted by McCarthy and Jinnett (2001), which gave rise to the now
commonly used mantra amongst US-based nonprofit arts administrators—broaden, deepen
and diversify arts audiences. One of the key recommendations stemming from McCarthy
and Jinnett’s research was that arts organizations should seek to learn about existing and
potential audiences, which the authors referred to as “inclined” individuals, on the basis of
their behaviors and attitudes, as opposed to solely on the basis of their demographics (2001,
p. 36). This research informed a decade of funding investments made by the Wallace Foun-
dation and others to support arts. Much of the research focused on marketing, messaging,
ticketing and how to make audiences feel welcomed in a theater or museum.

Research on the value of and for audiences

The late 1990s and early 2000s also saw a greater focus on the economic impact of the arts
as a means to demonstrate the instrumental value of arts organizations. Multiple researchers
have raised important questions about the methodologies used for assessing economic im-
pact. Some researchers fundamentally argued against the very premise of using economic
impact as a metric for evaluating whether activities merit public subsidization on the basis
that the less tangible, intrinsic values of art could not be enumerated by the approach (Cul-
tural Policy Center 2004). This brought about a widespread debate within the nonprofit
arts sector about instrumental and intrinsic arguments for evaluating and demonstrating
the impact of arts on individuals and the role of both arguments in communications with
legislators and other authoring stakeholders. Gifts of the Muse: Reframing the Debate about the
Benefits of the Arts (McCarthy et al. 2004) proposed a language and conceptual framework
for evaluating the arts, which integrated both instrumental and intrinsic perspectives. It took
a good deal of time, debate and translation for the research first put forth in McCarthy et al.
(2004) to be accepted by arts organizations (Brown 2006). Even after the concept of intrinsic
impact achieved resonance, capturing and communicating intrinsic impact required the de-
velopment of new analytical methods and systematic understanding, as done in Brown and
Novak (2007), Radbourne et al. (2010), Brown and Novak-Leonard (2013) and Lord (2012).

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 Inside out

Evaluating intrinsic impact represents a return to audience research in a more traditional

sense of acquiring information about those who attend an arts event. The research empha-
sizes documenting how arts experiences can affect individuals, for example in how they
can be emotionally moved or intellectually engaged. This measurement system currently
remains in an early phase of focusing on relationships between organizations and audiences,
but developing this line of research has been identified as a priority for research over the next
10 years (Markusen 2014). A specific question to be addressed is whether the data on how
individuals are affected can be aggregated and interpreted in a meaningfully way for the
purpose of informing policy-making.

Dispersion of the nonprofit arts infrastructure

and its information needs
While major social changes were underway throughout the latter half of the twentieth century,
by the late 2000s and early 2010s, these changes had risen to the fore of arts policy research.
Prominent trends include expanded technology usage, shifts toward an increasingly racially and
ethnically diverse population and a growing participatory cultural ethos (Novak-Leonard and
Brown 2011; Novak-Leonard et al. 2014; Novak-Leonard et al. 2015b). Speaking generally, these
societal shifts were welcomed as opportunities by some, but posed further challenges to other
nonprofit arts organizations. Additionally, national indicators of arts participation, stemming
from the SPPA, continued to indicate that smaller portions of the US adult population were
attending arts events and that disparities between racial and ethnicity groups persisted (­ National
Endowment for the Arts 2009a). Some de facto arts p­ olicy-makers recognized, as Kreidler (2013,
p. 152) describes, the “diminishing returns” of the supply-side focused policy paradigm.
In recent years, the inertia behind the singular supply-side arts policy paradigm started
to fade as policy-makers sought alternative policy paradigms, with a key alternative being
demand-side policies (Zakaras and Lowell 2008; Kreidler 2013). Such approaches look at
the ways individuals learn about, become familiar with and create arts outside of profes-
sional arts settings. The basic theory underlying demand-side policies is that investment
in people’s arts activities outside of professional arts settings could develop demand for the
professional arts offered by nonprofit arts organizations. However, arts policy discourse also
reflects a growing recognition that investing in demand is highly valuable in and of itself.
With this realization has come an expanded sense of what aesthetic forms are considered
“art,” are meaningful to people in the US and should be part of an expanded arts policy
discourse (Ivey 2008; Novak-Leonard et al. 2014). In a sense, this expanded view rep-
resents a return to a nineteenth century arts policy paradigm more focused on democratic
ideals. Other scholars have written poignantly on the deeply rooted participatory spirit of
democracy in the US and the role that arts participation plays within that spirit, as well as
the historical role of democratic participation in the arts (DiMaggio et al. 1978; Tepper
and Gao 2008; Conner 2013; Clark et al. 2014). This raises a critical question that is cur-
rently shaping this time of change in arts policies in the US—how, or whether, the current
deeply rooted infrastructure surrounding nonprofit arts organizations can serve as bridges
to achieving real equity/diversity of art forms and means of engagement.

Readiness for research

Just in recent years within the US, advances have been made in measuring and studying a
broader range of “arts participation,” not exclusively defined by attendance at nonprofit arts

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organizations. It is important to note that since its first wave in 1982, the SPPA has included
measures of activities besides attendance, but the historical body of research using SPPA data
overwhelmingly focused on attendance. While some earlier studies examined participation
in acts of making art, such as Peters and Cherbo (1996) and Ostrower (2005), it was not until
a few years ago that research looking at arts participation indicators other than those of atten-
dance garnered attention amongst policy-makers and nonprofit arts organizations. Arguably,
the confluence of social forces and a continued decline in the national rates of arts attendance
prompted attention to such research.
Using the 2008 SPPA, Beyond Attendance: A multi-modal understanding of arts participation
(Novak-Leonard and Brown 2011) fully leveraged the indicators available to analyze how
patterns of individuals’ arts participation varied across attendance behaviors, engaging in
art making and consuming arts through various technology-based means. Even though the
analyses presented in Novak-Leonard and Brown (2011) considered art-related behaviors
beyond those typically connected to nonprofit arts organizations, the subsequent discussion
of these research findings has largely focused on implications for nonprofit arts organizations,
and such discussion is essentially still written in a manner that focuses on the health of arts
organizations. Following this increased attention, major substantive changes were made for
the next wave of SPPA in 2012 in an effort to collect more data on arts-related behaviors,
generally, rather than focusing only on those behaviors specifically associated with tradi-
tional ways of engaging with nonprofit arts organizations. At the same time, international
calls were issued for research tools “elaborated in the last century” to be revisited in order
to better reflect contemporary life and “the rise of new cultural paradigms and behavior”
­( UNESCO Institute for Statistics 2012, p. 12). For example, the 2012 SPPA asked where
people attended performing arts events and how they used digital devices to create different
forms of art. However, balancing the inclusion of innovative questions in this survey instru-
ment while preserving valuable, long-standing measurements is a challenge, and ultimately
the emphasis on evaluating attendance remained (Novak-Leonard et al. 2015c).
More recent survey efforts focus on collecting data on arts attendance balanced with
data on arts-making, arts-learning and other modes of arts participation. The Benchmark
to Basic new Annual Arts Benchmark Survey (AABS) helps to adjust this imbalance. Start-
ing in 2013, the AABS’ two alternating questionnaires are to be used in the years between
the SPPA, which is fielded every 5 years. The AABS includes much-abbreviated versions
of the SPPA questionnaire, with a greater emphasis on arts making and learning in bal-
ance with attending events.3 Additionally, the AABS questions pertaining to attendance are
broad and not genre-­specific, which reflects a response to the critique that the SPPA genre-
specific questions comprise indicators left over from the survey’s earliest days and are re-
flective of mid-­t wentieth century policy approaches (Novak-Leonard et al. 2015b). Such
shifts are also reflected in some innovative regional surveys. The California Survey of Arts &
Cultural Participation is a new instrument crafted to measure participation using each individ-
ual’s own definitions of art, aesthetics and creative expression (Novak-Leonard et al. 2015a;
Novak-Leonard et al. 2015b).4 Sponsored by the James Irvine Foundation in California, this
survey also represents the aforementioned trend in which major foundations are seeking to
reassert their role in shaping policy at precisely the same time that the activity of arts research
centers founded in the late 1990s/early 2000s is waning.
It remains unclear whether foundation-sponsored research is positioned to innovate at a
large scale. It is clear that substantial innovations have been made in survey design and that
some policy-makers are indeed considering activities well outside traditional nonprofit arts
organizations activities. However, as Toepler (2013) explains:

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there are no strong indications that the foundation field at large pursues innovation at a
significant scale. Rather the data suggest a fairly high degree of continuity of foundation
funding priorities over 25 years despite the major public policy upheavals of the 1990s.
(2013, p. 178)

Indeed, the NEA-sponsored Arts & Culture modules of the 2012 and 2016 waves of the
General Social Survey (GSS), one of the most highly regarded and frequently utilized
sources of data on adults’ attitudes and opinions in the US, focused on measuring individ-
uals’ motivations for, and barriers to, attending live performing arts events and art exhibits
(Blume-Kohout et al. 2015). This data collection effort mirrors its predecessors by focusing
on informing the supply-side policy paradigm addressing issues of access.
The competing priorities for research for policy-making purposes are teetering be-
tween a continued sense of wanting to serve nonprofit organizations, in their traditional
sense, and the need to inform policy that takes a broader purview. At the time of writing
this chapter, the NEA is finalizing the design for the next wave of its SPPA, which will
be fielded in July 2017 (National Endowment for the Arts 2016). In contrast to the GSS,
the draft 2017 SPPA instrument used for pilot testing strikes a balance between the com-
peting priorities for research. The draft instrument maintains the questions used for trend
analyses, which are highly valued by the nonprofit arts sector, and includes updated and
new questions. The revised questions aim to be inclusive of a broad range of artistic forms
and activities and to document more detail about how people engage in art, including
where and why they participate. While the term “arts participation” for many years was
synonymous with arts audiences, the updates included in the 2017 SPPA pilot test ques-
tionnaire demonstrate greater parity of measurement among creating art, consuming and
making art via and with technology and arts attendance. The broader range and greater
balance of measures offer the possibility of informing a broader range of “arts policies”
discourse.

Conclusion
“Cultural policy” in the US is in a period of great flux. This flux largely stems from reckon-
ing a deeply rooted support and infrastructure system with contemporary society, including
incorporating data and research into policy- and decision-making. Research focusing on
arts audiences and the manners in which people engage with art has evolved over the past 10
years and continues to evolve. Whereas in the early days of audience research it was difficult
to draw inferences from disparate studies to inform systems-level policy conversations, a
current challenge arises from disparate nonprofit arts organizations’ efforts to reconcile the
findings of systems-level research within the context of their own work. Research is needed
to elucidate how to develop sound, systemically comparable, yet organizationally specific,
capacity and means to enable disparate organizations to document their own audiences and
participants. Specifically, there is a growing desire among arts organizations to document the
demographic composition and behaviors of their own audiences and to explore the degree to
which the organizations’ programs are relevant to their lives. As understanding of how peo-
ple engage with art and artistic endeavors evolves, research is needed to understand whether
and how the roles of artists are changing. Particularly as the modalities with which people
engage with artistic endeavors touches on broader aspects of civic life, research is needed to
help understand how and whether perceptions are changing as to who is considered an artist
and the role that person plays within local communities.

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Whereas in earlier decades, interest in audience and audience-related research stemmed

from an established supply-focused policy paradigm, currently research is helping to inform
the next policy paradigm, yet to be firmly shaped (Toepler 2013). Bennett (2004) discusses
two factions of cultural policy research, one serving as formative and informative for the
practical development of cultural policies, and the other reflective and critical of cultural
policies. In a sense, this chapter can be understood as discussing how audience research
began as the former and evolved into the latter, with developments in “audience research”
over the past decade providing critical commentary on the relative narrowness of what has
been the arts policy paradigm in the US. In the near future, understanding gained through
this recent and ongoing research just might help drive the next cultural policy paradigm to
take shape in the US.

Notes
1 The purpose of this chapter section is not to fully address what “cultural policy” is, either in a
conceptual or operational sense, within the US context or as it relates to international cultural
diplomacy efforts. Rather, the purpose is to describe a dominant and unique aspect of “policies”
related to art or culture—meaning forms of aesthetic and artistic expression as opposed to a full
anthropological approach to culture, for example that would include language—in the US.
2 The Center for Arts and Cultural Policy Studies (founded in 1994) at Princeton University and the
Cultural Policy Center (founded in 1999) at the University of Chicago, and later The Curb Center
for Art, Enterprise & Public Policy (founded in 2003) at Vanderbilt University.
3 At the time of writing this chapter AABS data had not yet been publicly released so I cannot pro-
vide commentary on the effectiveness of the AABS or its results.
4 Additional efforts had been made in recent years to measure ‘arts participation’ with broader or
different definitional frameworks than the SPPA. Examples of such efforts include Brown, Novak
and Kitchener (2008), Klineberg, Wu and Aldape (2012) and LaPlaca Cohen (2014).

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 20
Considering the s­ econd-order
health effects of arts
­engagement in relation
to cultural policy
Rebecca Gordon-Nesbitt

Introduction
In recent decades, there has been increased willingness to consider the social determinants of
health in general and the impact of arts engagement in particular. At the same time, the shift
towards evidence-based policy-making has been well documented, and the prevailing nar-
rative in certain circles is that we lack evidence around the long-term relationship between
health and engagement in arts activities beyond the clinical environment. In March 2014,
Arts Council England (ACE) published an evidence review that attempted to account for
the value of culture to people and society. While this review referenced large-scale ­Nordic
research showing the positive impact of longitudinal cultural engagement, it ultimately de-
ferred to the UK to conclude that ‘there is no evidence that these improvements are sustained
in the long term, and the majority of studies have been small scale and unable to do more
than report a correlation between the intervention and these benefits’ (ACE, 2014: 26).
Five months before the ACE evidence review was published, the Arts and Humanities Re-
search Council put out a targeted call under the auspices of the Cultural Value Project, which
noted that ‘A number of research studies in recent years (most prominently drawing on long-
term cohort study data from the Nordic countries) have suggested a positive correlation bet­
ween engagement in cultural activities and long-term physical and psychological health after
adjusting for a range of income, educational and social variables’ (AHRC, 2013: 9). In response
to this call, a research programme was designed that sought to build an evidence base around
the longitudinal health impacts of engaging in arts activities in non-clinical settings. This sug-
gests that engagement in the arts leads to longer lives better lived, prompting an urgent reassess-
ment of the ways in which culture is valued and distributed within society. What follows is an
account of this research programme and a consideration of its implications for cultural policy.

Context
The research outlined in this chapter took place against the backdrop of two largely un­
reconciled imperatives – first, that the arts should evidence their impact and, second, that we
should engage with the arts for the good of our health.
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Rebecca Gordon-Nesbitt

On the one hand, the era of Cool Britannia witnessed the shift from a ‘something for noth-
ing’ to a ‘something for something’ approach to the arts and their funding (Davies and Ford,
2000: 30). The nineteenth century paradigm of art for art’s sake – which was not without its
critics – was deemed inadequate, and, as in other forms of public culture (notably education),
the arts were compelled to prove their extrinsic worth. The two main types of impact that the
arts have been expected to demonstrate are economic and social. Economic impact is inextri-
cably bound up with the elision of the arts and creative industries, the designation of creative
cities and the dream of inward investment. Expectations of social impact are discernible in
the social inclusion policies beloved by New Labour and the demand that the arts justify their
worth in relation to a number of societal metrics (Matarasso, 1997). A backlash against con-
sideration of (particularly social) impact, and an attempt to debunk evidence-based policy,
was spearheaded by the centre right think tank, Policy Exchange, in favour of a libertarian,
anti-statist narrative (Mirza, 2006). However, a glimpse at the Culture White Paper, pub-
lished by the Conservative Government in March 2016, reveals the persistence of the drive
towards impact, with intrinsic, social and economic value recognised separately and, perhaps
disingenuously, in that order (Department for Culture, Media & Sport, 2016).
On the other hand, there has been a groundswell of initiatives making the connection
between arts engagement and health. At one end of the diverse arts and health spectrum, pro-
fessionally accredited therapists administer arts activities targeted at a range of clinical out-
comes. At the opposite end of the spectrum, in a continuation of the late 1960s community
arts ethos,1 thousands of organisations offer participatory arts activities throughout the UK,
generally to those at a low ebb. While the former area of practice can be framed primarily
in health terms and its impact measured accordingly, the latter varies widely in its approach
to health impacts, and evaluation remains patchy. Nonetheless, all those working in the
health-orientated community arts movement affirm the benefits of arts-based approaches.2
The field of health in the developed world is undergoing a transformation from a bio­
medical to psychosocial model and from a focus on cure to an emphasis on prevention.
This implies that the vast majority of communicable diseases have been eradicated and that
the major challenges for current and future generations are long-term health conditions
such as cancer, cardiovascular disease, dementia and obesity. The inextricability of physical
and mental health is also readily acknowledged, as is consideration of the broader socio-­
economic factors determining health.
Between 2005 and 2008, Professor Sir Michael Marmot chaired the World Health Orga-
nization Commission on the Social Determinants of Health, which found that:

Social inequalities in health arise because of inequalities in the conditions of daily life
and the fundamental drivers that give rise to them: inequities in power, money and
resources. These social and economic inequalities underpin the determinants of health:
the range of interacting factors that shape health and well-being. These include: material
circumstances, the social environment, psychosocial factors, behaviours, and biological
factors. In turn, these factors are influenced by social position, itself shaped by educa-
tion, occupation, income, gender, city and race. All these influences are affected by the
socio-political and cultural and social context in which they sit.
(Marmot et al., 2010: 16)

Despite this acute analysis, the arts – which might usefully be thought of as psychosocial
factors interacting with health and wellbeing – were conspicuous by their absence from the
published thoughts of the Commission (Clift et al., 2010).

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While the Commission on the Social Determinants of Health was mid-way through its
work, the Chief Executive of the NHS commissioned Harry Cayton, National Director for
Patients and the Public, to review the role of the Department of Health (DH) in advancing
the arts and health. Cayton set up a working group, which reported that the arts were inte-
gral to health and health services and should be recognised as such. Simultaneously, DH and
ACE collaborated on a prospectus for arts and health, outlining many examples of best
practice and research-based evidence (Arts Council England, 2007). But, by the time the
ACE strategic framework, Achieving Great Art and Culture for Everyone, was published in 2010,
consideration of the health value of the arts had receded into the background.
Despite periodic recognition of the relationship between the arts and health, the quality
of the evidence base is often cited as a reason for the arts being overlooked when health and
its social determinants are discussed. Much progress is being made in this area, with a range
of mixed methods approaches being used to capture the health impacts of arts activities. The
research described here makes a tangential contribution to the field by taking a further step
away from targeted impacts to consider the inadvertent health effects of engaging with the
arts in galleries, museums, theatres and concert halls.

Methods

Literature search and study selection

A search was initially undertaken of the MEDLINE (using PubMed) and EMBASE (using
Ovid SP) databases, beginning with such terms as ‘art’, ‘culture’, ‘health’, ‘longitudinal’.
However, as these words are ubiquitous within the literature – with ‘culture’ frequently
appearing in relation to the cultivation of cells and ‘art’ regularly occurring in phrases such
as ‘state-of-the-art’ and serving as an acronym for Atraumatic Restorative Treatment, Anti
Retroviral Treatment and Assisted Reproductive Technologies – this generated an excess
of 10,000 results when using Ovid. Sorting the results by relevance (five stars) failed to iso-
late three terms together. The use of truncated versions of the search terms – such as ‘long’
(306 results when searched with ‘art’ and ‘survival’ in Medline) – and Boolean operators –
e.g. ‘NOT HIV’ (216 results in Medline) – reduced the quantity of results but came no closer
to isolating even those studies that were known at the outset. That these known studies used
little common language ultimately precluded the use of generic search terms. The review
also sought to take account of grey literature in the field, but a search of Open Grey produced
11 irrelevant studies, reinforcing the need for other methods.
In light of the above, it was decided to conduct a hand search of material, beginning with
the nucleus of known studies – specifically those undertaken by a team based in Sweden, led
by Lars Olov Bygren and first published in the British Medical Journal in 1996 (Bygren et al.,
1996) and its Finnish equivalent, led by Markku T. Hyyppä (Hyyppä et al., 2006). From
there, the review radiated outwards, taking account of subsequent research published by these
two teams and the studies to which they referred. This scoping process was complemented by
the use of web-based search engines and facilitated by dialogues with the main researchers in
the field, either by email or in person during a week-long trip to the Nordic region. Addition-
ally, reports issued by policy-making bodies at Westminster and Holyrood were scrutinised,
and civil servants in the Department for Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) were consulted.
The longitudinal focus of the review precluded cross-sectional studies. All known physical
and mental health conditions were included, as were subjective measures, such as self-rated
health. Similarly, cultural engagement was considered across the art forms, taking account of

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attendance at arts events and (to a lesser extent) participation in creative activity. As arts engage-
ment was understood to be a voluntary part of participants’ lives, rather than an ‘intervention’,
studies considering the therapeutic nature of creative engagement upon existing health con-
ditions and those relying on randomised controlled trials were excluded from consideration.
As several of the studies only mentioned arts engagement as an incidental element of
­socio-cultural interaction, the ultimate criterion for inclusion became the consideration
of two or more discrete cultural activities. The scoping process generated an initial long list
of studies from which the eventual evidence base was culled. Data on study characteristics
were extracted – including country of origin, authors, publication year, dataset, popula-
tion sample size, age of respondents, outcome measure, cultural activities, confounders and
­results – are tabulated at the end of this report.

Results
The scoping review yielded an initial 14 key studies. A digital evidence base was compiled
online (longitudinalhealthbenefits.wordpress.com), containing a précis of each study and
links to the original research articles where copyright clearance was possible to secure. The
online evidence base also includes a consideration of the main strengths and weaknesses of
each study and a hint about the mechanisms thought to underlie any of the positive associ-
ations that were observed between the two main variables of arts engagement and health.
The evidence base was launched at the annual conference of the Faculty of Public Health
of the Royal College of Physicians on 3 July 2014 and widely publicised among colleagues
in the arts and health, research and policy-making fields. Since then, the scoping review
has continued, and a further study has been added to the evidence base (Agahi and Parker,
2008). As of April 2016, the online repository had received 5,150 views from more than
30 ­d ifferent countries, including Brazil, Japan and South Africa. As this site solicits details of
any omissions, the evidence base has the possibility to evolve, through attention being drawn
to extant work in this area and new studies being carried out.
As suspected at the outset, the evidence base is largely centred on the Nordic region, spe-
cifically Sweden, Finland and Norway. In these countries, research teams benefit from popu-
lation data collated over time, with the inbuilt possibility of linkage (through unique personal
identification numbers) to registers detailing morbidity and mortality. The studies rely either
on longitudinal panel surveys or on one-off questioning of a large cohort, subsequently fol-
lowed up in relation to a given outcome measure. As discussed at greater length below, out-
come measures range from general and cause-specific mortality to specific morbidities such as
dementia and obesity, with a wide variety of potential confounders being considered. Num-
bers of participants range from 463 to 12,675, aged between 11 and 99. The majority of studies
perform a posteriori analysis, with the researchers having no input into the formulation of ques-
tions and respondents inevitably being blinded to the purpose of such retroactive studies. The
evidence base is variously grounded in social epidemiology, gerontology and occupational
health; an interpretation of the findings of the studies in the evidence base is attempted here.

Mortality and chronic morbidity

Given the ready availability of data pertaining to date and cause of death in the Nordic coun-
tries, it is, perhaps, inevitable that several of the research teams have focused upon mortality
or survival as their main outcome measure. Ten of the studies in the evidence base adopt such
an approach to assess the impact of a range of socio-cultural factors upon longevity. Of these,

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five consider all-cause mortality (Bygren et al., 1996; Konlaan et al., 2000; Lennartsson and
­Silverstein, 2001; Hyyppä et al., 2006; Agahi and Parker, 2008), four introduce some differen-
tiation among causes of death – through cancer (Welin et al., 1992; Bygren et al., 2009), cardio-
vascular disease (Hyyppä et al., 2007), external and other causes (Väänänen et al., 2009) – and
one examines coronary heart disease mortality and morbidity together (Sundquist et al., 2004).
The first study in the evidence base is unable to find a link between socio-cultural acti­
vities and cancer-related mortality (Welin et al., 1992), while another assessment of all-cause
mortality from a similar perspective detects a negligible effect upon survival from socio-­
cultural engagement (Lennartsson and Silverstein, 2001). The main Finnish team finds that
leisure social participation mildly predicts all-cause mortality (Hyyppä et al., 2006), while
having no discernible effect upon cardiovascular mortality (Hyyppä et al., 2007). Another
Finnish team finds an association between external causes of mortality (such as accident and
suicide) and (particularly socially orientated) cultural participation (Väänänen et al., 2009).
While these results are ambiguous, more fruitful avenues of enquiry are opened up when
longevity is approached in social and cultural terms.

Emphasising the social over the cultural

Social epidemiology presumes a ‘category of environmental factors capable of producing pro-
found effects on host susceptibility to environmental disease agents’ (Cassel, 1976: 108). In this
context, environmental factors are taken to include ‘the presence of other members of the same
species, or more generally, certain aspects of the social environment’ (Ibid). In turn, consider-
ation of the psychosocial determinants of health posits that social isolation increases the risk of
all-cause mortality (Berkman and Syme, 1979), with social support thought to guard against
a range of chronic diseases (House et al., 1982; Schoenbach et al., 1986; Kaplan et al., 1988)
and self-reported symptoms, both physical and psychological (Berkman, 1995; Seeman, 1996).
Accordingly, more than half of studies in the evidence base adopt what might be described as
a social capital perspective, which takes close account of the individual’s place within society.
While social capital is a multi-faceted and mutable construct that is notoriously difficult
to define and measure, Hyyppä et al. have sought to demonstrate a relationship between
social capital and health. The first of two studies showed leisure social participation to be a
predictor of survival in middle-aged Finnish men (Hyyppä et al., 2006), while the second
only just replicated this finding in relation to all-cause mortality but not to deaths from
­cardio-vascular causes (Hyyppä et al., 2007).
Marmot argues that ‘living in supportive, cohesive social groups can be protective’ of
health (2015: 10), changing hormonal profiles and potentially lowering the risk of heart
attacks, whereas being marginal in society can increase the risk of disease. Engagement in
cultural activity in the public sphere is thought to increase the sense of community cohesion
and confer a health-protective effect. However, this body of work suggests that the artistic
specificities of engagement are subordinate to the social milieu in which engagement occurs.
In order to ascertain cultural value, this approach needs to be inverted.

Isolating the cultural from the social

A social capital approach to arts engagement permits a multiplicity of diverse leisure-time ac-
tivities to be bunched together in the analysis, obviating differentiation between art forms. In
distinguishing cultural from social engagement, the team comprised of Bygren, Johansson and
Konlaan has led the field. In the aforementioned BMJ study, which formed the basis of many

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subsequent research programmes, Bygren et al. initially acknowledged that the social element
of cultural participation might be an important determinant of survival, suggesting that ‘Per-
haps cultural behaviour is so intermingled with life as a whole that it is impossible to discern
its influence’ (1996: 1578).2 At the same time, they discovered possession of a social network
to be a slight threat to male longevity and showed low (compared to regular) attendance at
cultural events to significantly increase the likelihood of death. Four years later, the same team
found social ties to have a negligible effect as a confounder, irrespective of their strength or
quality (Konlaan et al., 2000). They also began to address the lack of differentiation between
art forms – which had typified their own earlier studies and those of other research teams – to
demonstrate a positive association between survival and attendance at the cinema, concerts
and exhibitions. The same team’s 2001 study shows a positive association between self-rated
health and attendance at exhibitions, dance performances, films, popular music concerts and
theatre plays, as well as establishing a directly proportional relationship between self-rated
health and the number of cultural activities attended ( Johansson et al., 2001).
Transferring this approach to a US context, Bygren would later collaborate on a cross-­
sectional study that tested this premise (Wilkinson et al., 2007). Rare cultural attendees were
seen to be suffering from greater rates of cancer-related mortality than their high-attending
counterparts in urban areas. Significantly, this study claims that cultural attendance evinces a
potentially preventative effect, making it akin to physical activity and smoking as a predictor
of cancer-related mortality, irrespective of health and socio-­economic status.
Departing from the Bygren team to reconsider cultural engagement as a factor in social
participation, Sundquist et al. (2004) drew up a participation index with 18 variables. It is
noteworthy that those variables with the greatest significance were found to be the five forms
of cultural attendance included in the index: cinema, theatre, concerts, art exhibitions and
museums. These combined findings suggest that the intrinsic cultural experience has a part
to play in militating against life-threatening conditions. The possible reasons for this will be
discussed shortly.

Successful ageing
Another area in which the long-term relationship between arts engagement and health
has been studied is that of successful ageing (Adams et al., 2011). Three of the studies in
the evidence base focus on populations over the age of 65, with two focusing on survival
­( Lennartsson and Silverstein, 2001; Agahi and Parker, 2008) and one on the onset of demen-
tia (Wang et al., 2002). All three consider participation in creative activity in ­addition to
attendance at cultural events. On the understanding that ‘The act of making [is] cognitively
demanding and [requires] skills in planning, evaluation, counting, measurement and prob-
lem solving’ (Liddle et al., 2013: 332), several of the studies in the evidence base acknowledge
the mental component of arts engagement (Lennartsson and Silverstein, 2001; Wang et al.,
2002; Bygren et al., 2009; Väänänen et al., 2009; Cuypers et al., 2012). In relation to demen-
tia, attendance at cultural events has been categorised as social while participation in creative
activity (such as drawing or painting) is defined as mental, with both types of activity found
to exhibit a positive association with dementia prevention (Wang et al., 2002).

Weight management
With obesity looming as a major public health issue, a further area of research has centred on
the relationship between socio-cultural engagement and weight gain. Focusing on the social

314
 Health effects of arts ­engagement

aspects of participation, one study alluded to arts engagement increasing the likelihood of
adolescent boys becoming overweight (Lajunen et al., 2009). Yet, while another study found
no association between social participation and waistline measurement in adult women,
it observed a greater likelihood of maintaining weight within the recommended range for
adult men (Kouvonen et al., 2012). In the same year, a third study found that, as compared to
social participation, cultural participation was negatively associated with obesity in teenage
girls (Cuypers et al., 2012). This finding fits with research that has discovered an element of
social communicability in relation to obesity (Christakis and Fowler, 2007) and consolidates
the positive effects of cultural engagement observed elsewhere.

Gender
Work carried out around both successful ageing and obesity elaborates on the gendered na-
ture of health effects. One paper in the evidence base takes gender as its main focus, drawing
on a study population as it migrates from the Swedish Level of Living Survey to the Swedish
Panel Study of Living Conditions of the Oldest Old. It is here that we encounter the most
direct claims of causality, with a dose-response relationship between social participation
and survival being reported in women. When differentiating a range of social activities, it is
found that ‘participation in cultural activities was the only activity that was significantly
related to survival in both men and women’ (Agahi and Parker, 2008: 865).

Discussion
Reviewing the studies in the evidence base suggests that there is a growing body of litera-
ture surrounding the longitudinal relationship between arts engagement and health. Largely
centred on the Nordic countries, the evidence base suggests that engagement in the arts –
primarily as an audience member but also as a practitioner – generally has a positive impact
upon life expectancy, disease resistance, mental acuity and weight maintenance, through a
variety of possible means.
Common to the majority of studies is the tentative nature of their claims, speaking of as-
sociation (or correlation) rather than causation. In a similarly tentative way, arts engagement
is assumed to have a preventative, rather than remedial, effect. Interestingly, the potentially
detrimental effects of arts engagement have also been acknowledged from the outset, with
Bygren et al. speculating that ‘Negative effects of cultural activities could be that people
lose their sense of reality and identify with asocial models of behaviour and are themselves
encouraged towards asocial behaviour’ (1996: 1578). This is echoed by Hyyppä, with the
sentiment that ‘It is highly probable that not all cultural activities are beneficial for health
and survival; some can even be detrimental to health’ (2010: 51). Further work is needed to
establish the existence and direction of any causal relationship between the two main vari-
ables, and it is rightly argued that ‘More prospective studies on large populations are needed
to answer questions on causality’ (Cuypers et al., 2011: 22).
The two greatest obstacles to attributing causality are the possibility of reverse causation
and the likelihood of residual confounders. In the first case, it is generally assumed that peo-
ple with poor health tend not to take part in cultural activities (or surveys), thereby skewing
the results. Researchers on the HUNT Study in Norway, which provided data for the most
recent study in the evidence base (Cuypers et al., 2012), have elsewhere given consideration to
the biases that may arise through non-participation, finding not only disease but also socio-­
economic status to be the main reasons for non-response (Langhammer et al., 2012). A report

315
Rebecca Gordon-Nesbitt

published by the Scottish Government asserts that ‘cultural engagement levels are highest
in the highest household income groups in Scotland and decline to be lowest in the lowest
household income groups’ (Leadbetter and O’Connor, 2013: 7). At the same time, Taking Part
data consistently demonstrate that white adults from higher socio-economic groups are the
main beneficiaries of Arts Council England’s strategy of ‘great art and culture for everyone’.
In the second case, ‘there is the unavoidable problem of possible unknown or latent con-
founders’ (Hyyppä, 2010: ix). Table 20.1 at the end of this report shows the range of pos-
sible confounders that have been included in the evidence base; longitudinal research must
continue to take account of individual and social factors that have an impact upon health
irrespective of arts engagement.
In their seminal paper, Bygren et al. (1996) suggested that cultural participation might
underlie the different survival rates observed across social classes. Low income, identified by
Welin et al. (1992) as a residual confounder, was seen to be significant with respect to mor-
tality. When subsequently considering the association between cancer-related mortality and
cultural attendance, the BMJ team asserted that cultural attendance might serve as a ‘proxy
variable for other cancer preventive factors’ (Bygren et al., 2009: 71). As the association bet­
ween ­cancer-related mortality and cultural attendance could only be determined in urban
locations, the researchers concluded that arts participation might be part of a healthy and active
lifestyle and signal better access to information and health services. In much the same way,
Hyyppä et al. found that ‘economic status slightly modified the effect of leisure participation in
men, thus emerging as a tentative mediator between social capital and health’ (2007: 594). If we
are to fully explain these observations, attention needs to be paid to the relationship between
socio-economic factors (across multiple indicators) and levels of access to both health and cul-
tural resources. Many of the datasets underlying the international evidence base are available
for re-examination, and scope exists to draw upon UK-based datasets. Beyond the analysis
of extant data, there is scope for intervention into the questions making up the surveys, and
researchers at both DCMS and the HUNT Study indicated their willingness to consider this.
In the surveys underlying the evidence base, questions pertaining to arts engagement tend
to be centred on frequency. Yet, many of the studies in the evidence base acknowledge that
the qualitative, rather than quantitative, properties of arts engagement might be determin-
ing factors. If we are to unravel the association between arts engagement and health, much
greater attention needs to be paid to the particular experience of engaging with art, film,
music and theatre.
As the name suggests, cultural value was the starting point for the umbrella project un-
der which this research was conducted. The Cultural Value Project sought to ‘reposition
first-hand, individual experience of arts and culture at the heart of enquiry’ (Crossick and
Kaszynska, 2016: 7). A primary focus on cultural value – in advance of considering any
­second-order health and wellbeing benefits – has the welcome side effect of adding lucidity
to the debate around social capital.
One of the most interesting aspects of this study comprises the mechanisms that are
speculated upon in cases where a positive relationship between arts engagement and health
is observed, with the most compelling being psychoneuroimmunological and epigenetic
in nature. In the case of psychoneuroimmunology, the nervous, immune and endocrine
systems are implicated in psychosomatic mechanisms, stimulated by cognitive interactions
(such as arts engagement) and mediated by cortisol, the stress hormone. As we have seen,
social epidemiology admits that environmental factors can enhance susceptibility to disease.
In considering the social determinants of health, it is increasingly accepted that the converse
is also true, and an enriched environment can have health-protective effects. Bygren et al.

316
 Health effects of arts ­engagement

argue that arts engagement, as a form of environmental enrichment, can contribute to low-
ering stress, thus engendering a range of physical and mental health benefits.
This brings us to the emerging field of epigenetics, which suggests that environmental
alterations bring about changes in the non-coding part of the genome that determines which
genes are switched on or off at a given time. It has recently been discovered that epigenetic
shifts are communicable through the generations, meaning that positive or negative environ-
mental effects could be passed from parents to their children (Bygren, 2013). This has clear
implications in relation to the social determinants of health and their persistence through the
generations while also signalling a role for arts engagement as a form of environmental enrich-
ment. Let us turn now to a consideration of the ways in which cultural policy could respond.

Implications
However tentatively the findings of individual studies in the evidence base are reported, the
sense emerges that the relationship between arts engagement and health carries important
public health implications, which have consequences for cultural (and health) policy.
The aforementioned Culture White Paper makes intrinsic value synonymous with well-
being and life satisfaction, and it cites health as a social benefit, on the basis that ‘There
is considerable evidence of the beneficial effects of the arts on both physical and mental
health. This includes improvements such as positive physiological and psychological changes
in clinical outcomes; decreasing the amount of time spent in hospital; and improving mental
health’ (Department for Culture, Media & Sport, 2016: 15). This medley of positive health
impacts seems to encompass a consideration of arts therapies and health-orientated commu-
nity arts, with art in hospitals in between. When multifarious health impacts are hybridised
in this way, it is impossible to determine whether international longitudinal studies and/or
attendance at non-health-orientated arts events have been taken into account, but the ac-
companying bibliography and case studies (all of which are drawn from the UK) suggest not.
The significance of the finding that arts engagement is generally beneficial for health is
two-fold, carrying implications for cultural venues and health-orientated community arts
initiatives. In the case of cultural venues, the positive effects of arts engagement provide ar-
guments for the continued funding of arts activities, in and of themselves. This might serve
to convince evidence-based policy-makers of the continued necessity of supporting the arts
in a non-clinical environment. Added to this, the fact that research has been carried out at
a large scale – across whole populations and extended periods of time – potentially exempts
individual organisations from continually having to justify their value to the public purse.
That the individual, qualitative experience of arts engagement is taken to be paramount in
manifesting health effects may ultimately serve to focus attention away from quantitative
measurements of cultural value.
Notwithstanding the positive implications of this research for cultural venues, the fact that
these health benefits are only being accessed by an already privileged part of the population re-
mains a source of concern. It is here that health-orientated community arts organisations come
into their own, consistently reaching those experiencing mild to moderate mental health is-
sues, often in combination with physical conditions and often as a result of multiple deprivation.
In their insistence upon process over product, such organisations tend to be weighted towards
‘every­one’ rather than asking who and what defines ‘great’. The recommendation in the Culture
White Paper that clinical commissioning groups and local authorities mount a concerted effort
to support this work is a welcome one, offering a potential route for democratising access to arts
engagement as a form of environmental enrichment and a psychosocial determinant of health.

317
Table 20.1  Comparative table of studies in the evidence base

Authors, year, Dataset, population sample

country size, age Outcome measure Confounders Cultural activities Results

Welin et al., 1992, Men born in Gothenburg Mortality from cardio- Smoking, alcohol Reading, cinema, theatre, Middle-aged men with
Sweden in 1913 (selected in 1963 vascular diseases, consumption, previous concerts, museums/ a good ‘social network’
and 1973), n = 769 cancer and other stroke or heart attack, galleries, may be partly protected
60-year-olds; 220 causes to 1985 marital status, household against non-cancer
50-year-olds size, income mortality.
Bygren, Konlaan Swedish Survey of Living Survival to 31 Age, gender, education Cinema, theatre, concerts, Attending cultural
and Johansson, Conditions 1982–3, n = 15, December 1991 level, income, long-term live music, art/other events at least once
1996, Sweden 198 (12,675) participants disease, social network, exhibitions, museums, a week has a positive
aged 16–74 years smoking, physical reading, music-making, effect upon survival.
exercise singing in a choir
Konlaan, Bygren and Swedish Survey of Living Survival to 31 Age, gender, cash buffer, Cinema, theatre, concerts, ‘Attendance at cultural
Johansson, 2000, Conditions 1982–3, n = 10, December 1996 educational level, long- live music, art exhibitions, events may have a
Sweden 609 aged 25–74 term disease, smoking, museums, music-making, beneficial effect on
physical exercise reading longevity’ (p. 174).
Johansson, Konlaan Swedish Survey of Living Self-reported health Baseline health status, Cinema, theatre, concerts, ‘Those who became
and Bygren, 2001, Conditions 1982–3 and type of residence, live music, art exhibitions, culturally less active
Sweden 1990–1, n = 3, 793 aged geographical region of museums, music-making, between the first and
25–74 domicile, socio-economic reading second occasion,
status (level of education) or those who were
culturally inactive on
both occasions, ran
a 65% excess risk of
impaired perceived
health compared
with those who were
culturally active on both
occasions’ (p. 229).
Bygren et al., 2009, Swedish Survey of Living Cancer incidence Age, gender, chronic Cinema, theatre, live music, Rare and moderate
Sweden Conditions 1990–1, n = 9, in Swedish public conditions, disposable art gallery, museum cultural attendees
011 aged 25–74 death register to 31 income, educational were 3.23 and
December 2003 attainment, smoking 2.92 (respectively)
status, leisure time times more likely to
physical activity, urban/ die of cancer than
non-urban residency regular attendees in
urban areas.
Lennartsson and Swedish Panel Study of Survival to 1996 Age, gender, educational Cinema, cultural events, Solitary–active
Silverstein, 2001, Living Conditions of the level, functional reading books or participation (e.g.
Sweden Oldest Old 1992 n = 537 impairment, presence newspapers, hobbies gardening, hobbies)
(463 non-institutionalised) of heart or circulatory reduce mortality risk,
aged 75+ problems, tobacco use particularly in men.
Wang et al., 2002, Kungsholmen Project Onset of dementia Age, gender, education, Theatre, concerts, art ‘Engagement in mental,
Sweden 1987–9, n = 1, 810 aged between first follow-up cognitive functioning, exhibitions (social), social, or productive
75+ (1991–3), and second comorbidity, depressive painting, drawing activities was inversely
follow-up (1994–6) symptoms, physical (mental), sewing, knitting, related to dementia
functioning at baseline crocheting, weaving incidence’ (p. 1081).
(productive)
Sundquist et al., Swedish Annual Level-of- Coronary heart disease Socio-economic and Cinema, theatre, concerts, An association found
2004, Sweden Living Survey 1990–1, morbidity or mortality educational status, art exhibitions and between low social
n = 6, 861, 35–74 years to 31 December 2000 housing tenure, smoking, museums, choir participation and
age, gender, marital increased incidence
status, geographical of coronary heart
region disease morbidity and
mortality. Attendance
at the cinema, theatre,
concerts, art exhibitions
and museums had
(by far, in most cases)
the most significance
within the social
participation index.
(Continued)
Table 20.1  (Continued)

Authors, year, Dataset, population sample

country size, age Outcome measure Confounders Cultural activities Results

Hyyppä, Mäki, Mini-Finland Health Survey Survival during Residential stability, socio- Theatre, cinema, concerts, ‘Leisure participation
Impivaara and 1978–80, n = 5, 087, 20 years of follow-up economic status, marital art exhibitions, reading, predicts survival in
Aromaa, 2006, 30–59 years (first three years status and relations, listening to music, drama, middle-aged Finnish
Finland excluded) trusting relationships, singing, photography, men and its effect
alcohol consumption, painting and handicraft is independent of
smoking; mental health, demographic features,
self-reported chronic of health status and of
diseases or disabilities, several other health-
self-rated overall health related factors’ (p. 5).
Hyyppä, Mäki, Mini-Finland Health Survival during Residential stability, socio- Theatre, cinema, concerts, Leisure participation is
Impivaara and Survey 1978–80, n = 7, 24 years of follow-up economic status, marital art exhibitions, reading, associated with reduced
Aromaa, 2007, 217, 30–99 years (first five excluded) status and relations, listening to music, drama, all-cause mortality
Finland with attention trusting relationships, singing, photography, in women and men
to all-cause and alcohol consumption, painting and handicraft (related to economic
cardiovascular mortality smoking; mental health, status in the latter case).
(including strokes) up self-reported chronic
to November 2004 diseases or disabilities, self-
rated overall health
Agahi and Parker, Swedish Annual Level-of- Survival to 31 A range of symptoms and Reading books, hobby Women demonstrated
2008 Living Survey 1990–1 and December 2003 diseases, functional status, activities (e.g. knitting, a dose-response
Swedish Panel Study of age, gender, educational sewing, carpentry relationship between
Living Conditions of the level (as a measure of or painting), cultural overall participation
Oldest Old 1992, socio-economic position), activities (going to the and survival; men did
n = 1, 246 men and smoking, alcohol, body cinema, theatre, concerts, not. ‘Gender-specific
women aged 65 to 95 mass index. museums or exhibitions), analyses revealed that
dancing, playing musical participation in cultural
instruments, and choir activities was the
singing. only activity that was
significantly related to
survival in both men
and women’ (p. 865).
Lajunen et al., 2009, FinnTwin12 study all twins Becoming overweight Pubertal timing, socio- Television and video Engagement in
Finland born in Finland 1983–7, during follow-up at 14 economic status of family viewing, computer games, the arts in boys
n = 5, 184 twins aged and 17 years listening to music, playing was detrimental to
11–12 years musical instruments, the maintenance
reading, arts (drawing of recommended
or painting, handicrafts, weights. Among
woodwork, building scale girls, few individual
models) leisure activities
predicted becoming
overweight. However,
the ‘passive and
solitary’ cluster
carried the greatest
risk of becoming
overweight in late
adolescence.
Väänänen et al., Still Working survey Survival 1986–2004 Socio-demographic High cultural
2009, Finland (conducted by Finnish factors, socio-economic engagement
Institute of Occupational status, work stress, social independently
Health) 1986, n = 7, 922, characteristics, diabetes, associated with
working age hypertension decreased all-cause
mortality and external
causes of death (with
solitary activities
related to the former
and socially shared
cultural activities to the
latter).
(Continued)
Table 20.1  (Continued)

Authors, year, Dataset, population sample

country size, age Outcome measure Confounders Cultural activities Results

Kouvonen et al., English Longitudinal Study Waist circumference at Gender, age, ethnicity, Arts or music group No association was
2012, UK of Ageing waves 2 and 4, follow-up marital status, total found between social
n = 4, 280 age 50+ wealth, longstanding participation and
limiting illness, depressive waistline measurement
symptoms, smoking status in women. Men
and physical activity with an initial waist
measurement in the
recommended range
who participated
in education, arts
or music groups or
evening classes and in
charitable associations
were more likely to
maintain their waist
circumference.
Cuypers et al., 2012, HUNT Study 1995–7, n = 8, Obesity (body Physical activity, socio- Reading a book, listening Participation in cultural
Norway 408 13–19 years, followed mass index, waist economic status, pubertal to or playing music, doing activities guarded
up 2006–8, n = 1, 450 circumference, waist- timing and genetic homework, watching girls against being
24–30 years hip ratio and natural proclivity to obesity television overweight. This
development of the was amplified when
body over the life considering those
course) who were at the
recommended weight
at baseline and when
television was excluded
as an activity
 Health effects of arts ­engagement

Notes
1 It is interesting to note that, in seeking to detach the participatory arts from ideology while advo-
cating social impact, François Matarasso asserted that ‘participation is not a euphemism for com-
munity arts’ (1997: 4).
2 An example of best practice is to be found in Salford, where the organisation Start (founded
in 1993) has purchased a building and installed specialist studios for woodwork and ceramics.
To watch a film about some of the benefits accrued by service users, visit www.youtube.com/
watch?v=wbyVL0MrOy0.
3 Asterisk in References indicates inclusion in the evidence base.

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*Sundquist K, Lindström M, Malmström M, et al., Social Participation and Coronary Heart Disease:
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*Väänänen A, Murray M, Koskinen A, et al., Engagement in Cultural Activities and Cause-Specific
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*Welin L, Larsson B, Svardsudd K, et al., Social Network and Activities in Relation to Mortality from
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 Part V
Global issues, regional
cultural policy
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 21
Inequalities
When ­culture becomes a capital

Laurie Hanquinet

Introduction
Since Bourdieu’s famous ‘Distinction’ (1984), much has been written across society on the
unequal distribution of cultural resources or ‘cultural capital’ and its role in the production
and reproduction of social inequalities. As we will see, by unravelling the mechanisms be-
hind the acquisition of a taste for the arts and culture, Bourdieu’s theory revealed the extent
to which apparently personal and innate cultural preferences are influenced by people’s social
origin and position. They are hence – to some degree at least – class-based mechanisms. His
findings provided essential insights to re-think policies in favour of cultural democratization
and a wider access to culture.
However, Bourdieu’s views were most famously challenged by the figure of the ‘omnivore’
(Peterson & Simkus 1992; Peterson & Kern 1996; Peterson 2005). The omnivores would be
characterized by a diversity of tastes and cultural activities and not only by an appetite for high
culture. By crossing long-established boundaries between high and popular culture, the omni-
vores could arguably be the sign that society would have achieved cultural democracy through
policies supporting a variety of cultural forms, which would be p­ erceived as of equal value. We
will see that such a thesis does not hold, as the omnivore does not signify anything like the end
of social divisions and tensions based on unequal distribution of cultural resources. This rein-
forces the need to look at the composition of cultural capital. I will particularly outline ‘emerg-
ing’ forms of cultural distinction and their relationships with divisions of class and age. This
chapter concludes by discussing possible areas for future research that would take seriously into
account the reconfigurations of cultural capital and their implications for cultural policies.

Bourdieu and cultural capital

The notion of cultural capital has arguably been most often associated with Bourdieu’s ‘Dis-
tinction’ (1984). Yet, the notion already appears in his earlier contributions to the field of
the sociology of education. In ‘The Inheritors’ (1979), Bourdieu with his colleague Passe-
ron sought to unveil the role of school in the reproduction of inequalities and of structures
of power. They demonstrated the importance of cultural skills and knowledge acquired

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through familial transmission for the pupils’ educational achievements, and in doing this
they emphasized the role of cultural differences in social stratification. Schools were sup-
posed to be meritocratic institutions in which everyone’s own merit and abilities would be
rewarded; yet, the two scholars showed instead that schools were, for the members of the
dominant classes, a more comfortable place to develop oneself, as these institutions were
built on principles these classes valued and disseminated.
The exact definition given to cultural capital in ‘The Inheritors’ and later ‘Reproduction’
(1970), two key joint works with Passeron, is rather vague. As Robbins (2005) points out,
the concept of ‘cultural capital’ does not appear in the original – French – version of ‘The
Inheritors’. The authors used the terms ‘capital linguistique’, which was translated into ‘cultural
capital’. I would add that, in the French version, Bourdieu and Passeron extensively referred
to the idea of ‘cultural heritage’ (‘héritage culturel’), which acts as a capital (the word is used)
composed of knowledge, skills and savoir-faire transmitted by the parents to their privileged
children. Sullivan discussed how ‘[f ]orms of cultural capital such as a high level of linguistic
fluency, broad cultural knowledge, and a knowledge of the “rules of the game” of academic
assessments are an important part of what we mean by “academic ability”’ (2007, p. 9) whose
development is particularly promoted by certain groups of socially privileged parents.
In Bourdieu’s writings on the relationships between cultural consumption and social
stratification, the role of embodied cultural capital and of a taste for highbrow culture was
further discussed and examined. Similarly, the implications of the concept of cultural capital
for cultural policies became clearer. In his book written with Darbel (L’Amour de l’Art 1969),
he exposed a paradox. Art museums are open to everyone; they have opened their doors to
the whole society but remain mainly visited by the upper and middle classes. Far from being
(only) an economic issue, he interpreted this paradox as illustrating the differential impact of
cultural capital that refers first to the cultural knowledge inherited from the family and then
to the level of education. Both lead to an individual propensity or disposition to consume cul-
tural goods. Those who have been initiated to highbrow culture (and its institutions) by their
families early in their lives develop a stronger need for cultural participation. A culturally
favourable familial environment provides a set of skills useful to the educational trajectory
and hardly delivered by the school. Hence, those who can be seen as ‘initiated’ can count on
a ‘cultivated disposition’ thanks to the prime education by their parents.
This reveals that Bourdieu differentiated the level of education and embodied disposi-
tions, such as the aesthetic disposition. The latter is ability ‘to “decode” the formal [aesthetic]
structure of the cultural work’ (Lizardo 2008, p. 2). To be more specific, he distinguished
there three different forms of capital, embodied (‘incorporé’), objectified (‘objectivé’) and in-
stitutionalized (‘institutionnalisé’) (1979). The objectified forms of cultural capital refer to
material supports in which cultural capital can be expressed and transmitted, such as cul-
tural goods (writings, paintings, etc.) or monuments. These objectified forms require the
embodied capital to be fully decoded and appreciated (symbolic appropriation). It also ne-
cessitates economic capital or resources to be bought or accessed (material appropriation).
Institutionalized forms of cultural capital mean degrees and diplomas, which act as some sort
of autonomous (legal) validation or evidence of embodied cultural capital. We can see that
these two forms of cultural capital are intrinsically related with embodied capital, which is
eventually ‘le nerf de la guerre’ (i.e. the key issue) between the different definitions of cultural
capital. In his text, he discussed the role of these embodied dispositions that act – in a dis-
guised way – to enable their owners to decipher, interpret or, in more Bourdieusian terms,
symbolically appropriate goods: they help, for instance, to ‘consume a painting’ (‘consommer
un tableau’, 1979, p. 5).

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 Inequalities

His book on museum attendance offered a strategy to achieve a greater level of cultural
democratization that outlined a clear link between cultural and education policies. ‘The
­objective of cultural democratization is the aesthetic enlightenment, enhanced dignity, and
educational development of the general citizenry’ (Mulcahy 2006, p. 324). Dubois summa-
rized what he perceived as Bourdieu’s main policy recommendations from his book as follows:
1. Since the act of visiting museums (and by extension any cultural institution, and
by extension again, access to culture) is determined by previously acquired dispo-
sitions that render such a visit thinkable or not, an efficient democratization policy
should target these social dispositions.
2. Since the ability to understand and appreciate art is not innate but based on
codes that enable understanding and appreciation, a democratization policy
should aim at providing these codes to the social groups who have not acquired
them.
3. Reciprocally, since the meaning of art is not necessarily given in the content of
works of art, pedagogic support is required through explanatory panels or guides in
the cultural venues themselves.
4. Since the sacralization of culture leaves out ‘profane’ agents, a cultural democrati-
zation policy should de-sacralize and humanize cultural institutions in order not to
intimidate the visitors and to make them feel at ease. (Dubois 2011, p. 498)
Bourdieu here questioned the belief in the universal value of art that most cultural institu-
tions, but also cultural policy-makers shared at that time (Dubois 2011), i.e. that art could
touch anyone without any form of mediation. One just needed to put people in contact with
culture in order to make it accessible. Bourdieu denounced that ‘myth of the innocent eye’
(Goodman 2001, p. 74) and quasi-religious visions of culture. He showed how this view
participated in the reproduction of inequalities and the maintaining of the social hierarchies.
The most privileged classes appear naturally refined and ‘gifted’ and then superior to the other
classes while they have acquired the skills and codes to appreciate art and culture very early
in their lives through their parents. The educational system simply reinforces this unequal
distribution of cultural resources instead of counterbalancing it.
It should however be noted that Bourdieu advocated for a wider accessibility to the keys
and codes at play within high culture and, even though he actively demonstrated its role in
power struggles and hence its social nature, he hardly ever sought its complete dissolution.
Instead, he had an ‘ambivalent attitude to legitimate cultural content’ (Ahearne 2004, p. 22).
In a way it could be argued that Bourdieu helped de-mystify high culture as something
sacred but never pleaded for cultural relativization (Chaumier 2011). In many places in his
writings, high culture was still perceived as a tool for emancipation and enlightenment
(Chaumier 2010); similarly, he did not want to get rid of cultural classifications (i.e. he
does not seek to argue that all cultures are equal) as his emphasis on the role of autonomy
in the cultural field showed (Ahearne 2004, p. 71). This is also somewhat supported by his
description of popular aesthetics, which appears, as argued elsewhere, as an ‘anti-aesthetic’
­(Shusterman 1991; Bennett et al. 2009).
Yet, his denunciations of the role high culture played in social domination resonated with
a much more radical critique of high culture from artists and scholars, which became per-
ceived mainly if not only as Bourgeois and as a source of alienation. The universal status of
high culture was questioned as other forms of culture, especially popular forms, were valo-
rised. High culture, as the Bourgeois and elitist culture, was increasingly seen as one culture
among a plurality of other cultural expressions that could not be ordered. Note that Bourdieu

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was also critical of the ‘populist’ approaches of culture that emerged in the aftermath of May
68 (Ahearne 2004; Dubois 2011) and that he conceived as illusionary eventually springing
from conditions of domination and exploitation (Ahearne 2004, p. 22). This process I have
very succinctly described here had an important impact on high culture, which gradually
diminished in importance (on this subject, see Chaumier 2010), without ever being com-
pletely disregarded. But it certainly enabled other issues to gradually come to the fore and
to influence public policies in the cultural field. The development of the notion of ‘cultural
democracy’, as the recognition of non-elite cultures previously ignored, is a key illustration
of that. I will come back to that point in the next section.
In ‘Distinction’ (1984), Bourdieu continued his demonstration of the social nature of
tastes and discussed how tastes could not only reflect people’s natural inclinations but also
act as social markers. Bourdieu’s theory gives a quite complex picture of the – French – class
society showing how social position is built upon different forms of resources, economic,
cultural, social and, eventually, symbolic (i.e. social prestige). He particularly underlined the
importance of cultural capital and its different forms in the production and maintenance of
social stratification and inequalities. Those brought up in a culturally rich milieu are more
likely to develop aesthetic dispositions and to acquire cultural skills through the ‘habitus’
that enable them to secure more easily potentially advantageous degrees. The habitus is an
unconscious and systematic mechanism that converts social position into a set of dispositions,
skills and attitudes but also affective response to cultural objects, which inform people’s tastes
and cultural consumption.
­ egative –
Economic, cultural and social capitals give a certain symbolic value – positive or n
to individuals in society and contribute to the establishment of their lifestyle, as a set of
attitudes, preferences, practices and behaviours that can be classified and that classify people.
The different lifestyle dimensions are signals or markers that enable people to evaluate their
positions as well as others’ in a symbolic space. Bourdieu puts forward a homology principle
in which the lifestyle space is one-to-one related to social space. In that respect, highbrow
culture is linked to the upper classes (divided themselves into class fractions), who are the
richest in terms of economic and cultural capital. The upper classes seek to distinguish them-
selves from the middle classes and their associated middlebrow tastes and, overall, from the
popular classes who are defined by the ‘choice of the necessary’, which means that their social
and economic conditions prevent them from having more refined tastes.
Following Bourdieu’s work, many scholars have used his notion of cultural capital in
so many ways (for an example of review, see Lamont & Lareau 1988) that it may have
become a ‘catch all’ concept with a fluctuant meaning. This may be due to the fact that
Bourdieu himself defined it in various ways across his writings. Yet, with his essay on this
very concept in 1979 and other key works that developed his social theory of the game of
position-taking according to diverse capitals, such as ‘Distinction’, the concept took a clearer
shape. Cultural capital in its embodied forms, which is the most difficult to grasp, refers to
a set of internalized d­ ispositions that enable people to appreciate artistic and cultural items
but also to develop ‘good manners’ in the way they dress, talk and more generally behave.
People with high ­cultural capital appear to have naturally good taste, which gives them a
greater social value and helps them find a better position in the social space. In other words,
people with high cultural capital can decode the social world more effectively than those
with low cultural capital can. High cultural capital helps those who possess it to secure more
advantageous positions in society. Hence, cultural capital has a key role in power struggles
between social groups and even more so that it helps to hide structural conditions of inequal-
ities by making the dominated believe that others are naturally more equipped (in terms of

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 Inequalities

intelligence, taste, etc.) to achieve better positions in life. This is what Bourdieu has called
‘symbolic violence’ (Bourdieu & Wacquant 1992).
Although Bourdieu’s approach has kept a central place in cultural sociology and cultural
policy, more recent perspectives have questioned the force of the distinction between high
and popular culture.

The omnivore in an era of cultural democracy

For a long time in many Western countries, the focus of debate about cultural policies has been
on cultural democratization, aimed at widening access to high culture. The latter was seen
as intrinsically beneficial for all and therefore should be promoted in all the social strata. This
objective has never disappeared and is still a central concern of political and research agendas.
However, this is ‘a top-down approach that essentially privileges certain forms of cultural
programming that are deemed to be a public good’ (Mulcahy 2006, p. 234). As already dis-
cussed, it has unsurprisingly been accused of cultural elitism and of neglecting other forms of
culture. In addition, repeated findings by cultural participation surveys on the ‘elitist’ nature
of cultural audiences have de facto cast some doubt about the real impact of democratization
efforts. In this context, the idea of cultural democracy became very important in the ’70s
and has had a durable impact on the reflections of what should be funded and whom culture
belongs to by embracing the idea of cultural diversity. It represents a more active and more
participatory dimension of cultural policies than the notion of democratization. As a result,
the centrality of high culture in public policies itself has progressively decreased (on this
subject, see Chaumier 2010) but has never vanished. This is in line with the promotion of
popular and minorities cultures, which has been sustained by the cultural studies movement
for instance.
According to this bottom-up perspective, what matters is that people be ‘culturally ­active
on their own terms’: ‘this shift involves a broad interpretation of cultural activities that
comprises popular entertainment, folk festival, amateur sports, choral societies, and dancing
schools’ (Mulcahy 2006, p. 234). Such ideas move the debate away from any distinction
between high and popular culture. Some have feared this shift because it would arguably
leave the door open to a soulless, overriding, commercial culture controlled by the cultural
industries (Chaumier 2010) in a society where cultural standards were becoming vague.
Interestingly, this principle of cultural democracy has resonated well with the develop-
ment of a new notion in sociological research at the end of the ’90s, the ‘omnivore’. This
notion was quickly to become a real challenger for Bourdieu’s perspective but also helped
re-define the ways scholars should perceive cultural inequalities. In the ’90s Peterson and his
colleagues observed that a growing part of the population, although mainly from the mid-
dle and upper classes, tended to appreciate both high and low forms of culture (Peterson &
Simkus 1992; Peterson & Kern 1996). The idea is simple: the distinction that opposes high
culture to popular culture has been progressively losing its relevance in favour of one be-
tween omnivores and univores. The very principle of homology is weakened by the fact that
while upper social groups have more chances of liking high culture they also enjoy more
popular cultural forms. The lower social groups are thus considered ‘univores’, characterized
by a narrower range of activities and tastes. This movement from snob to omnivore could be
interpreted as the progressive disappearance of a certain kind of univore, defined by a dispo-
sition towards high culture. The rise of the omnivore is due, according to Peterson (2005), to
social structural and cultural changes, such as social mobility (see van Eijck 1999; Friedman
2012) or the aestheticization of popular culture (notably by the media).

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The idea of omnivorousness has received a lot of attention in the sociological literature. While,
at first sight, omnivorousness may have been the sign of some sort of cultural democracy, most
studies revealed that it does not actually question the pertinence of mechanisms of cultural dis-
tinction put forward by Bourdieu. Instead, it revises how they operate (on which values). In what
follows I have summarized what I conceive to be the three main lines of argument.

Omnivorous: a socially distinctive status

Research has shown the extent to which omnivorousness is a socially stratified phenome-
non. It constitutes a ‘boundary-drawing mechanism’ (Lizardo & Skiles 2013) differentiating
both horizontally and vertically social groups and their cultural referents. Omnivorousness
has been defined as a feature of younger highly educated people (Peterson & Kern 1996;
López-Sintas & Garcia-Álvarez 2002). However, the nature of the relation between om-
nivorousness and age appears more complex than the straightforward one with education.
Peterson more recently revealed that younger cohorts were nowadays less likely to enjoy
high culture (Peterson 2005; Rossman & Peterson 2005; Peterson & Rossman 2008), sug-
gesting a sort of de-intellectualization or a popularization of cultural referents. Drawing on
the terminology of Warde and Gayo-Cal (2009), younger cohorts are arguably increasingly
more likely to be omnivores by volume (in the number of tastes and activities favoured) than
by composition (a variety of tastes and practices characterized by diverse legitimacy). Warde
and Gayo-Cal (2009) indicated that it was not necessarily younger people who were the most
omnivorous but the middle-aged ones. This is supported by Donnat (2004) who identified
a group in middle age characterized by broad cultural resources. These ‘Branchés’ (which
could be translated as ‘connected’) have had greater exposure to diverse social contexts and
have taken on board a greater diversity of cultural referents.
It has also been argued that there are various ways of being ‘open to diversity’ to para-
phrase Ollivier (2008) and Bellavance (2008). Fridman and Ollivier (2004) even spoke of ‘an
ostentatious openness to diversity’, suggesting that political, social and cultural tolerance was
shown off by socially privileged people with a wide range of social, economic and cultural
resources. Omnivorousness is then more than a wide range of tastes but also as a ‘discrim-
inating attitude’ reflecting an ability to assess and value a diversity of cultural genres and
products (Warde et al. 2008). It re-affirms the link between omnivorousness and cultural
capital and distinction (Bryson 1996).
Omnivorousness is essentially related to social divisions and inequalities: the distinctive
value of omnivorousness comes from the fact that the omnivores have the skills to draw bound-
aries between themselves and others based on the wide range of resources they can mobilize
and have access to. More importantly, they achieve their special status by actually picking into
the cultural referents of other lower social groups and mixing them with their own in a very
specific way. Clearly, it is now more socially advantageous to look open and tolerant to a variety
of cultural genres, objects, forms than to only be appreciative of high culture. Put in Bourdieu’s
terms, those with the highest cultural capital have a more eclectic repertoire of tastes, which
selectively draws on distinctions between high and popular culture, as well as between younger
and older forms of culture, rather than destroying these distinctions (see Bellavance 2008).

A more inclusive highbrow culture?

Omnivorousness requires the maintenance of cultural hierarchies, but these hierarchies may
change over time. A few studies have envisaged that the content of highbrow culture could

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 Inequalities

have changed over time and become more open to a diversity of cultural referents. Different
authors have indeed discussed the extent to which the aesthetic criteria we rely on are the
product of a historical moment (DiMaggio 1982; Levine 1990; Hanquinet et al. 2014).
In addition to this, some cultural forms that were traditionally seen as belonging to
­popular culture are now integrated in apparently more eclectic patterns of taste. Yet, they
are also somewhat ‘transformed’ or reified in the process so that they could arguably be
perceived as new forms of ‘highbrow’ culture. This consequently creates a hierarchy within
cultural genres between the ‘good’ or refined disinterested popular culture versus the ‘bad’
or unsophisticated and commercial popular culture. Johnston and Baumann (2007) sought,
for instance, to understand why specific working-class dishes, such as hamburgers, became
appraised by specialist food magazines and food critics. They argued that some originally
popular food items have been transformed in such a way that people now need economic and
cultural capital to be able to afford and appreciate them. The burger becomes the ‘gourmet’
burger cooked with Kobe beef or beef from small local farmers that has enjoyed a healthy
outdoor lifestyle. This distinction within food items, here the hamburger, or more generally
cultural genres requires cultural knowledge and even, they put forward, a specific aesthetic
disposition to be made. This aesthetic disposition transformed food into works of art (p. 198),
capable to extract but also inject aesthetic values into traditionally popular items.
The culture of the upper classes may then have changed and appeared more inclusive, in
order to reflect historical changes in the field of cultural production (such as the valorisation
of popular traits in art, e.g. pop art). The upper classes may appear more omnivorous and
tolerant towards cultural expressions, from the lower classes for instance, but their selective
attitude and the way they consume these forms hardly reflect the emergence of cultural
democracy; rather, it shows new ways in which the upper classes can distinguish themselves
from the others.

Distinctive ways to be omnivorous

As we have just seen, omnivorous patterns of consumption rely on the appreciation of ‘high-
brow by-products’ of popular culture (such as the gourmet burger). Survey research is not very
well equipped to detect variations of taste within cultural genres. Therefore, omnivores can
appear at first sight more diverse in their consumption because surveys have identified groups
of people who declare to like ‘pop music’ or ‘rock music’ but haven’t been able most of the
time to investigate cultural hierarchies within ‘pop’ or ‘rock’ music (usually because of a lack
of space) and to differentiate ‘good’ from bad pop and rock music.
In addition, and this is connected to what precedes, the justifications for liking specific
artists or cultural items are crucial for understanding what being omnivorous means. Qual-
itative research indeed showed clearly that there are many ways to be culturally omnivorous
and to justify this orientation (Bellavance 2008; Ollivier 2008). In the study of British com-
edy undertaken at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, Friedman (2011) declared that, when
it came to comedy preferences, what people liked mattered less than how they appreciated it
(on this see also Holt 1998). He showed that the same cultural product (here a show) could
be enjoyed by people with very different sets of cultural resources and may appear quite
undistinctive that way. However, people differ not by their objectified cultural capital (i.e.
their reported tastes) but by their embodied cultural capital (i.e. their ‘styles of appreciation’).
This embodied cultural capital equips people with different – aesthetic-dispositions or ways
to appreciate, decode and interpret cultural products or performances. For culturally privi-
leged people, comedy cannot just be funny; it has to be clever, experimental; it has to make

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Laurie Hanquinet

you think. For the less culturally privileged, there is a real pleasure in simply laughing and
feeling good; comedy shows can be very familiar and rely on elements of everyday life.
High cultural capital can therefore not only rely on an appreciation of traditional highbrow
culture but include resources to appreciate emerging forms of culture in a socially valued
way. This difference between what to consume and how to consume also enables us to un-
derstand how the upwardly socially mobile may develop omnivorous profiles but actually
feel ‘culturally homeless’: they do not master the keys to a fully informed taste for traditional
highbrow culture, yet, they know too well the low social value of popular and mass culture
(Friedman 2012).

Emerging cultural capital

In what precedes, I have discussed the extent to which omnivorousness should not be con-
sidered as evidence for the irrelevance of Bourdieu’s theory of cultural distinction (on this
see also Coulangeon & Lemel 2007; Lizardo & Skiles 2016). I have argued more specifically
that omnivorousness has actually never challenged the existence of a high culture, but rather
reflects the fact that high culture has become more inclusive. Therefore what is socially and
aesthetically valorized by those with high cultural capital has been updated to reflect wider
cultural and social changes. Omnivorousness should not be perceived as the sign of a devel-
oping cultural democracy.
Yet, this sociological research in the context of an apparent growing eclecticism has had
a consequence on surveys of cultural participation in Europe and in the US, which have
rightly approached culture in a broad and encompassing way and included more and more
‘ordinary’ activities (such as shopping, going out, food consumption, etc.). Two new key
findings have emerged from these broader surveys. First, one of their recurrent and worrying
observations is that a rather large group of the population in various European countries is
socially isolated since they do not participate in ordinary activities such as going to a bar or
to a park, going out to see friends and family or to surf the Internet. In the French-speaking
part of Belgium, almost a third of the population could be conceived as culturally ‘disen-
gaged’, which means that they have a low cultural participation, whether be in terms of
­out-of-home or at-home activities (e.g. reading or listening to music, crafts), but also that
they tend to be less engaged in everyday social activities. Elders and people with low educa-
tional achievements are ­overrepresented in this group (see Callier & Hanquinet 2012).
Although these surveys never include all activities people are involved in and are in a way
always flawed, these results outline that the main cultural division in most European coun-
tries is between those who are culturally and socially active, whatever their activities are,
and those who are much less, rather than between those appreciative of high culture and the
amateurs of popular culture. This also shows a clear link between a low cultural participation
and a risk of social isolation and exclusion. In a way, the debate about the kind of culture—
elitist or popular—that should receive policy makers’ attention has started to appear outdated
when the increase of eclecticism suggests that what matters for well-being is to participate
and to culturally engage (Miles & Sullivan 2010).
Second, broadening the scope of cultural participation surveys has also enabled research-
ers to observe the emergence of new forms of distinction based on the adhesion to new or,
maybe more accurately, previously scorned values by the upper and middle classes, such as
tolerance, fun, inclusion, but also associated cultural products (such as comedy, comic books,
popular music, etc.). Related to this, a new body of literature on the notion of ‘emerging
cultural capital’ has recently been developed (Prieur & Savage 2013). Prieur and Savage

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 Inequalities

re-affirmed a long-forgotten key aspect of Bourdieu’s theory: its relationality. For them,
cultural capital should not be seen as ‘fixed’ but as ‘floating’ as it mirrors transformations of
the cultural field. And to illustrate this argument, they both reflected on Prieur’s research
in Aalborg for and on the UK’s Cultural Capital and Social Exclusion Project. The two research
projects present striking similarities. They both show an opposition between those who are
widely culturally engaged across a range of specific tastes and practices and those who ap-
pear to be much less engaged from a cultural point of view (similar findings have also been
put forward by the BBC’s Great British Class Survey (Savage 2015)). They argued that this
new configuration around the tension between engagement versus disengagement results –
among other things—from the decline of traditional highbrow culture but not its disappear-
ance nor the decline of its association with the highly educated. Yet, it has to compete with
new socially valued cultural references coming from non-Western cultures, mass culture
when reflexively appropriated but also a scientific culture.
Of course, the widening of people’s cultural tastes and activities is dependent on resources
unevenly distributed among people according to their education and social class but also by
other characteristics such as their ethnic origin and their age. Savage et al. (2013) have shown
how both highbrow (classical music, attending stately homes, museums, art galleries, jazz,
theatre and French restaurants) and emerging cultural capital (video games, social network
sites, the Internet, playing sports, watching sports, spending time with friends, going to the
gym, going to gigs and preferences for rap and rock) play a role in the formation of s­ocial class
in the UK. For instance, the established middle class, the second most advantaged, shows
high scores on both, and even the elite, although more invested in (traditional) highbrow
culture, have a moderate knowledge of emerging cultural forms. This reveals that the two
most advantaged social classes in the UK are able to competently draw on very diverse cul-
tural forms when needed, which gives them more flexibility in the social world. Savage et al.
(2015) subsequently argued that ‘emerging cultural capital is […] not about liking popular
culture per se, but rather demonstrating one’s skill in manoeuvring between the choices on
the menu, and displaying one’s careful selection of particular popular artists; through one’s
ability to pick, choose and combine the “very best” of popular culture’ (p. 115). What is
put forward here is the ability of socially privileged individuals to justify their tastes of less
socially sanctified cultural forms in a very intellectual and distinctive fashion. This in itself
set them apart from others. In addition to that, those people have wider resources to adapt
to a greater number of socially diverse situations, which represents a non-negligible asset.
Moreover, good or high emerging cultural capital also appears key in the constitution of
some specific classes of the typology used by Savage et al., such as the ‘new affluent workers’
and the ‘emergent service workers’. While the first possesses more economic resources than
the other, they both tend to include a high proportion of young people, which highlights
once again the role of age.
Age has become essential in the understanding of the development of new forms of dis-
tinction1 as these emerging forms of cultural capital tend to be more strongly associated with
younger generations. A most telling example is the rise of the ‘new screens’ (computers,
game consoles, smart phones, tablets, etc.) (Donnat 2016). The Internet, the World Wide
Web and associated social networking sites, blogs and groups have abolished to some extent
the boundaries between cultural producers, intermediaries and consumers. We now live in
a connected world, and this has transformed our lifestyle, identities and sense of belonging.
This, nonetheless, creates gaps between diverse social classes but also between generations
since social media or other blogs, just to name one aspect, provide ways to be heard and to
be influential for those who have the skills to use them. Donnat shows the extent to which

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these new screens are the domain of the young, urban and educated, which are nonetheless
culturally active outside the home, while television attracts older and less-educated people to
a greater extent. More positively, the Internet also offers new (maybe more accessible) means
to reach and communicate with young populations and to tease their cultural appetite. It can
also create new spaces to discuss and debate; cultural institutions can use these to give a more
active role to young and less young citizens in the shaping of their cultural programmes and
in the making of culture as a public good.
These considerations on the influence of age on emerging cultural capital could also
incite us to consider that high culture is renewing itself as it progressively includes new
items and aesthetic criteria. Bellavance (2008), for instance, designed a ‘theoretical space of
cultural items’ based on two dimensions, an opposition between high and low culture and
another one differentiating new and old. This creates four key theoretical configurations
of tastes, contemporary (high/new), classic (high/old), pop (low/new) and folk (low/old).
It has become problematic to see high culture as being simply embodied in traditional forms
of culture (e.g. disposition to appreciate opera or classical music). An increasing enthusi-
asm shown to more contemporary, cosmopolitan forms of culture—in line with the post-
modernist tendency—participates in the reconfiguration of cultural capital (DiMaggio  &
Mukhtar 2004). Yet, in order to deepen our understanding of these shifts in the structures
and content of cultural capital, refined empirical analysis able to differentiate process of age,
cohort or period effects must be further developed (a good example is Reeves 2016).
In conclusion, my exploration of the content of cultural capital also indicates that, as
important as the question of cultural engagement is for the issues of social isolation and
exclusion, it would be also erroneous to conclude that the tension between high and pop-
ular cultural forms has nowadays become irrelevant for policy makers. It cannot simply be
assumed that high culture is in decline and is not useful anymore to consider issues of social
stratification, as the position of those Savage et al. called the ‘Elite’ shows. It is still perceived
with a very high social value because it is the one privileged by the educational system, and
the state in the allocations of resources (Savage 2015) and most established cultural institu-
tions. Yet, if older forms of distinction persist, new ones emerge, and those sociologists have
­labelled ‘omnivores’ are often those who master both forms of distinction. These omnivores,
who could be perceived as ‘engaged’, do not like ‘everything indiscriminantly’ (Peterson &
Kern 1996, p. 904) and (maybe not consciously but) carefully ‘pick and mix’ what can be
socially advantageous for gaining a better position in the social game. They draw on a wide
range of cultural items, including those traditionally defined as popular but do not consume
them as such: either they create their own classifications with popular genres applying their
own vision of what is good or bad, or they justify their appreciation of rather common genres
in a more highbrow manner. New cultural distinctions are particularly interesting as they
embrace at first sight authentic, playful or even open and cosmopolitan values and are some-
times built in opposition to serious, snobbish and pretentious cultural forms ( Johnston and
Baumann showed this very well with the gourmet cuisine); they are nevertheless sources of
divisions and require resources unevenly distributed across society.

Possible areas for future research

In this chapter, I have attempted to show that the concept of omnivorousness never re-
ally challenged Bourdieu’s social theory. Empirical research has shown that omnivorous
patterns are entangled in new forms of distinction. Cultural refinement might no longer
take the form of elitist cultural snobbishness, but rather that of a cosmopolitan openness;

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 Inequalities

it still represents a way to operate symbolic violence on those—usually from a lower social
­background—who are defined by a lack of cultural tolerance.
Moreover, and maybe more importantly, omnivorousness was actually never really devel-
oped as a theory (Gayo 2016). It simply coined an empirical manifestation of some changes
in the structuration of cultural capital, but it was certainly not the sign that we have now
achieved cultural democracy in which each culture would be seen as of equal value. As any
form of capital, cultural capital is characterized by the amount of resources (‘the volume’)
and the types of resources (‘the composition’) one has. Bourdieu saw the world in relational
terms and could very well envisage that his theory would have to be updated. As Robbins
reminded us, ‘Cultural capital does not possess absolute value which is quantifiable. It only
possesses value in exchange and the exchange is a social struggle as much as a struggle of
cultural value judgment’ (2005, p. 23).
On this point, the contribution of those working on ‘emerging forms of cultural capital’
has been essential: they showed that new cultural items have progressively become valorised
in the society while being not symbolically accessible to everyone. These new resources, I
have argued, have not seriously questioned the link between cultural capital and high cul-
ture, but their close examination would actually indicate that there might now be different
high cultures, which can for instance take a more classic or contemporary outlook. This
can complicate the task of those who advocate for cultural democratization, as new cultural
forms have emerged, such as the new screen cultures, and have brought new challenges in
terms of accessibility and of an even distribution of resources.
This outlines that one of the key areas for future research concerns the structure of cul-
tural capital and how new cultural forms may become new resources involved in mechanisms
of social stratification. This includes identifying these cultural forms but also the strategies of
distinction in which they are involved and assessing the actual social and symbolic value these
cultural forms give to people who draw on them. This is essential to evaluate the extent to
which taking part in new activities or developing a taste for new cultural genres can actually
be perceived as ‘capital’ that forms an essential asset in the competitive social field. Keeping
track of these constant changes in the formation of cultural capital is essential as it can directly
affect the ways culture is and should be defined, measured and valued by decision-makers.
Another area for future research concerns the link between place and culture. The study
of this link has already received a great deal of attention. Research has pointed to the am-
bivalent role of culture in driving new urban dynamics (Zukin 1987). Florida’s controversial
theory of the ‘creative’ class (2002) has influenced policies to support the development of a
cultural, educational and recreational infrastructure (Mulcahy 2006) in the hopes of attract-
ing these creative ‘trendy’ people who carry cultural and economic capital useful to the de-
velopment of cities. This thesis eventually perceives culture through the economic benefits
it could bring (Gilmore 2014) and disregards potential negative aspects in terms of displace-
ment and gentrification (see Peck’s 2007 critique), while it has been established that gentri-
fication is not a neutral process and should be critically considered (Slater 2006). Yet, less has
been said about the importance of urban cultures in the re-configuration of cultural capital
and the development of new forms of distinction and inequalities. It is likely that some forms
of emerging cultural capital would hold an urban dimension. The ‘emergent service workers’
are, for instance, young urbanites (Savage et al. 2013). Similarly, in a recent article, I show
that art museum visitors mainly come from areas with high and moderate density and that
the socio-demographic but also urban characteristics of their place of residence can be related
to the way visitors’ cultural capital is composed (Hanquinet 2016). This reveals a possible
fracture between (semi-) urban areas and rural areas when it comes to cultural participation.

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Finally, in his work, Bourdieu has repeatedly shown the importance of the educational
level in cultural participation and in the development of a highbrow taste. This has been
confirmed by the omnivorous thesis as well. However, we know little about the reasons for
such a link (for a notable exception, Reeves and de Vries 2016) and this should be further
examined as the outcomes of this research would be essential to build education and cultural
policies that work hand-in-hand. Cultural policies for a wider accessibility to culture should
complement and not supplement a clearer insertion of arts training (whether it be knowledge
in arts or active art practices) in the educational programmes, which would show openness
to diversity in the cultures they promote.

Note
1 See the special issue in Poetics called ‘Cultural sociology and new forms of distinction’ edited by
Friedman et al. (2015).

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 22
Cultural policy and
­creative industries
Susan Luckman

This chapter examines the complex and often fraught scholarly relationship between cul-
tural policy and the emergence of what has come to be identified as the creative industries.
It charts the ascendency of creative industries’ agendas out of the academy and into national
policy, especially via the high profile and highly influential British creative industries model
championed in the early 2000s by the Blair government’s Department for Media, Culture
and Sport, which was itself a further development of the short-lived Australian Creative
Nation framework. It will explore how creative industries approaches have settled down
through the lens of two key sites for action and concern. First, the rise of creative place
making including, following Florida, the policy fetish for urban redevelopment focused
upon attracting creative workers. Second, drilling down to the employment coalface of cre-
ative industries, it draws attention to the exclusions of the contemporary creative workforce
(particularly those of gender) as but one means to examine what has been lost in the shift
from cultural policy to creative industries, namely, the focus on socio-cultural inclusion. It
argues that the adoption within creative industries policy and scholarly approaches of the
US urban policy-driven ‘creative class’ ideas of economist Richard Florida represents a sig-
nificant de-coupling of creative industries from cultural policy. Coupled with an emphasis
on the utopian expansive possibilities of digital technology, this served to consolidate the
creative industries as a commercially focussed championing of entrepreneurial creativity, at
the expense of arts and cultural policy as social goods with value beyond that which can be
economically defined.

From ‘cultural’ to ‘creative’ industries

In keeping with the global focus of this collection, the shift from cultural policy/cultural
industries to creative industries has itself been something of a highly mobile feast, albeit
one heavily though not exclusively concentrated until recently within the English-­speaking
world. As is well documented, the transition is not a benign one with much being, and
remaining, at stake. It has also never been a clean break but rather is the result of a con-
fluence of scholarly and policy ideas around, and institutional responses to, multiple global
pressures. Key among them are the economic restructurings of the 1970s onwards that saw

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manufacturing shift from the Global North to cheaper labour cultures elsewhere, leading
to a concurrent pressure on governments to find jobs through the development of new
­k nowledge-intensive sectors. Within universities too, business models were changing and
becoming more entrepreneurial and focussed upon making an economic case for the per-
sonal and community value of both degrees and research. However cultural policy as it ini-
tially emerged in the mid-twentieth century was largely focussed upon arts funding—what
should be funded and how?—and was primarily concerned with this in relation to relatively
elite art forms: opera, orchestras, theatre and the fine arts, galleries and museums, as well
as the role of national broadcasting corporations as flagships of national identity. This more
traditional and aesthetic gatekeeping role for cultural policy came under critique from those
concerned with not only the extension of access to so-called ‘high culture’ as part of a larger
social-democratic civilising agenda for the arts and culture, but also in light of wider social
and academic movements in the 1960s and 1970s that challenged existing definitions of
‘acceptable’ culture. Strongly influenced by the rise of British cultural studies approaches to
culture, which following the work of Raymond Williams have defined culture more broadly
as a ‘whole way of life’, cultural policy then came to mean more than betterment defined
in terms of access to subsidised elite art forms and free access for all to museums. Instead,
more profound questions regarding diversity and whose culture counts came to the fore.
Tony Bennett’s work later extended this approach, applying a Foucauldian understanding of
governmentality to develop a more expansive model of cultural policy out of cultural studies
(O’Brien 2014; O’Regan 1993; Turner 2015).
It is also from within this context further enabled by a post-1960s shift in political fo-
cus towards a greater emphasis on ‘do it yourself ’ practices, social inclusion and alternative
­economies that O’Connor, drawing upon ground-breaking policy engagements by G ­ arnham
and Bianchini, locates the emergence of a progressive cultural industries agenda extending
out of a concern for arts policy beyond the rarefied worlds of establishment institutions.
This particular incarnation of cultural policy as cultural industries was embodied in the
short-lived but influential industrial regeneration activities of the Greater London Council
(GLC) between 1979 and 1986 (Hesmondhalgh and Pratt 2005; McGuigan 2004; O’Brien
2014; O’Connor 2010, p. 27; Pratt 2005). Unafraid of the linking of ‘art’ and ‘market’, the
socio-economic inclusion via micro-enterprise policies of the GLC provided a model for
creativity as a driver of urban renewal and place-making and cultural employment as a valu-
able tool for socio-economic inclusion. Subsequently this social enterprise focus grew into
a wider, more economically focussed policy agenda emphasising the development of small,
local creative businesses and capacity, especially as the answer to stalled growth in areas hard
hit by a decline in traditional industries, notably manufacturing (O’Connor 2010, p. 31).
Moving forward into the 1990s, it was the particular confluence of the politico-economic
context of post-Fordist manufacturing decline, neo-liberal policies of winding back state
support and funding (and with it a shift to more individualised and entrepreneurial responses
to social-cultural issues, iconically represented by political leaders such as Thatcher in the
UK and Reagan in the UK), the game-changing production and consumption practices of
Computer-Mediated Communication (CMC), and what came to be identified variously as
the ‘information’, ‘knowledge’ or ‘immaterial’ economy, which gave rise to the emergence
of the idea of the creative industries.
The ‘New Labour’ UK government of Prime Minister Tony Blair set in the early days of
their office an agenda that quickly became an international model for the championing of the
economic significance of what had been previously identified as cultural industries, or sim-
ply the ‘arts sector’. The full flowering of the UK’s creative industries agenda was achieved

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through the rising to greater policy power the then newly configured Department of Culture,
Media and Sport (DCMS), which was formerly the more conservative (literally) historically
focussed Department of National Heritage. However the coupling of creativity with the affor-
dances of digital technology and IP championed by the Blair government had a slightly earlier
public policy life in the short-lived but significant Australian government policy statement
Creative Nation: Commonwealth Cultural Policy. Released in the dying days of the Australian
­Labor Party government of Paul Keating, the Department of Communication and the Arts’
1994 Creative Nation document foreshadowed that a culture-driven economy was an ideal
model for approaching ‘the information revolution and the new media not with fear and
loathing, but with imagination and wit. We have to see the extraordinary opportunities for
enjoyment and creativity it contains’ (Department of Communication and the Arts 1994).
Moving beyond a traditional cultural emphasis on the arts and formal cultural institutions, in
language now familiar within creative industries discourse, it firmly established this cultural
policy as ‘also an economic policy’:

Culture creates wealth. … Culture employs. … Culture adds value, it makes an essential
contribution to innovation, marketing and design. It is a badge of our industry. The level
of our creativity substantially determines our ability to adapt to new economic imper-
atives. It is a valuable export in itself and an essential accompaniment to the export of
other commodities. It attracts tourists and students. It is essential to our economic success.
(Department of Communication and the Arts 1994, no page)

The release of Creative Nation occurred at a time when cultural policy in Australia was also
developing a strong academic presence with Tony Bennett at Griffith University forming
the Institute for Cultural Policy Studies in 1987. This was to eventually provide the basis
for the Australian Key Centre for Cultural and Media Policy established in 1996 under the
Directorship of Tony Bennett then Tom O’Regan, and influenced by Ian Hunter along with
Jeffrey Minson, David Saunders and Dugald Williamson. The Key Centre brought together
scholars from across Brisbane’s three universities including Colin Mercer, Jennifer Craik,
Stuart Cunningham, Terry Flew, Gillian Swanson, Peter Anderson, Julian Thomas, Patricia
Wise, Brad Sherman, Denise Meredyth and Graeme Turner. Its members explored critical
cultural policy studies in areas such as cultural citizenship and education; museum policy and
cultural heritage; early attempts to engage with digital transformations, especially in relation
to IP; and Indigenous media and cultural policy.
Aligning with broader trends around cultural policy, especially as informed by politi-
cal economy perspectives such as those of Nicholas Garnham, Graham Murdock and James
­Curran, the Key Centre also had as a core focus a concern common to much mid-twentieth
century cultural policy, namely, the maintenance of a diversity of voices and the protection of
local and/or minority cultures in the face of globalised cultural industries, especially the domi-
nance of American film, television and music (Cunningham 1992; O’Regan 1993). Against the
broader backdrop in the 1980s and 1990s of increased market deregulation, broadcasting policy
emerged as a core cultural policy focus at this time representing a commitment to providing a
corrective to the commercial market and instead reflecting a faith that “demand should not just
cater to existing tastes” (Oakley 2004, p. 25). Therefore just as the rise of national broadcast-
ers such as the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation), ABC (Australian Broadcasting Cor-
poration), CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and other similar organisations in the
mid-twentieth century represented the desire to guarantee access to a diversity of local voices
and minority tastes including for high cultural products as part of a ‘civilising’ impetus, amid

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the liberalisation of global media and the rise of multi-national free trade agreements in the late
1980s and beyond, the issue of media diversity and ownership emerged as a key cultural policy
arena in Australia and elsewhere. But the vision of Creative Nation was never to be realised in its
home nation with the election in Australia of the conservative Howard Liberal government in
March 1996 signalling an end to the kind of approaches it advocated. However the ideas were
shortly to rise phoenix-like from these ashes following the election in May 1997 of Tony Blair’s
Labour Party in the UK, which saw in its championing of the creative industries the realisation
of the post-‘subsidised arts’ approach to intellectual property-driven cultural economic devel-
opment outlined in Creative Nation.

What counts in the shift from ‘culture’ to ‘creative’

Definitions of the cultural industries have long emphasised that their defining quality is the
production of ‘aesthetic’ or ‘symbolic’ goods or services, and thus the basis for cultural policy
around them had focussed on inclusion and contestations over the breadth of what counts
as ‘cultural’. The key break represented by the shift to the discourse and framing of cre-
ative industries is an emphasis on their being those segments of the economy concerned with
the generation of intellectual property (Banks 2007; Flew and Cunningham 2010; Garnham
2005; Hartley 2004, 2005; Hesmondhalgh 2002; Pratt 2005); that is, of a shift in emphasis
from aesthetic to economic goods and value. On account of the high profile of creative
industries development as a key platform of the Blair government discussed above, the De-
partment of Media, Culture and Sport (DCMS) definition of the sector is illustrative and
remains influential. Their listing of the fields of the creative industries comprises: advertis-
ing; ­a rchitecture; the art and antiques markets; crafts; design; designer fashion; film, video
and photography; software, computer games and electronic publishing; music and the visual
and performing arts; publishing; television; and radio (DCMS 2006). The inclusion of high
volume software and digital content industries here is particularly illustrative of this focus on
intellectual property as a marker of creative industries.
With the shift to a united ‘industry’ identity came the strategic capacity for claims to be
made as to the sector’s size and significance as a contributor to GDP and hence assertions of
its value can be made in the dominant economic terms of the day. Within the framing of
creative industries, the arts are reinvented as a driver of innovation and economic growth,
rather than sector in need of public funding. The inclusion of software here is emblematic
of what is at stake in the shift from cultural policy to creative industries. While arguably
the “least cultural of [creative industries] activities”, the inclusion of ‘software’ in measure-
ment data on the economic performance of creative industries in the UK, and elsewhere, is
“single-handedly” responsible for providing the economic basis upon which claims to the
value of the creative industries are based (Campbell 2014, p. 999). Such a focus on value
determined primarily in economic terms has in turn led to a policy focus on developing a
statistical picture of the sector’s size, scale and contribution to national economies and the
emergence out of academia of new tools for doing so. One of the most influential models
for this once again represented a transfer of ideas from Brisbane to London. Established in
2005, the Queensland University of Technology’s ARC Centre of Excellence for Creative
Industries and Innovation (CCI) brought together a number of the key figures involved in
the latter iteration of the Australian Key Centre for Cultural and Media Policy alongside
expertise from other disciplines, notably economics. The Centre for Excellence is itself the
embodiment of global flows of cultural workers and creative industries’ policy development

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as its members have been important players in the economic mapping and understanding of
creative industries globally. For example, this Australian expertise has contributed ­d irectly
to policy development in the United Kingdom (Flew and Cunningham 2010; Higgs,
­Cunningham and Bakhshi 2008; Potts and Cunningham 2008), and to some extent in Asia,
especially China where creative industries discourses have been enthusiastically adopted by
city and regional governments (Keane 2009, 2013).
The shift in emphasis from cultural policy to creative industries continues to come in
for criticism. Artists themselves have often been at the forefront of critiques of the shift,
principally on account of the economically rationalist way it enables the measurement and
qualification of the value of a creative practice in largely, if not purely, economic terms.
What is at stake here—especially in terms of the shift from creative work being defined and
valued no longer in terms of its cultural or aesthetic contribution but rather its economic—is
­exemplified by the case of the craft sector, which in 2013 in the United Kingdom expe-
rienced an attempt to distance the larger, more ‘big end of town’–friendly, contemporary
and more easily scalable digital intellectual property generation and distribution (software)
businesses from its own statistically messier, smaller scale, frequently individualised and of-
ten part-time (and hence dismissed as amateur or naïve) creative production. A battle over
craft’s official status as a British government-recognised creative industry erupted following
the release of a DCMS consultation paper that explosively floated the idea that given that
craft businesses tend to be sole trader operations (88 per cent according to a 2012 United
Kingdom Crafts Council–commissioned study: BOP Consulting 2012, p. 4), and are fre-
quently thus “too small to identify in business survey data” (DCMS 2013, p. 14), data on the
sector should no longer be collected (DCMS 2013). Such an action would have had all sorts
of flow-on ramifications in terms of support and recognition. Difficulties with obtaining
accurate data on craft employment are not unique to the UK, and certainly the sector con-
tinues to present ongoing challenges in this regard. However and despite these difficulties, in
no small part as a result of strong lobbying led by the highly organised UK Crafts Council,
the DCMS backed down from the mooted possibility. Thus the DCMS continues to gather
figures for ‘crafts’ alongside its other recognised creative sectors.
But what is clear here is that the presence of crafts disrupted the ‘economic imaginary’
that is the creative industries according to the DCMS model; unlike the naturalised presence
of software industries, which enables the central and unquestioned narrative of creativity as
an increasingly important driver of contemporary economic growth without any question-
ing of its ‘culturally creative content’ (Campbell 2014, p. 999). All this occurred ironically
at a time of huge growth for the design craft sector and renewed consumer interest in the
artisanal, handmade and bespoke, with small-scale manufacturing also being championed
by various governments as a potential way to stem the loss of industries to cheaper labour
markets offshore (Luckman 2015a). Moreover, and while they may be statistically difficult
to track, self-employment and sole trader businesses are on the rise across the creative sector
and beyond; a development often encouraged in government policy yet masking consider-
able un-and under-employment in the creative sector. Patently the creative industries as a
policy framing has been particularly attractive to, and hence influential in, governmental
policy circles precisely on account of its hardwiring of creativity to innovation and economic
growth within knowledge economies. Since the 1980s, a giant shift in the commercial land-
scape has seen creative entrepreneurial cultural production shoot to centre stage of govern-
ment and corporate planning, research and development, and nowhere has this been more
evident than in the uptake of creativity as a driver of place-based renewal.

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Susan Luckman

From cultural policy to creative places

For several decades now as part of the larger focus on the economic potential of creativity
that underlies the shift from cultural to creative industries, there has been a parallel emphasis
upon creativity-led urban regeneration strategies, which have become established mainstays
of governmental cultural policy around the world. As indicated above, the shift from cul-
tural to creative industries was, in its iconic emergence in the UK at least, in many ways
a national-level manifestation of the pioneering small, local economic development of the
GLC, and then later work in Manchester led by scholars at the Manchester Institute of Pop-
ular Culture (MIPC). Place-based cultural policy agendas for economic development and
population management have been reinvigorated by such thinking. The need to innovate,
and renovate, in this way has been felt especially strongly in cities, regions and suburbs hit
hard by the move of manufacturing to offshore locations in search of cheaper labour and
laxer regulation.
A number of different approaches to creativity-led urban renewal have become so iconic
they are deployed—with varying degrees of success—around the world. One of the earliest,
which arose out of the confluence of new ideas around urban planning as well as arts, cre-
ativity and cultural policy, is the Baltimore or Boston model of waterfront/docklands rede-
velopment, which turns post-industrial wastelands into waterside consumption-based leisure
and residential playgrounds. Often such development catalysed around an iconic cultural
institution as an ‘anchor tenant’, such as the Tate in Liverpool or Guggenheim in B ­ ilbao. In
this latter case, often referred to as the ‘Guggenheim’ Model or ‘the Bilbao Effect’, increased
visitor numbers drive ancillary creative and tourism industries as a springboard for economic
renewal. The creative industries are a factor here for not only, inherently, are such spaces sites
for architectural innovation, in many instances artists and creative start-ups have led the way,
seeking out such sites on account of their affordability prior to redevelopment. After renewal,
creative businesses are often invited by policy-makers to cluster in such spaces (if they can
afford the now-inflated rents) to facilitate cool and distinctive creative clusters, feeding into
the lifestyle goods and experiences on offer, the general feel of the place, as well as the local
night-time economy. Waterfront redevelopment has now become a mainstay of the creative
consultant or city council urban activation toolkit, and examples can be found around the
globe: the initial Baltimore and Boston revitalizations were soon followed by similar de-
velopments in cities as widely spread as London, Melbourne, Toronto, Singapore (Clarke
Quay), Sydney, Salford (with the BBC northern headquarters as its centrepiece) and Liver-
pool (Tate Gallery). Such approaches are grounded in attracting desirable visitors and their
disposable income; this latter approach in particular is heavily dependent upon tourism and
the deliberate locating of a desirable cultural institution in what is otherwise seen as a highly
undesirable or under-developed visitor location. Global competition for such institutions is
intense; there are only so many Tates and Guggenheims to go around, though other inde-
pendent philanthropic developments can serve a similar purpose such as the privately funded
MONA (Museum of Old and New Art) in Hobart, Australia, where the ‘MONA effect’ has
proven successful in re-energising local tourism and attracting new and often quite wealthy
visitors from around the world. There’s a strong sense across all these creativity-driven pol-
icy engagements of place-making as a subtle interacting of the social and the material; of an
Actor-Network Theory sensibility or a more-than-human catalysation of place and people,
that is, one that “acknowledges the profound and multiple significances of non-humans
[including the agency of the affordances of the materiality of place] in social life” (Nimmo
2011, p. 109). The creative industries in this context are variously mobilised precisely because

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of not only their economic but their cultural role in society. Beyond simply building locales
physically, creativity is seen as the key driver that will populate them culturally, socially and
economically; it will create the ‘vibe’. We can consider this variously: as an ecology in terms
of Landry’s ‘soft infrastructure’ (2006); culturally in terms of Williams’ ‘structures of feeling’
(1973; also see Banks 2007, p. 148); or more sceptically, though no less accurately, in terms
of “Alfred Marshall’s (1890) notion of the ‘atmosphere’ of a place giving it a competitive
advantage” (O’Connor 2010, p. 43).
With US commercial cultural products already a powerful IP-driven sector of the
­economy with global reach, it is in this incarnation—creativity as driver of urban p­ olicy—
that, as Andrew Ross has written, we can see the ‘turn to creativity’ in the US (Ross 2007,
p. 27). The particular hardwiring of place and creativity championed within U ­ S-driven
approaches to urban planning intersected with creative industries-style approaches in
other parts of the globe, on the back of the high-profile writing and consultancy work of
­A merican economist Richard Florida. Florida’s 2003 bestseller The Rise of the Creative Class
initiated a wave of interest globally among city officials and urban planners in attracting and
keeping the knowledge workers seen as essential to economic growth in the new economy.
Thus, much of the focus around creative industries in the first decade of the twenty-first
century came to be concerned with the competition between cities for an idealised highly
mobile global pool of creative talent. Effectively bringing together decades of leading North
­A merican scholarship on creativity and urban planning with the more British-driven fo-
cus on the creative industries—at least the profitable IP-producing parts of them—as key
drivers of the contemporary knowledge economy, it established digital technology-driven
entrepreneurship as the chief driver of creative economic growth. With this sector comes
a workforce that he identifies as demanding the ongoing presence of some select aspects of
the cultural industries as taken for granted lifestyle affordances. In this way, the market
easily replaces cultural policy as the enabler of the small ‘c’ culture that creatives ‘demand’
of their community. Florida’s influential and highly criticised definition of the creative class
went even further than the DCMS’s emphasis on IP/copyright-producing industries such
as software development and games. In his rather expansive inner ‘Super-Creative Core’ he
includes: scientists and engineers, university professors, poets and novelists, artists, enter-
tainers, actors, designers and architects, as well as the thought leadership of modern soci-
ety: nonfiction writers, editors, cultural figures, think-tank researchers, analysts and other
opinion-makers (Florida 2003, p. 69). This group is further supported by a second group
of “creative professionals” beyond this core whom he also identifies as part of his Creative
Class on account of their work across a “wide range of knowledge-intensive industries such
as high-tech sectors, financial services, the legal and health care professions, and business
management” (Florida 2003, p. 69).
Florida’s creative-class argument has fed directly into an earlier creative-city dialogue
that included the aforementioned place-based policies of renewal (Markusen 2006, p. 1937).
Originally focussed on the arts and creativity as drivers of urban economies and renewal,
this wave of interest, assisted by Florida, morphed into an emphasis on the provision of
unique yet somehow globally accepted lifestyle affordances as a baseline attractor of desir-
able knowledge workers. Florida’s (presumed to be young and possibly single) creatives are
stereotypically constructed as desiring café strips, openness and tolerance, diversity, a dy-
namic artistic and cultural environment, high-tech toys and mountain-biking trails. Con-
sequently, in urban planning informed by these ideas there has been an emphasis on coffee
shops, ­energised—‘activated’—street life, serendipitous face-to-face meetings, clusters and
densities, to the exclusion of other attractors and experiences. Florida’s work effectively turns

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urban gentrification into a governmental creativity-driven cultural policy positive. As such, it

too is illustrative of what exactly is at stake in the shift from ‘cultural’ to ‘creative’ industries.
No longer is cultural policy deployed to enable access to and diversity within the cultural
sector, within the creative class/industries framework, governmental emphasis and funding is
often put towards local development projects, and questions of access left to market forces that
may very well displace local artists and other low-paid or otherwise economically precarious
creative practitioners, in favour of those (digital) creative class members able to afford to live in
desirable, cosmopolitan urban communities (Luckman, Gibson and Lea 2009; Oakley 2004).
As a result of this perfect policy confluence of creativity and private sector-friendly urban
revitalisation, cities have remained a focus for creative industries development, at the e­ xpense
of greater attention to non-urban cultural or creative policy intervention. With a few no-
table exceptions, mostly arising from within cultural geography, the non-urban, non-city
experience also remains under-explored in scholarly studies of cultural work and creative
industries. For a complex set of reasons that includes such capacities as: the long-standing
place of cities as enablers of innovation and exploration, attracting people willing to explore
new ideas; economies of scale, clusters, expertise and labour availability; the emphasis in
European cultural policy on ‘Cities of Culture’, and elsewhere the role of local governments
as drivers of innovative cultural policies around creativity, starting as we saw with the in-
fluential GLC model, cities have been and remain privileged sites for the growth of cultural
and creative industries. Approaches to the analysis of how creative milieus work or what
they need to flourish have followed this emphasis on the kind of clustering most possible in
cities. Thus the importance of clustering, and the economies of scale and synergies associ-
ated with it, has long been recognised as a significant driver of creative innovation and the
development of local industries. Consequently, most existing creative industries’ thinking
and research has focused on how to facilitate creativity in macro settings such as the large
city, at the expense of considering more geographically inclusive socio-economic strategies.
But as Waitt reminds us, “smallness itself would not appear to work against the creativity
of people” (2006, p. 169). Indeed any quick look at recent history reveals that the emphasis
in creative industries discourse especially in the 1990s and early 2000s on creativity and the
city was not always the case. The western European Romantic movement, which emerged
in the eighteenth century and gained strength in the face of the Industrial Revolution, is one
key case in point. After them came those cultural and artistic champions of the Victorian
era, Britons such as John Ruskin, William Morris and the wider Arts and Crafts Movement,
who generated their own models for the realisation of ‘good’ cultural work (Hesmondhalgh
and Baker 2011). In particular, in looking back to the medieval era for its idealised model
of craft practice as a part of the fabric of a community, they favoured small workshops and
enterprises, and out of this they championed quality handmade production organised on
egalitarian and cooperative grounds such that “each talent might contribute to the whole”
(Cullinan 1984, p. 51). Those inspired by their writings often sought out the countryside
in which to realise this idealised vision of creative work (Luckman 2012). One of the most
significant contributions to research into creative industries beyond the city is the work of
David Bell and Mark Jayne who offer an important overview of the limited recognition
creative industries’ policy writings have given to creative work beyond urban sites and the
concurrent absence of dialogue between rural and cultural policy (Bell and Jayne 2010). In
wanting to embrace alternative forms of economic development to augment or replace tradi-
tional industries in the post-productivist countryside (Wilson 2001; see also Halfacree 1997),
Bell and Jayne lament the habit of transferring assumptions based on urban case studies to
rural cultural policy practice. Countryside creative industries are thereby presumed to have,

348
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and work with, the same kind of structures, forms and functions as “‘best practice’ examples
in metropolitan centres” (Bell and Jayne 2010, p. 212). Further, in this vacuum created by
the rural creative industries research deficiency and given the hegemony of ideas of rural
idyll in the eyes of many decision makers, traditional rural practices such as crafts, art and
antiques take precedence in rural policy, at the expense of newer (digital) creative industries.
More recently, the upswing in agrarian food-based consumption practices has lent itself to
the development at the local council level of tourism-based cultural policy focussing on arts
trails, as well as crafts and antiques, reflecting the DCMS articulation of these and reinforc-
ing traditional strengths, but also stereotypes, of the rural creative economy.

The exclusions of creative industries

Further important implications of the break from cultural policy with its emphasis on ­social
inclusion are all too evident in the employment practices, and exclusions, of the creative indus-
tries. There is increasing awareness that the frequently unclear, informal and n ­ etwork-based
work practices underpinning much employment in the creative, especially media, advertising
and publishing industries, are effectively operating as a barrier to gender, ethnic, class and
wider social inclusion in the creative economy resulting in profound impacts upon the content
of cultural production.1 So while social inclusion agendas may have been a focus of cultural
policy, especially in communities seen as marginal or ‘at risk’ or in terms of a commitment to
diversity, plurality and national broadcasting organisations, creative industries’ employment
practices tend to implicitly reinforce hegemonic hiring practices. While evidence indicates
women “fare better in settings in which there is both greater formality to the hiring pro-
cess and greater transparency” (Conor, Gill and Taylor 2015, p. 11), the informal networks
through which contracts are secured in the creative industries reinforce social preferences to
associate with people like yourself, that is people who hang out at the same places, look like
you, work the same hours, like the same things and operate in similar cultural milieus:

Informal recruitment practices dominate. While an up-to-date résume is vital and film
and television are increasingly graduate entry industries, a résume and a degree are
necessary but not sufficient. These are ‘reputation economies’ in which people are hired
on the soft judgements of insiders about whether they are trustworthy, reliable and
good to work with. Networks and contacts are the main means of gaining employ-
ment, which forms a barrier for fresh and diverse talent from under-represented groups,
as many may not have access to social events and opportunities. … The spaces for
­networking – ­particularly pubs – could also form challenging environments for women,
and the requirement for ‘compulsory sociality’ (Gregg 2006) after already long working
days posed problems for everyone with caring responsibilities.
(Leung, Gill and Randle 2015, pp. 56–57)

Creative labour markets are defined by such processes of ‘network sociality’ (Wittel 2001):
“In such ‘reputation economies’ wherever you go, whoever you meet, represents a work
opportunity. ‘Life is a pitch’, as one of Gill’s (2010) interviewees put it pithily” (Conor, Gill
and Taylor 2015, p. 10). As other authors in the Conor, Gill and Taylor collection note, while
reputation economies—working almost exclusively with those you know or who are vouched
for by people you know—may be seen as an essential means by which to mitigate risk in a sec-
tor where returns are rarely guaranteed, this homosocial reproduction or homophily (Ibarra
1992; Leung, Gill and Randle 2015; Wreyford 2015) importantly still means that “members

349
Susan Luckman

of the dominant group replicate themselves” by seeing “people like themselves as the most
trustworthy and competent” ( Jones and Pringle 2015, p. 39). Thus perpetuating the exclusion
of other social networks and groups from this important sphere of creative production.
This is significant not just at the level of workplace equity; it has profound implications
for the kinds of cultural outputs produced by the creative industries sector. Such exclu-
sionary practices are especially strong in media industries, including and notably film and
television (Conor, Gill and Taylor 2015; Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2011), with clear im-
plications for a lack of diversity of stories and voices even within strong state-supported
broadcasting. Much of the research driving contemporary awareness of creative industries’
exclusions arises out of the United Kingdom where existing class frameworks are reinforced
when family ties ­remain key to securing even unpaid internships in desirable creative organ-
isations. Homophily, ‘bulimic’ work patterns, and after-hours sociality all serve to exclude
even relatively privileged educated middle-class women, especially those with care-giving
responsibilities, who are at the forefront of the growth of home-based self-employment,
including setting up a micro-enterprise in the absence of other employment options (Adkins
2012; Banks and Milestone 2011; McRobbie 2007). Arguably even more economically pre-
carious than working irregularly for someone else, a line can be drawn between the growth
of this ‘magical solution’ to the gendered exclusions of creative work (Luckman 2015b) and
the shift from an emphasis from ‘policy’ to ‘industry’ around cultural production exempli-
fied by the creative industries. These trends have led some to suggest that the contempo-
rary creative economy produces a retraditionalization of gender roles (Morgan and Nelligan
2015, p. 66, drawing upon Adkins, Banks and Milestone 2011; Gill 2002, 2009). Certainly,
the growth of ­home-based creative self-employment needs to be at least partly accounted for
in terms of inequalities within contemporary creative workplaces, especially when it comes
to accommodating creative industries employment alongside care-giving responsibilities.

The cultural marketplace post-cultural policy: the rise

of the Hipster economy and entrepreneurial arts
Cultural theorist Jim McGuigan defines ‘cool capitalism’ as “the incorporation of ­d isaffection
into capitalism itself ” (2009, p. 1); through processes of diffusion and defusion, it is more
than capable of not only bringing resistance under its umbrella but in so doing actually
strengthening its own hegemony. This is what, he argues, occurred in response to the coun-
tercultures of the 1960s that putatively sought to challenge “the dominant culture at its very
heart. Yet, in truth, he argues the counter-cultural challenge effectively – and ironically –
refreshed the culture and political economy of corporate America, thereby contributing to
its survival and flourishing” (McGuigan 2009, p. 6). Today he identifies the creative indus-
tries as key enablers of capitalist innovation. A similarly powerful critique is offered by Luc
Boltanski and Eve Chiapello in The New Spirit of Capitalism:

To maintain its powers of attraction, capitalism therefore has to draw upon resources
external to it, beliefs which, at a given point in time, possess considerable powers of
persuasion, striking ideologies, even when they are hostile to it, inscribed in the cultural
context in which it is developing. The spirit sustaining the accumulation process at a
given point in history is thus imbued with cultural products that are contemporaneous
with it and which, for the most part, have been generated to quite different ends than
justifying capitalism.
(2007, p. 20)

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 Cultural policy and ­creative industries

We can locate the rise of the creative industries within these larger trends. Underpin-
ning all the interest in creative industries over the last couple of decades is a growing
recognition of the place of creativity—and the ‘creative’ in place—as a key driver of
economic growth in the new economy, with its associated appetite for content and life-
style goods. This shift reflects wider trends around the aestheticisation of everyday life,
the rise of recreational and lifestyle sectors of the economy, of copyright industries as
drivers of global market share and an explosion in the number of people operating on a
freelance, casual, contract or self-employed basis or in micro-, small- or m ­ edium-sized
enterprises. This is not to mention a broader confluence of historical, cultural and eco-
nomic circumstances logically enabling what we might call grassroots desires for cre-
ative entrepreneurialism motivated by progressive social agendas that also happen to
elide neatly with post-Fordist capitalism’s entrepreneurial imperative. Alongside this
economic mainstreaming of creativity has come the marketing of ‘cool’ individuality
as a commodity to be purchased, often together with a self-realising career as a creative
professional; this dream in large part is driving the explosion of the creative sector and
sustaining people despite the precariousness of work in the creative industries. For these
reasons too, the idea of the creative industries has appealed to both university leaders and
undergraduate students increasingly focussed upon vocational outcomes from degrees in
the arts and humanities.
However, while it is important to acknowledge that the creative industries framework has
been widely adopted and persists as discursively powerful, it is also far from all-­consuming
as witnessed by the ongoing use of the acronym ‘CCIs’ (cultural and creative industries),
­especially in the UK. As already asserted the shift from cultural policy to creative indus-
tries is strongly critiqued and, as we saw in the case of craft in the UK, capable of challenge
(though as a central part of its campaign the Crafts Council did need to gather statistics on
the sector’s economic size, income and levels of educational attainment to make a case that
also had strong and wide emotional support). Alternative definitional approaches to the cul-
tural/arts/creative sector persist and are ­actively employed in policy, funding, organisational
and/or academic contexts (see for example: KEA 2006; Throsby 2015; United Nations/
UNDP/UNESCO 2013; Work Foundation 2007). Certainly, the shift continues to be the
source of ongoing debate over many fundamental aspects of culture and value, including
the importance of arts and cultural industries as possessing a much longer and richer history
of intrinsically contributing to society in non-­economic ways. Thus a key challenge in the
wake of the break marked by the shift from cultural policy to creative industries is to develop
new ways to strongly and affectively articulate the value of cultural and creative activities to
a wider (voting) public beyond the sector, however it may be defined.

Acknowledgements
Thank you to Terry Flew, Denise Meredyth and Julian Thomas for their insights into the
formative days of cultural policy research in Australia.

Note
1 See for example Banks (2007), Banks and Milestone (2011), Conor, Gill and Taylor (2015),
­E ikhof and Warhurst (2013), Gill (2002, 2007, 2011), Gill and Pratt (2008), Grugulis and Stoy-
anova (2012), Hesmondhalgh and Baker (2011), McRobbie (2002, 2004, 2007), and Milestone
(2016).

351
Susan Luckman

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 23
Too-explicit cultural policy
Rethinking cultural and creative
industry policies in Hong Kong

Louis Ho

Introduction
This chapter presents a study of the articulation and implementation of Hong Kong’s cultural
and creative industries policies. The observations are as follows: First, against the backdrop
of economic transformation, cultural and creative industry policies in Hong Kong are biased
towards macroeconomic, industrial and hardware infrastructure and structural formation,
neglecting the individual “units” of Hong Kong’s cultural and industrial industries, i.e. cre-
ative labour, both artistic and craft labour (Banks 2010). Second, under the global discourse
of “creativity”, especially that of Richard Florida (2002) and Charles Landry (2000), cultural
and creative industry policies in Hong Kong are based on the vague concept of “creativity”
as a panacea. It is also assumed that “creativity” is a singular concept, as if there is an absence
of any diversity and complexity concerning the concept. This results in such policies ne-
glecting the different requirements, usage and expression of “creativity” by different cultural
and creative sectors. Therefore, such cultural and creative industry policies neglect the status
and needs of cultural and artistic workers, such as writers or visual artists. The chapter takes
each of these observations in turn, following a brief discussion of the historical context for
the development of cultural and creative industry policies in Hong Kong.

Background
Since the 1990s, the development of Hong Kong’s economy has been dictated by the goal
of becoming an international financial hub. The government claimed that it would take a
­laissez-faire approach and uphold a capitalistic free market.1 In 2014’s Global Financial Centres
Index, Hong Kong was ranked fifth, with only New York, London, Tokyo and Singapore rank-
ing higher. From the economic boom in the 1960s until it was known as one of the “Four Asian
Tigers” in the 1980s, Hong Kong became a player on the international stage due to its economic
prowess with finance, trade and the service industries as its pillars. However, as an international
metropolis, Hong Kong’s cultural development has always been subject to criticism, even gain-
ing the title of being a “cultural desert”. Although the validity of this title remains debatable
(Chen 2008), it is apparent that Hong Kong’s cultural policy lacks an all-encompassing design.

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After WWII, the colonial government enjoyed the long-term benefits of economic
growth while facing the looming expiry of Hong Kong’s lease. According to Chen’s (2008)
historical account of cultural policy development in Hong Kong, the government chose to
implement “cultural policies” that were bureaucratically viable and met the short-term needs
of the residents. This resulted in a disparate set of cultural policies for the region. Different
departments implemented cultural, art and leisure-related policies with different methods
and conceptualizations of “culture”. Needless to say, the concept of cultural governance was
virtually non-existent. After the handover in 1997, however, it seemed that “cultural and
creative industries” became a prominent lead for Hong Kong’s public policy concerning art
and culture.
In Hong Kong, the “creative industry” concept was first raised by the Hong Kong Arts De-
velopment Council in 1999. Although it generated media interest at that time, it was not until
2002 that the Hong Kong Trade Development Council released its first report on Hong Kong’s
creative industries. In 2005, the Hong Kong Special Administrative ­Region (SAR) govern-
ment recognised the importance of “cultural and creative industries”, defining the 11 sectors of
“Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industries” as advertising; amusement services; architecture;
art, antiques and crafts; cultural education and library, archive and museum services; design;
film, video and music; performing arts; publishing; software, computer games and interactive
media; television and radio. This definition developed the “creative industry” framework es-
tablished in 2003 in accordance with the Baseline Study on Hong Kong’s Creative Industries (2003)
commissioned by the Central Policy Unit. In the same year, the government established Cre-
ateHK, a dedicated agency set up under the Commerce and Economic Development B ­ ureau.
The agency is responsible for “nurturing of local talent; supporting the development of start-up
companies; developing local market; expanding overseas and Mainland China market; develop-
ing creative clusters; enhancing the atmosphere to promote creative industries in the commu-
nity; and supporting the organization of mega events to promote Hong Kong’s development as
the creative capital in Asia” ­(Commerce and Economic Development Bureau 2009).
Currently, policies regarding the cultural and creative industries can mainly be classified
into two development categories: The first is according to the “current growth model”,
which emphasises the possible economic development resulting from cultural and creative
industries; the second is recognising “culture” as the core of cultural and creative policies and
accepting the (inherent) restrictions of policy (Bell and Oakley 2015:34). Hong Kong’s cul-
tural and creative industries (as one of the six major industries selected by the government for
intensive development) belong to the first category. Examining the overall implementation
of Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industry policies, however, raises doubt as to whether
the policies are able to achieve results under the “current growth model”, i.e. growth in the
cultural sector (production and consumption) driving overall economic growth.

Overly macroscopic cultural and creative industry

policies in Hong Kong
In recent years, various governments and academic institutes have grown increasingly con-
cerned about the development of creative industries. This was mainly attributable to the
decline of traditional economic industries, while the economic value of “culture and cre-
ativity” gained recognition – giving rise to the idea that symbolic value is more profitable
than physical value. Since 2000, creative industries have developed at a quicker pace than
traditional economic industries in most western economies (Murray and Gollmitzer 2012).
The creative industries, however, were inevitably affected by the 2008 economic crisis.

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Some critics also pointed out that creative industries are especially vulnerable to the impact
of fluctuations in the external economy (Murray and Gollmitzer 2012). Despite this, govern-
ments all over the world seem to remain fixated on the idea of enhancing economic vitality
and making cities more vibrant through the development of creative industries.
In Hong Kong, according to the Baseline Study on Hong Kong’s Creative Industries (2003)
commissioned by the Central Policy Unit and undertaken by the Centre for Cultural Policy
Research of the University of Hong Kong, “creative industries” refer to “a group of economic
activities that exploit and deploy creativity, skill and intellectual property to produce and
distribute products and services of social and cultural meaning, which can become a system
for creating wealth and employment”.2 From this definition, we can acknowledge that in the
concept of “creative industry”, “industry” is the main component of an economic production
system, while “creative” describes the nature of the series of economic activities. The scope of
“cultural and creative industries” subsequently listed by the SAR government mostly covered
a range of private cultural and creative production activities, while leaving out public cultural
and creative activities provided by the government such as public libraries and museums.3
In 2005, the SAR government renamed “creative industries” as “cultural and creative
industries”. In the policy address (The Government of the Hong Kong Special Adminis-
trative Region, 2005), the government proposed to “establish, as soon as possible, a consul-
tative framework for cultural and creative industries, so that relevant representatives from
these industries including outstanding personalities from outside Hong Kong can participate.
Working together to study the vision for development, direction, and organizational struc-
ture to see how we may deploy our advantages, consolidate resources and pursue key areas”
(Ho 2005).4 The 11 sectors of Hong Kong’s “cultural and creative industries” was generated
from the “creative industry” framework. In 2009, the government proposed the idea of the
“six priority industries of Hong Kong” and listed “cultural and creative industries” as one of
them.5 As a result, the overall policies of Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industries are im-
plemented by different government departments, namely Home Affairs Bureau, Commerce,
Industry and Technology Bureau (CITB), Education Bureau, and CreateHK. The question
is: why have cultural and creative industries been given such an important role in the overall
economy of Hong Kong?
This question was also asked by Hesmondhalgh and Pratt (2005), who explore how and
why the cultural industries became such a vital idea in cultural policy when those industries
were largely absent in “traditional (arts-and heritage-based) policy” (2005:2). Hesmondhalgh
and Pratt note that “the 1990s and early 2000s have been a boom time in cultural p­ olicy un-
der the sign of the cultural and creative industries as a result of industrial and cultural changes
that have themselves been influenced by broader “cultural” policy decisions” and “a great
attraction of cultural industries policy, at the urban, regional and national levels, for many
politicians and advisors, was that cultural policy, previously on the margins in many areas
of government, could be seen to be economically relevant in an era when policy was judged
primarily in terms of its fiscal rewards” (2005:5). Based on these inquires and observations,
we may further ask: in what ways does the idea of cultural and creative industries, as a mar-
ginal policy agenda, embed and integrate itself into different policy models and frameworks?
Since the handover in 1997, Hong Kong has faced a series of economic crises: the burst
of the property and stock market bubbles at the end of 1997 and in early 1998; the Asian
financial crisis that impacted the Hong Kong dollar, the futures market and stock market;
the burst of Hong Kong’s dot-com bubbles, which was caused by the tech fever in the US in
1999; the outbreak of SARS in March 2003, which devastated the tourism industry; and the
financial crisis in 2008, which affected the world and ended the five-year economic recovery

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of Hong Kong. The end of the economic recovery that began in July 2003 caused the stock
and property market to plummet and caused a series of layoffs and business closures. Since
then, “economic transformation”, “moving towards a knowledge-based economy”, and “de-
velopment of high value-added, high-tech emerging industries” became buzzwords of the
SAR government’s economic policies. Cultural and creative industry policies thereafter be-
came part of the policy structure of the knowledge-based economic transformation.
In Hong Kong, cultural and creative industry policies are mainly industry policies, and
the implementation of such policies leans towards production and industry structure. The
government promotes cultural and creative industry measures mainly in three areas. The
first area is the legal framework. The SAR government promulgated the Intellectual Prop-
erty Copyright Agreement in 1998 (which aimed to modernise Hong Kong’s copyright law
and provide greater protection for copyright owners). The government also stated that it
recognised major international intellectual property regulations, including the Paris Con-
vention for the Protection of Industrial Property; the Berne Convention for the Protection
of Literary and Artistic Works; the Universal Copyright Convention; the Nice Agreement
Concerning the International Classification of Goods and Services for the Purposes of the
Registration of Marks; the Geneva Convention, which protects producers of recorded works
from their products being recorded without authorisation; the Patent Cooperation Treaty;
the Convention Establishing the World Intellectual Property Organization; the World Intel-
lectual Property Organization Treaty; and the WIPO Performances and Phonograms Treaty.
The second area is the establishment of platforms for financing. The government supports
the development of cultural and creative industries through different funds and subsidy pro-
grammes. For example, the Trade and Industry Department has subsidy plans (e.g. the SME
Loan Guarantee Scheme, the SME Export Marketing Fund, the SME Training Fund and
the SME Development Fund6), while the Innovation and Technology Fund also has subsidy
programmes (e.g. the Innovation and Technology Support Programme, the General Support
Programme, the University-Industry Collaboration Programme and the Small Entrepreneur
Research Assistance Programme7). In addition, the government provides credit guarantees
that allow financiers to obtain funding through traditional channels. For instance, the Hong
Kong Export Credit Insurance Corporation provides export credit insurance and film loan
guarantees. Using film as an example, the aforementioned policies are primarily handled
by the CITB. The CITB assists the Hong Kong film industry in penetrating the Main-
land China market through the Mainland and Hong Kong Closer Economic Partnership
­A rrangement (CEPA) to develop the possibility of making films jointly produced by Hong
Kong and Mainland China. Besides, a Film Loan Insurance Fund was established to support
mid- to low-budget film productions. In 2001, the Film Development Fund financed ten
movies, allowing four directors and one producer to make their first attempts at producing
drama films. According to the 2015 Policy Address (The Government of the Hong Kong
Special Administrative Region, 2015), the government will continue to inject capital into
the Film Development Fund with a recommended amount of HKD 200 million.
The third area is large-scale construction projects. This is the area, within the cultural
and creative industries, in which the government has invested the largest amount of money,
albeit via the construction industry. This area generates controversy in wondering if “Hong
Kong culture” is used as spectacle for cultural tourism and urban rejuvenation. This ap-
proach of using “culture and creative” in policymaking is “significantly” influenced by the
work of Charles Landry (2000) and Richard Florida (2002). Landry and Bianchini’s (1995)
model of the “creative city” introduces a discussion on the role of culture in dealing with
social problems of a city and boosting economic growth. Charles Landry (2000) further

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promotes the idea of “creative city” by asserting the importance of creativity as a more
reflexive process of thinking about the city in cultural planning. Landry (2000) thereby
proposes the need to integrate cultural and creative thinking into all aspects of the urban
policymaking process, namely, from public health to traditional arts-related policy. Since
then, the idea of “creative city” has been widely used in discussions of urban policy that it
has become a “shorthand term” in policy discourse for contemporary ideas about culture
and the city. As Bell and Oakley (2015:88) remark, though this discourse may always refer
to one “conventional creative city script” (Gibson 2013), there have been different versions
of interpreting and implementing the creative city idea (Pratt 2012). What then is the exact
version of the creative city idea for Hong Kong? It is a version related to a pseudo-Floridian
approach of working in culture and creativity.
If we examine the details of the Baseline Study on Hong Kong’s Creative Industries (2003) that
signifies as the start of developing cultural and creative industry policies in Hong Kong, the
influence of Florida’s ideas can hardly be overlooked. Drawing upon the insights of urbanists
and “new growth theorists” about the value of skilled labour, who he terms the “creative
class”, in urban and economic development (Bell and Oakley 2015:91), Florida (2002) argues
that the mobility of the creative class is highly related to the qualities of the city’s (or region’s)
culture and lifestyle options, which are referred to by his well-known ideas of “Bohemian
index” and “Gay index”. With the idea of the “creative class”, Florida has become associated
with the discourse of creative cities more generally. But his strategy for economic develop-
ment is built around talent attraction, not the growth of the cultural industries.
One of the heaviest criticisms for Floridian urban strategy is its potential implication of
legitimising urban gentrification and its lack of significant attention to various social in-
equalities (Bell and Oakley 2015:92). Despite these criticisms, Florida’s (2002) work can be
viewed as an example of the approach in working on the “street level” for cultural attractions
in cultural urban planning (Bell and Oakley 2015:91). As we have seen, in Hong Kong the
strategy for using culture for economic development is built around large-scale construction
projects. It seems that Hong Kong has adopted a pseudo-Floridian approach in developing
the “creative city”, which absorbs the potential problems of the approach without developing
the “good side” of developing the liveability of the city at the micro level.
The large-scale construction projects related to cultural and creative industries include
the Digital Media Center (2003), Cyberport Information Center (2003–2004), Science and
Technology Parks (2001), Disneyland (2005) and the West Kowloon Cultural Development
Program (2005).8 These large-scale construction projects typically start off as “creative”
projects, but ultimately become large-scale real estate (luxury housing) projects or theme
parks. In addition, CreateHK has assisted with two restoration projects of historical build-
ings, namely Comix Home Base9 and PMQ.10 Both projects have been criticised for being
overly commercialised (especially the latter). This has given rise to the “cultural bulldozer”
theory, in which old urban areas are being gentrified in the name of culture and creativity
when in fact the land is utilised as high-priced real estate. As a matter of fact, such reason-
able scepticism and criticism can be traced back to the vague definition and framework of
­“creativity” situated in Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industry policies.

In the name of culture and creativity

It is generally agreed that the concept of “creative industry” began to have an impact on
government policy and academic research after 1997 when the “New Labour Party” won
the general election in the UK and implemented creative industry policies (Banks and

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Louis Ho

Hesmondhalgh 2009; Banks and O’Connor 2009). The Department of Culture, Media and
Sport in the UK advocated the idea of creative industries with the definition “those in-
dustries which have their origin in individual creativity, skill and talent and which have a
potential for wealth and job creation through the generation and exploitation of intellectual
property” (Creative Industries Task Force 2001). This broad definition of the creative in-
dustries includes cultural and art-related industries such as television, film and music and
involves industries such as software design, construction and design. This unspecific but
surprisingly influential definition attempted to avoid the criticism of the concept of “culture
industry” from the Frankfurt school by focusing on the importance of “creativity”. The
“diversified” definition was also a continuation of the heydays of “Cool Britannia”, which
began in 1997 (Banks and Hesmondhalgh 2009) and indirectly spread the idea of “creative
industry” to other parts of the world, including Hong Kong.
When the Hong Kong Trade Development Council released the first report regarding
Hong Kong’s creative industries in 2002, there were an estimated 90,000 (approx.) people
working in creative industries, and the output of creative industries accounted for approx-
imately 2% of the local GDP. In 2003, the government defined the 11 sectors of creative
industries and estimated that the output of Hong Kong’s creative industries accounted for
4% of the local GDP between 2001 and 2002, with 170,011 persons involved in the indus-
tries. How did Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industries achieve such a substantial and
sustained amount of growth? It is probably the result of the expansion of the components
of Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industries under the general meaning of “culture and
creativity”. In 2013, 207,490 persons were employed within cultural and creative indus-
tries, of which, the category employing the most persons was “software, computer games
and interactive media”. Job functions include “publication and distribution of software and
computer games; information technology services (i.e. computer games, software, design
and development of websites and network systems); Internet and other telecommunications
activities; entry-level website management; data processing, filing and related activities”.
There were 52,600 persons in this category, and they accounted for 25.4% of the total work-
force within cultural and creative industries. The category in the second place was “publica-
tion”. Job functions include “printing, publishing, wholesale and retail of books, newspapers
and periodicals” and “news agency and other information service activities”. There were
43,900 persons in this category, and they accounted for 21.2% of the total workforce within
cultural and creative industries. This was followed by the “advertising” category. Job func-
tions include “advertising and market research; conference and goods services; and manu-
facturing of commercial billboards”. There were 18,510 persons in this category, and they
accounted for 8.9% of the total workforce within cultural and creative industries (see Census
and ­Statistics Department of HKSAR 2015).
The reason for stating the above statistics is to demonstrate that the most active compo-
nent of Hong Kong’s “cultural and creative industries” differs from the public perception of
“conventional” cultural and artistic workers such as writers and artists who only account for
a small proportion of the “performing arts” sector (the smallest sector among the 11 sectors).
Another point worth noting is that the increasing number of people working within cul-
tural and creative industries is related to the vague definition of creativity spreading to the
educational sector.
According to official sources,11 the “first” task of CreateHK (created in 2009) was to
­“cultivate local creative talent”. CreateHK has started numerous “training” programmes, such
as subsidising Hong Kong artists in international competitions and arranging paid i­nternships
in cultural and creative industry enterprises.12 CreateHK has also established the CreateSmart

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 Too-explicit cultural policy

Initiative (CSI) and the graduate intern support programme, which is further divided into
the “Hong Kong Digital Entertainment Industry New Graduate Support Scheme”, which
focuses on the training of talent in animation, comics, digital games, post production and
visual effects, and the “Hong Kong Digital Advertising Industry Fresh Graduate Support
Scheme”.13 CSI also provides subsidies for young designers to participate in exchange pro-
grammes overseas. Since 2009, CreateHK has granted subsidies totalling HKD 55 million
under the “Hong Kong Digital Entertainment Industry New Graduate Support Scheme”. In
2013, the government injected HKD 300 million into CSI (from HKD 300 million in 2009
to HKD 600 million in 2013) to support the development of young creative artists.
In terms of the number of Hong Kong’s cultural and creative artists nourished and cul-
tivated, universities and higher education institutes also play significant roles.14 Different
universities and higher education institutes have offered various culture- and creativity-­
related courses, such as the course of “Creative Media” in City University of Hong Kong, the
course of “Design” in the Hong Kong Polytechnic University, and the design, multimedia
and innovative technology courses offered by the Vocational Training Council. There are
currently over 500 product- and digital design-related courses in Hong Kong, and over 200
are related to creative industries (Figures 23.1 and 23.2).
Here, it is insightful to juxtapose two sets of data: On the one hand, during the decade
from 2003 to 2013, the number of participants of cultural and entertainment activities
organised by the Leisure and Cultural Services Department increased at a rate of approx-
imately 10%, and the number of participants in 2013 grew by 17% when compared with
2003. On the other hand, students enrolled in humanities, art, design and performing
arts rose from 3,816 in 2003 to 6,238 in 2013, representing a growth rate of 63%. These
two sets of statistics are compared side by side to raise the question: when comparing the
proportion of cultural and creative industry producers trained in Hong Kong (number of
students) to the consumption market (number of participants in cultural and entertainment

40,00,000
37,88,490

35,00,000
29,49,907
30,00,000 28,16,724
24,41,625 27,07,912 27,65,786 27,90,197
25,15,750 25,28,010 25,04,575
25,00,000 24,32,310
23,69,790

20,00,000

15,00,000

10,00,000

5,00,000

-
2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007/08 2008/09 2009/10 2010/11 2011/12 2012/13 2013/14

Figure 23.1  N
 umber of participants of cultural and entertainment activities organised by the
Leisure and Cultural Services Department (2002–2014)

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Louis Ho

7000

6000

5000

4000

3000

2000

1000

0
1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013

Figure 23.2  N
 umber of students enrolled in humanities, art, design and performing arts
(1997–2013)

activities), are Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industries neglecting de facto demand of
the creative labour market and “nurturing” too many cultural and creative artists? The
answer to this question may need further empirical analysis, but this issue is brought up
herein to reveal the overemphasis of public policies on “creativity” as a panacea and the
excessive focus on the macro, production and supply aspects of cultural and creative in-
dustries, oblivious to the individuals that underpin the industry and the specific conditions
and needs of creative labour.

Cultural and creative industry policies cannot

replace cultural and art policies
Conventionally, and practically, cultural policy is considered the sum of a government’s ac-
tivities with respect to the arts, humanities and heritage. Thus, cultural policy encompasses
a much broader range of activities than what is traditionally associated with an arts policy. In
cultural policy studies, Jeremy Ahearne (2009) and David Throsby (2009) argue that there
is a distinction between “explicit” cultural policies that are manifestly labelled as “cultural”
and “implicit” cultural policies that are not nominally labelled as “cultural” but that work
to shape cultural experiences. Indeed, the framework of “explicit” and “implicit” cultural
policy is useful to recognise different kinds of policy aims and impacts in the complex
networks of public policies. However, how does such a framework address practically the
fluidity of various policies between the implicit and explicit boundary. Also, how does the
framework understand the more theoretical problem of the boundary between the cultural
and the non-cultural?
In Hong Kong, due to its history of (and the myth of ) “laissez-faire” policies, cultural and
creative industry policies, as shown above, remain on certain macroscopic levels: establishing
symbolic platforms (law, connection), infrastructure construction (financing, construction),

362
 Too-explicit cultural policy

and training and education. This has caused numerous issues for Hong Kong’s cultural and
creative industry policies. First, policies are biased towards the “industries” and neglect the
needs of individual workers. The policies have failed to address the needs of the “labour
force” of Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industries, i.e. the role and rights of creative
labour. Needless to say, the possibility and implementation of a “cultural and creative labour
policy” is nowhere near fruition. Second, the definition and scope of “creativity” in policies
is too broad, ranging from performing arts to jewellery and theme parks, which cannot effec-
tively reflect the true requirements of different creative activities; this made managing such
activities even more difficult. Third, due to the vague definitions mentioned above, the poli-
cies are unable to pinpoint the needs of creative labour, especially the traditional cultural and
art workers. As such, Hong Kong cultural and creative industry policies have to define “cre-
ativity” more precisely, so that creative labour in various cultural and creative jobs have access
to cultural and creative industrial policies that can better suit their needs and expectations.

Notes
1 Milton Friedman, a Nobel Prize winner in Economics, therefore described Hong Kong as “a
prime example of a laissez-faire” economy. However, the government announced in September
2006 that the “positive non-interventionism” system pioneered by Hong Kong was no longer
applicable.
2 Commission on Strategic Development, Committee on Economic Development and Economic
Cooperation with the Mainland: Promoting the Development of Creative Industries, 2006.
3 Feature Article in Hong Kong Monthly Digest of Statistics: The Cultural and Creative Industries in
Hong Kong, March 2014.
4 Jin Yuanpu, The Rise of Modern Cultural and Creative Industries, www.cnci.net.cn/, 2008.
5 The six priority industries include testing and certification, medical services, innovation and tech-
nology, cultural and creative industries, environmental industry and educational services.
6 From 2001 to 30 April 2007, 132,405 items have been approved for a total subsidy of approximately
HKD 10 billion, benefitting 48,300 SMEs. LegCo document no. CB(1)1849/06-07(03), SME
Subsidy Program of the Panel on Commerce and Industry of LegCo, Commerce, Industry and
Technology Bureau, Trade and Industry Department, June 2007.
7 As of 31 January 2015, the Fund has approved 1,356 items, granting a total subsidy of HKD 88.941
million. Innovation and Technology Fund – Statistics of Approved Projects, www.itf.gov.hk/l-tc/
StatView101.asp.
8 According to the government, the West Kowloon Cultural Development Programme aims to
amass a series of world-class cultural, art, trends, consumption and mass entertainment events in
a comprehensive cultural venue that includes opera houses, museums, performance areas, theatres
and plazas. This would enhance Hong Kong’s cultural standards and global reputation, which
would propel the development of Hong Kong’s cultural and creative industries.
9 Located between Burrows Street and Mallory Street in Wan Chai, Comix Home Base was a
pre-war building that was revitalised to become a “creative community based on animation and
comics”. The venue hosts regular workshops, exhibitions, seminars and also houses archives.
10 PMQ was formerly the Hollywood Road Police Married Quarters. It has now been developed
into a “creative industry landmark focused on design, providing approximately 130 workshops for
designers and members of the creative community to create and display their creative works”.
11 Website of CreateHK. www.createhk.gov.hk/en/service_createsmart.htm Assessed on 29 January
2016.
12 From 2009 to 2011, CreateHK provided aid and support for approximately 140 events held by the
industries, attracting over 2.7 million participants in Hong Kong and over 50 countries.
13 A full year of full-time work and on-the-job training is provided to up to 120 graduates each year.
14 The Education Bureau also plays a role in cultural and creative educational activities. Since 2001,
the government has listed “creativity” as one of the three main common abilities after the reforms
of secondary and primary school curriculums.

363
Louis Ho

References
Ahearne, J. 2009. “Cultural Policy Explicit and Implicit: A Distinction and Some Uses.” International
Journal of Cultural Policy. 15(2): 141–153.
Banks, M. 2010. “Craft Labour and Creative Industries.” International Journal of Cultural Policy. 16(30):
305–321.
Banks, M. and O’Connor, J. 2009. “Introduction: After the Creative Industries.” International Journal
of Cultural Policy. 15(4): 365–373.
Banks, M. and Hesmondhalgh, D. 2009. “Looking for Work in Creative Industries Policy.” Interna-
tional Journal of Cultural Policy. 15(4): 415–430.
Bell, D. and Oakley, K. 2015. Cultural Policy. London and New York: Routledge.
Census and Statistics Department of HKSAR. 2015. “Feature Articles: The Cultural and Creative
Industries in Hong Kong.” Hong Kong Monthly Digest of Statistics. www.statistics.gov.hk/pub/
B10100022015MM06B0100.pdf [Accessed on 29 January 2016].
Central Policy Unit of HKSAR. 2003. Baseline Study of Hong Kong’s Creative Industries. Hong
Kong: The University of Hong Kong: Centre for Cultural Policy Research. www.cpu.gov.hk/doc/
en/research_reports/baseline%20study(eng).pdf [Accessed on 29 January 2016].
Chen, W. 2008. Xiang Gang You Wen Hua—Xiang Gang De Wen Hua Zheng Ce (Hong Kong Has
Culture – Hong Kong Cultural Policy). Hong Kong: Arcadia Press Limited.
Creative Industries Task Force. 2001. Creative Industries Mapping Document 2001. London:
­Department for Culture, Media and Sport.
Commerce and Economic Development Bureau of HKSAR. 2009. Progress Report on the Motion
on “Promoting the development of local creative industries” Passed by the Legislative Council on
4 February 2009. www.legco.gov.hk/yr08-09/english/counmtg/motion/cm0204-m3-prpt-e.pdf
[Accessed on 29 January 2016].
Florida, R. 2002. The Rise of the Creative Class. New York: Basic Books.
Gibson, C. 2013. “Widening Development Pathways.” The Creative Economy Report: Widening
Local Development Pathways. New York: UNESCO.
Hesmondhalgh, D. and Pratt, A. 2005. “Cultural Industries and Cultural Policy.” International Journal
of Cultural Policy. 11 (1): 31–44.
Ho, P. 2005. Promoting the development of cultural and creative industries. www.hab.gov.hk/
f ile_manager/en/documents/publications_and_press_releases/20050525other_lcq17_e.pdf
­[Accessed on 12 December 2016]
Hong Kong Trade Development Council of HKSAR. 2002. Annual Report 2001/2002. http://info.
hktdc.com/annualreport2002//index.htm [Accessed on 29 January 2016].
Landry, C. 2000. The Creative City: A Toolkit for Urban Innovators. London: Earthscan.
Landry, C. and Bianchini, F. 1995. The Creative City. London: Demos.
Murray, C. and Gollmitzer, M. 2012. “Escaping the Precarity Trap: A Call for Creative Labour Pol-
icy.” International Journal of Cultural Policy. 18(4): 419–438.
Pratt, A. 2012. ‘A world turned upside down: The creative economy, cities and the new austerity’ in
Smart, Creative, Sustainable, Inclusive: Territorial Development Strategies in the Age of Austerity. London:
Regional Studies Association. www.andycpratt.info/andy_c_pratt/Research_Writing__Down-
loads_files/A%20world%20turned%20upside%20down.pdf [Accessed on 18 May 2017].
The Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. 2005. Chief Executive’s Policy
Address 2005. www.policyaddress.gov.hk/2005/eng/ [Accessed on 29 January 2016].
The Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. 2015. Chief Executive’s Policy
Address 2015. www.policyaddress.gov.hk/2015/eng/ [Accessed on 29 January 2016].
Throsby, D. 2009. “Explicit and Implicit Cultural Policy: Some Economic Aspects.” International
­Journal of Cultural Policy. 15(2): 179–185.

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 24
Cultural policy and mega-events
Beatriz Garcia

The notion of ‘mega-events’ has attracted considerable academic attention since the late
1990s. It first attracted scholars within leisure and tourism-related disciplines, but interest
progressively expanded into sociology, geography and communication studies to name just
a few of the other most dominant disciplines. This chapter considers the mega-event debate
from a cultural policy perspective, touching on key issues such as the interdependence be-
tween local and global agendas, the reliance on global media conglomerates to project (as
well as finance) event narratives, the importance of myth-building and the production of
collective cultural meanings to frame what is often articulated as a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ op-
portunity to tell stories of place and community that can resonate across the world.
The chapter focuses on examples from what is considered the largest ‘mega-event’ of all
the Olympic Games and notes the way in which cultural policy issues have been viewed (or
ignored) by its umbrella organisation, the International Olympic Committee, during most of its
100 year history. In particular, it discusses the contrast between the strong relevance of a cultural
agenda for local event stakeholders and its low priority amongst the event global stakeholders.

Mega events as platforms for global cultural policy

Major events such as the Olympic Games and Football World Cup Finals have become domi-
nant cultural actors at a global level due to their ability to attract the attention of international
media, the large financial contributions of multinational corporations they involve, and the
extensive use they make of global marketing and promotional campaigns (see Getz 2008; Gold
and Gold 2012; Hall 1989; Roche 2000). Major events are thus shaped by their global stake-
holders, but they are also shaped by the locations where they occur, in particular, by the leading
stakeholders within the chosen host-city. This is so because local event stakeholders view the
opportunity to attract worldwide attention over a concentrated period of time as a key platform
to secure ongoing legacies at a local level. The contrast between the time and place-specific as-
pirations of local host stakeholders and the long-term international agenda of the event’s global
partners pose important questions from a cultural policy point of view that merit detailed
interrogation. First, however, it is critical to understand what we mean by ‘mega-event’ and
how this type of intervention differs from many other forms of cultural policy implementation.

365
Beatriz Garcia

What is a mega-event?
The term mega-event has been rapidly generalised since it first made an appearance and be-
came popular in practitioner as well as academic circles during the late 1980s and 1990s. The
term followed in the footsteps of previous denominations for staged national or international
event interventions such as ‘special events’, ‘planned tourist events’ and ‘hallmark events’ (Getz
1991; Hall 1989). By the 1990s, it was common for policy agencies to have a formal ‘special
event’ definition so that such interventions and their outcomes could be regularly monitored
and documented. In Canada, for instance, special events were defined as a type of event that is:
open to the public…; its main purpose is the celebration or display of a specific theme;
it takes place once a year or less frequently; it has predetermined opening and closing
dates; it does not own a permanent structure; its programme may consist of separate
activities; all activities take place in the same local area or region.
(National Task Force on Data in Canada, cited in Haxton 1999, p. 13)
This definition and approximate variations have been applied to a rapidly growing number
of itinerant events since the 1990s. In this context, the notion of a ‘mega-event’ was consid-
ered a necessary addition to identify the largest scale and less frequent types of special events
that, typically, involve considerably larger and more internationally diverse numbers of par-
ticipants, audiences and media coverage.
In 2008, Getz mapped the main types of special events by considering the levels of
­demand and ‘value’ they generate from a tourism strategy point of view (see Figure 24.1).

POSSIBLE MEASURES
OF “VALUE”
• growth potential OCCASIONAL
MEGA-EVENTS
• market share
• quality High tourist
•image enhancement demand and
• community support high value
• environmental value
• economic benefits PERIODIC
• sustainbility HALLMARK EVENTS
• appropriateness
High Tourist Demand
and High Value

REGIONAL EVENTS
(Periodic and one-time)

Medium Tourist Demand

LOCAL EVENTS
(Periodic and one-time)

Low demand Low demand and low value

Figure 24.1  T
 ypes of special event from a tourism point of view

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 Cultural policy and mega-events

The above diagram followed on previous classifications, including a first attempt at

indicating specific volume suggestions to mark the scale of mega-events, as indicated in
Box 1:

Mega-event figures

• number of participants: ‘over 100,000’ and ‘usually more international than local’
• number of spectators: ‘from approximately 100,000 to one million or more’. ‘They are mainly do-
mestic but a large international contingent move to the place ­because of the event’
• media coverage and live demand: ‘very high levels of international coverage and ­exposure. Very high
demand of live coverage. Rights for extended media coverage typically require bidding to an
international governing body’. (Adapted from: Getz 1991)

Beyond the above markers, mega-events are also characterised by the diversity of n­ ation-states
represented (e.g. more than 200 nations compete at the Olympic Games and are involved in
the World Cup preliminaries); the volume of simultaneous broadcast audiences they attract
(e.g. organisers claim that the Olympic Games Opening Ceremony regularly attracts bil-
lions of viewers worldwide – see IOC 2012). Although the veracity of the most spectacular
metrics is regularly questioned (see Harris 2012), it is broadly accepted that ­mega-events
regularly secure record broadcast viewing figures (see Laflin et al. 2012).
The Olympic Games and FIFA World Cup were rapidly identified as the two leading
mega-events of the last three decades. Other events, such as the Universal Expo, were cate-
gorised as mega-events in the 1990s due to their historical trajectory up to that time and the
diversity of nations involved (Roche 2000); however, they have failed to meet some of the
‘scale’ requirements listed above since the turn of the millennium. In particular, the Univer-
sal Expo has failed to keep up with its sporting event counterparts in terms of media cover-
age and, most noticeably, it has failed to secure simultaneous and high-profile live ­coverage
across all participant nations.
The capacity to guarantee worldwide live media coverage is key to create ‘global mo-
ments’ (Giulianotti and Robertson 2009) and thus, despite some contestation (see Rowe
2003), live coverage has become the most determinant factor in achieving mega-event status.
As discussed by Moragas et al. (1995), mega-events become so due to being media-events in
their own right, that is, events designed to maximise mediatisation where all key compo-
nents are perfectly attuned to address media and, specifically, broadcasters’ needs (see also
Dayan and Katz 1994). This dependence of the mega-event on (as well as influence over)
global media stakeholders has important implications for cultural policy, as discussed in the
next section.

What counts as cultural policy within a mega-event?

As just noted, a mega-event is defined by its international media dimensions. As such, event
activities are planned, staged and narrated to address media requirements. From venue
design (set up to accommodate, first and foremost, professional camera needs); to timing
schedules (set up to meet the prime-time live television requirements of the most dominant
stakeholder country),1 these are all event components that have evolved from varied origins

367
Beatriz Garcia

into an increasingly standardised form, dictated by the latest technological advancements and
journalistic trends. At heart, thus, over the last few decades, mega events have been designed
to look good on TV.
As I have discussed previously (Garcia 2014), the consequence of such a media imperative
is that part of the live experience may be sacrificed (e.g. from the need to reserve the best
seats to the cameras, to the push towards hard-to-access but spectacular – iconic – locations).
However, over the last 25 years, the increasing loss of a collective festival atmosphere has
been broadly accepted by leading event stakeholders as a necessary compromise to fulfil
broadcaster needs and secure maximal audience ratings worldwide. As a result, mega-events
have often risked their festival feel and become best experienced away from the collective
live action, in the comforts of private living rooms.
Of course, much of what is being noted above was characteristic of a television-­dominated
area, where event feeds were mainly distributed by mainstream broadcasters at a given time
and consumed by people around the world via fixed screens inside their homes. The advent
of on-demand digital media and social media has opened other avenues for event consump-
tion and created other types of demands in event staging and event narration (Rivenburgh
2002). Regardless, a series of core characteristics remain unchanged and retain similar im-
plications for cultural policy-making in a global context:

• first, mega-event cultural policy must relate to and be informed by broader communi-
cation media policies;
• second, mega-event cultural policies should be understood primarily as image strategies;
• third, event narratives and image strategies are framed by an ongoing tension between
local and global stakeholder needs and expectations.

Each of these characteristics is discussed in turn, below.

Culture, media and communication policies

The global media and communications framework so characteristic of all mega-events is im-
portant as it gives a marked focus to what counts as ‘culture’ within the event staging process.
In my monograph, The Olympic Games and Cultural Policy, I dedicate a chapter to cultural
policy in the context of globalisation, revisiting the early discussions that dominated institu-
tional discourse as led by the United Nations Education, Science and Culture Organisation
(UNESCO) between the 1960s and 1990s. A key turning point in the discussion, which co-
incided with the emergence of mega-events as a distinct phenomenon, was the pressing need
to understand the interdependence between cultural and communication policies.
In the 1960s and 1970s, UNESCO pioneered international cultural policy debates by
highlighting the notion of cultural democracy as a substitute for the principle of ‘cultural
democratisation’ so popular in the 1950s (Garcia 2012, p. 5). This was a stepping stone to
establish broader notions of policy-worthy cultural practices, e.g. grassroots (as opposed
to institutional) culture (Kelly 1984) and led to formalising the debate around popular
culture as well as interrogating traditional distinctions between high and low culture
(Gans 1974). However, by the 1980s, such discussions were overshadowed by the need to
understand the effect of an increasingly active and pervasive private sector within local
and international cultural production and consumption trends. By this point in time, it
became evident that cultural matters were of interest to private corporations and would,
increasingly, be funded and promoted independently from public administration (Kong

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 Cultural policy and mega-events

2000). This process was termed ‘privatisation of culture’ and motivated dedicated research
programmes in institutions such as New York University, under the guidance of Toby
Miller and George Yúdice (see Goldstein 1998 and early cultural policy monographs by
Lewis and Miller 2003; Miller and Yúdice 2002). The work of García Canclini is central
to these studies as it argues that the process of privatisation is a direct effect of the move-
ment towards globalisation (Goldstein 1998: Contexts and Conditions of the Support of
Culture, paragraph 3).
Discussion around the ‘privatisation of culture’ came along the re-emergence of the con-
cept of ‘cultural industries’, first coined by Horkheimer and Adorno (1944) but taking a new
meaning within cultural policy circles in the 1990s that has extended up to today. This her-
alded a new era in international (though Western dominated) cultural policy discourse, this
time led not only by the likes of UNESCO but myriad academic institutions as well as policy
think tanks and so-called ‘cultural observatories’ (Garcia 2012, p. 6). Key to the discussion
was the realisation that global media networks were a leading cultural and creative industry
with ever-expanding influence on cultural production and consumption patterns. Cultural
policy, thus, needed to be understood in the context of broader media and communication
policies. In other words, communication media were discovered as key to understand global
cultural trends, and communication policy was argued by many to be a serious influencer on
cultural policy – if not, as noted by Mirrlees (p. 108), as essentially the same thing.2 In this
context, media events can be seen as the ultimate example of global cultural policy merging
with global communication policy.
Returning to the starting point for this section, understanding mega-events as fully
­dependent on their media and communication framework helps explain what counts as
­‘culture’ within the event staging process. Cultural activity that does not occupy a clear
media stage – and thus, enters the ‘global’ event viewers arena – can play no significant role
within the event narrative during its staging nor, most significantly, throughout its after-
math. This, in turn, means that cultural policy-making in the context of mega-events tends
to operate, primarily, as a platform for image-building and image projection.

Cultural policy as an image strategy

The use of cultural policy as an image strategy for cities and nations has been a common
focus for debate, with discussions and analysis developing parallel to those around special
and mega-events over the last three decades. My research demonstrates that image-making is
one of the most dominant legacy aspirations within event-led regeneration plans (see G
­ arcia
2004), and ‘image-renaissance’ is one of the most frequent references utilised to back up
success claims post-event (see Garcia and Cox 2013). In 1993, Bianchini listed a few typical
characteristics of cultural policy understood as a form of image strategy:

Prestigious cultural projects acted as symbols of rebirth, renewed confidence and dyna-
mism in declining cities like Glasgow, Sheffield and Bilbao… Cultural policies were
used as symbols of modernity and innovation in cities like Montpellier, Nimes, Grenoble,
Rennes, Hamburg, Cologne, Barcelona and Bologna, that wished to develop sectors of
the economy such as fashion, crafts and design based manufacturing and high-tech in-
dustry….[C]ultural flagships like the Burrell collection in Glasgow…[and] the 160 new
public squares created in Barcelona in the build up to the 1992 Olympics all became
powerful physical symbols of urban renaissance.
(1993, pp. 15–16, emphasis added)

369
Beatriz Garcia

This aspiration, considered new a few decades ago, has become so dominant in contem-
porary event rhetoric that it may feel unnecessary to discuss it as a distinct characteristic.
However, in the context of events aspiring to reach out to a global audience, the use cultural
policy as a catalyst for image projection takes on expanded connotations: rather than subtle
images, the kinds of images to be projected need to be bold and simplified so that they can
be easily recognised by media audiences with little understanding of the local host environ-
ment. They are thus closer to a form of contemporary myth-building exercise, relying as
they do on established (often tokenistic) international place associations and mainstreamed
historical imagery.
In this context, cultural policy focuses on providing tools for the identification and pro-
jection of iconic imagery that stands out and can be understood across widely diverse cul-
tural contexts. It is about condensing broadly known characteristics and mixing them with a
few contemporary twists that can work well across media platforms and – with social media
increasingly dictating tone and focus – can be shared easily.
Given these pressures towards ‘packaging’ cultural narrative and maximising external
projection, another underlying ambition of cultural policy frameworks within global events
becomes the provision of background information and guidelines so that stakeholders can
negotiate local sensitivities and the choice of projected images is not totally rejected at home.
In this sense, a key task of mega-event cultural policy is to build bridges between local and
global interests.

The local and the global in a mega-event

The final distinctive characteristic of mega-event cultural policy is the need to respond
to and merge local and global stakeholder interests. Although it is often claimed that
­mega-events require different layers of cultural programming, with some activities aimed at
a local audience and others aimed at national or international followers, decades of trial and
error prove that the most broadly revered event editions have been those able to produce
iconic imagery that works simultaneously across local and global communities of interest.
One of the best-known examples is that of competing divers at the Barcelona 1992 Games:
the divers plunged into the pool with the city skyline, dominated by the recognisable towers
of the Sagrada Familia, as background. 3 This became the most iconic image of the 1992
Games and projected Barcelona as a globally desirable cultural centre. It was the result of
an architectural decision: a roofless Olympic diving pool set on top of the Montjuic hill, a
well-known and locally appreciated location that also hosted the main stadium. The out-
come was the production of powerful city images fully integrated into the competitions
broadcast to exemplify the idea that the city was a key protagonist within the sporting
mega-event.
Other iconic images bridging local or national symbols with global spectacle include
the ‘Rocket Man’ that protagonised the Los Angeles 1984 Olympic Opening Ceremony,
epitomising the dominance of Hollywood as the home of ‘show business’ and the role of the
USA landing on the moon or the use of bold op-art graphic design inspired by early Mexican
cultures and folk-art as the unifying (i.e. global avant-garde as well as indigenous heritage)
look for the Mexico 1968 Games.
The pressure towards iconic and spectacular imagery poses important questions about the
depth and authenticity of event cultural narratives. Ultimately, it also suggests that there is
a thirst for collectively owned statements, ‘collective moments’ or ‘collective memories’ that

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 Cultural policy and mega-events

people from the most diverse backgrounds can feel an attachment to (see Nas 2011). I con-
tend here that mega-events grounded on globally informed cultural policy frameworks have
the capacity to create and project such statements.
Given its consistent standing as the largest global media event over the last three decades
(with media coverage regularly reaching out to over 200 countries), the chapter now turns to
the Olympic Games as a key example of global cultural policy-making in action.

The Olympic Games and cultural policy

The Olympic Games have always been framed, implicitly, by cultural policy, with broad
requirements for the inclusion of official cultural programmes dating back to 1912 and the
expectation that cities should host ‘Olympic art competitions’ extending between 1912 and
1948 (see Garcia 2008). However, culture has not been part of an active IOC-led strategy
until 2014, with the creation of the first executive department dedicated to Culture and
Olympic Heritage. This has been largely because, ever since the transformation of the Games
into a global media event phenomenon in the 1980s, there has been a marked divide in the
value given to culture by local as opposed to global stakeholders.
At a transnational level, while extensively detailed international marketing guidelines
have existed since 1980 (e.g. the IOC ‘Olympic Marketing Fact File’, which is updated
annually), the first explicit ‘Olympic cultural policy’ paper was not produced until 2000
(IOC 2000). Further, while media operations toolkits have always been part of the Games
hosting process (especially since the advent of international broadcasts, pioneered at the
Rome 1960 edition), formal statements on the centrality of culture as part of the ‘Host City
Candidature File’ have not been apparent until 2008 (IOC 2008) and the first operational
guideline on how to ­deliver cultural activity alongside the Games was not produced until
2011 (IOC 2011).
In contrast, locally, the importance of a strong cultural framework has been in the radar
of host cities for decades, with the Berlin 1936 and Mexico 1968 editions as pioneering ex-
emplars (see Garcia 2008) and more generalised interest by all Games organisers since the
Barcelona 1992 edition. Barcelona showed the value of using a sporting mega-event as a plat-
form for cultural identity projection and city representation, going as far as designing sports
venues so that athletic competition media shots included the city skyline (see Figure 24.2).
Subsequently, local stakeholders have become more strategic in their attempts to ensure that
the city has some protagonism in Games coverage.
The latter trend has run parallel to the broader trend towards ‘culture-led regener-
ation’ as a dominant policy strategy in post-industrial cities (Garcia 2004). However,
without the official backing and encouragement of global partners (i.e. sponsors and
broadcasters) many attempts at Olympic cultural policy-making have remained invisible
to international audiences, thus incapable of transferring from one Games edition to
the next.
Prior to discussing how the interests of international stakeholders differ from those of
local groups, it is worth reflecting on the key sources of cultural value and/or platforms for
cultural production within an Olympic Games. I have discussed the merits and potentials of
each of these areas in previous studies (see Garcia 2011). This chapter will provide a quick
overview first (see Box 2), followed by some examples of their application within specific
Games editions.

371
Figure 24.2  Iconic images: bridging local and global narratives in Mexico 1968

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 Cultural policy and mega-events

Box 2: Sources of Olympic cultural production

The main sources of Olympic cultural production could be summarised as:

1. The symbols of the Games and the Olympic Movement: These include the logo and emblem of each
Games, the official Olympic posters, the mascots, all merchandising materials and commercial
applications of Games symbols (e.g. accessories, clothing, decoration) and traditional collectables
such as Olympic stamps and coins.
2. Olympic ceremonies and rituals: These include both the opening and closing ceremonies, which are
considered the peak events of the Games in terms of public awareness and claim to be the most
widely live-broadcast event in the world, and the torch relay, which is aimed at maximising direct
public participation and community interest by taking place throughout the host country.
3. The promotional strategy for the Games and ‘brand image’ of the host-city: This ­includes the use of
distinctive graphic design features to ‘dress the city’ (i.e. the so-called ‘look of the Games’ pro-
gramme, involving building-wraps, flags, crowd sign-posting etc.), as well as staff uniforms, sta-
tionery, publications and venue design. Olympic slogans are also part of this category.
4. The cultural activities programme or Cultural Olympiad: This refers to the organisation of special cul-
tural and arts events prior to and during the two weeks of Olympic competition. This is the least
regulated of all the areas listed here and is becoming the strongest area of opportunity for the
implementation of distinct cultural ­policies. (Adapted from: Garcia 2011, pp. 154–155)

While, traditionally, the International Olympic Committee (IOC) has focused on setting the
rules and providing guidance towards the first two areas and overviewing the (increasingly
dominant) role of the third area, the cultural activities programme has remained separate from
the rest and has lacked a clear direction. In the following two sections, I discuss how host city
stakeholders have tried to appropriate the least regulated sources of cultural narrative within
the Olympic Games to fulfil local agendas, while global partners have limited their expec-
tations to narrow heritage representations and/or standardised commercial interpretations.

Local framework
Olympic host cities have always shown an interest in exploiting the cultural policy possibili-
ties presented by hosting the Games and attracting global attention. Most cities have focused
on the opportunities for image projection, but there are some relevant examples of Games
editions being used to advance broader economic, social and creative agendas through their
Olympic cultural programming. In many cases, the pressures emerging out of operating
within an outward-facing context, with national – or indeed, global –audiences and stake-
holders in mind, have played a defining role to push new (or more ambitious) cultural policy
frameworks than those in place pre-event.
Since the 1960s (the time when Olympic cities started to feel more empowered to develop
a cultural narrative) the most dominant local agendas behind Olympic cultural program-
ming can be summarised as:

1. ‘Politics and identity’

2. ‘Economics and regeneration’
3. ‘Entertainment, look and feel’
4. ‘Cultural and social change’ (Garcia 2016)
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Beatriz Garcia

The first, ‘politics and identity’, occurs when the official cultural narrative intends to grow
or reignite national pride. This was the most frequent priority for Games editions during the
Cold War era in the period from the 1960s to 1980s. Recognisable examples are the Mos-
cow 1980 Games, which presented a large cultural programme celebrating Russian folklore
as well as high culture icons in the areas of classical music and dance, and the Los Angeles
1984 response, which focused on a celebration of the USA ‘way of life’ through the lenses of
postmodernism and popular culture as represented by the Hollywood film industry. Other
editions with a strong political angle include those taking place in cities aiming to project
minority cultures or to showcase a cultural identity distinct from larger nation states: Mon-
treal in 1976 and Barcelona in 1992 used the Games cultural programme to present Quebe-
coise and Catalan culture and explain their differences in the context of Canada and Spain
respectively (Garcia 2016).
Economic impact and city regeneration became the most noticeable agenda in the
1990s, with Barcelona and Sydney being two outstanding cases. Their cultural pro-
gramme was linked to a larger tourism positioning strategy that saw the promotion of
urban centres in opposition to outdated views of their host countries as loci for ‘beach
tourism’ ‘cheap food’ and ‘good weather’ exclusively. The Cultural Olympiad thus em-
phasised activity that could highlight the most recognisable city skyline and iconic ven-
ues: la Sagrada Familia and Las Ramblas featured strongly in Barcelona, while the Sydney
Opera House was the sole performing arts venue for the Olympic Arts Festival in 2000
(Garcia 2012).
A broader emphasis on ‘entertainment, look and feel’ has been common in Games
editions where organisers understand cultural programming mainly as a tool to assist
with crowd management and expand public engagement during Games time. Games
editions prioritising this over any other agendas have often relied on a generalist type
of cultural offer, favouring standardised entertainment practices and design motifs that
have done little to present a distinct view of the local host and advance autochthonous
cultural policies. However, there are examples of innovative and internationally influ-
ential approaches in the 1960s and 1970s, when the Games showcased avant-garde trends
in graphic design and advertising. Mexico 1968 and Munich 1972 are two of the best
examples (Garcia 2016).
Finally, ‘cultural and social change’ can be interpreted as the most ambitious and recent
policy agenda, an area gaining prominence particularly after 2000. Sydney 2000 was am-
bitious in its plea to bring contemporary Aboriginal art troupes to the mainstream, and its
dedicated Aboriginal Olympic arts festival (‘Festival of the Dreaming’) was pivotal in bring-
ing Aboriginal work to the Sydney Opera House for the first time, as well as generating the
expectation that emerging Aboriginal art should be showcased regularly within high profile
festivals (Garcia 2012). Similarly, London 2012 contributed to the repositioning of disabled
artists as world-class performers and creators through its nationwide programme ‘Unlim-
ited’, which was supported by the British Council to inform work at the Rio 2016 Olympics
(see Rodenhurst 2013, pp. 9–27). The London 2012 Cultural Olympiad also placed a strong
emphasis on advancing the role of young people as producers – not only consumers – of art
and culture and made this ambition manifest through its approach to programing design and
production (Rodenhurst 2013).
All in all, there are many examples of progressive cultural policy being applied in
the context of the Games and resulting in local, national and, at times, international
advancements to position and expand the role of previously ignored or minority cultural
causes and actors. However, few of these examples have benefited from the Games as

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a global communication platform. International media stakeholders have consistently

failed to report on the Cultural Olympiad as a Games component, and official sponsors
have provided no funding or promotional support for official cultural programming other
than the (far less flexible or locally rooted) ceremonies and torch relay (see Garcia 2012).
The final section analyses the key reasons and notes possible routes for change over the
coming years.

International framework
Despite more than a century of aspirational rhetoric regarding the cultural foundations of
the Olympic Games as the expression of a ‘movement’ aiming to ‘blend sport with culture
and education’ in order to ‘inspire the youth of the world’ (IOC 2015), the opportunities
to advance a global cultural policy framework adaptable to the 200 plus participant nation
states officially involved in the Games have been limited. This is partly because, traditionally,
Olympic culture has been defined through the narrow and (often) nostalgic interpretation
of the ideals articulated by the Modern Games founder, Pierre de Coubertin, back in 1906
(see Muller 2000).
The International Olympic Committee established a Culture and Education Commission
in 1968 in order to provide guidelines for these two named areas and their manifestation
during Games time. The role of this group, however lengthy in time, has remained ambig-
uous and has focused predominantly on the preservation of early customs: from the value
of documenting and promoting Olympic collectables such as coins and stamps, to the pro-
tection of protocol within the official Games pageant and the dissemination of pedagogic
ideals as conveyed by de Coubertin at the start of the twentieth century. This focus on a
­v ision around Olympic heritage as a (fixed) nineteenth century concept, has diminished
(and, ­often, prevented) the IOC cultural leads’ engagement with the discussions most com-
mon in international cultural policy circles from the 1980s onwards – including, paradoxi-
cally, engagement in the debate around the ‘privatisation of culture’ process, as heralded by
the Olympics in that very period. As a result, Olympic cultural and educational policies have
remained largely separate from the rapid evolution and transformation of Olympic commu-
nication policies and event management operations. However, with the advent of ‘legacy’
and ‘sustainability’ as essential keywords for the future of Olympic Games hosting (Moragas
et al. 2003), the value and need for a more clearly defined (and contemporary) Olympic
­cultural policy has become increasingly apparent.
The way to address this need has been for the IOC to create, for the first time, a de-
partment dedicated to overseeing cultural matters with an explicit focus on ‘International
cultural relations’ and a capacity to take on executive actions rather than just provide ad-
vice on an annual basis, as was the case with the Culture and Education Commission. One
of the first actions by the new Department for Culture and Heritage has been to develop
an ‘IOC ­Cultural Action Plan’ that can link to specific Games editions, while operating
on an ongoing basis and retaining a transnational focus. This Action Plan is defined as a
combination of ‘networking/public relations’ initiatives with cultural actors worldwide
(e.g. a collaboration has started with the Victoria and Albert Museum in the UK); ‘in-
ternational programmes and diffusion’ (e.g. artists in residence programme during the
Rio 2016 Games, travelling exhibitions launched from Olympic Museum in Lausanne);
and formal ‘partnerships’ with key Olympic stakeholders (e.g. proposing creation of ‘cul-
tural attaché’ role within National Olympic Committees, International Sport Federations,
sponsors) ( Jamolli 2015).

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Beatriz Garcia

Figure 24.3  Visual representation of ‘Olympic Experience’ components

In order to best assist in the implementation of this Plan, the role and scope of the ad-
visory Commission has also changed. For the first time since 1968, education matters are
being handled by a separate Commission, while a new Culture and Olympic Heritage Com-
mission has been formed to include not only champions of Olympic Movement historical
accounts and traditions, but also expert representatives of contemporary cultural and creative
industries sectors – an area never before fully considered part of the IOC definition of cul-
ture. Further, the definition of the official Games cultural programme or Cultural Olympiad
is evolving and for the first time in 2008 was expressed as central to the ‘Olympic experi-
ence’ alongside the broader host city context. This was visualised in the following diagram
to inform the candidature proposals of cities aiming to host the 2016 Games edition (see
Figure 24.3)
Explicit reference to the Cultural Olympiad has also emerged within the IOC White
Paper ‘Olympic Agenda 2020’, which offers a strategic roadmap for Olympic stakeholders
over the next four years. This document includes three recommendations that have direct
implications for cultural programming and offer a focus for the Action Plan:

Recommendation num. 26: ‘Further blend sport and culture’ both ‘during Games time’
and ‘between Games’.
(IOC 2014, p. 15)

The Action Plan has responded to this recommendation by proposing the creation of an
‘Olympic Laurel’ award, to be offered to an outstanding artist or intellectual during a
high profile Games moment from a media point of view. The first award was presented
to Kipchoge Keino, the retired Kenyan distance runner, during the Opening Cere-
mony at Rio 2016. Other proposals include the aforementioned ‘Artists in Residence’
and ‘Olympic ­Museum on the Move’ programmes and the development of an Olympic
House to showcase Olympic Movement heritage parallel to the well-established ‘ Na-
tional Houses’, which focus instead on providing an athletes’ meeting point as well as
entertainment and promotional opportunities for each of the national delegations par-
ticipating at the Games.

Recommendation num. 33: ‘Further involve sponsors in the Olympism in Action

programme’.
(IOC 2014, p. 17)

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 Cultural policy and mega-events

This recommendation has not translated yet into a specific programme of actions, but in 2015 for
the first time, the IOC – through its Culture and Heritage Department – was involved in conver-
sations to encourage global Olympic partners (i.e. the sponsors holding exclusive rights of associa-
tion with the Games worldwide) to become official presenters of cultural activity in Rio 2016 and
thus maximise promotional opportunities and Olympic brand associations with culture.

Recommendation num. 36: ‘Extend access to the Olympic Brand for non-commercial use’.
(IOC 2014, p. 18)

Access to the ‘Olympic Brand’ is the area that requires more detailed attention from a
legal point of view and did not result in specific actions on time for the Rio 2016 Games
edition. It builds on decades of debate around the existing barriers for grassroots cultural
programming to be directly associated with the Olympics. Given the stipulation that the
official Olympic partners have exclusive rights over the use of the Olympic symbol (the five
rings) and the prohibition for the use of the word ‘Olympic’ in connection with any activity
not led or funded by an official Olympic partner, few cultural organisations have ever been
allowed to promote their work as Olympics related (see Garcia 2001, 2008, 2012). This lack
of explicit association has resulted in the paradoxical situation that the most advanced, so-
cially relevant, transformative and/or locally meaningful cultural programmes and activities
taking place in the context of the Games have rarely (if ever) been promoted as ‘Olympic’ or
seen as related in any way to the Games by their immediate communities of interest. This
situation applies to many of the examples presented in the previous section, best examples
of programming oriented towards ‘cultural and social change’ such as the ‘Festival of the
Dreaming’ in Sydney.
Discussion over the need to establish a non-lucrative extension of the Olympic brand
gained prominence in the lead to London 2012 and resulted in a one-off concession by the
IOC in the form of the ‘Inspired by 2012’ logo. The ‘Inspired by 2012’ programme, which
encompassed a broad range of grassroots cultural and educational activities throughout the
UK, used the same visual identity markers as the rest of official London 2012 programming
but excluded the use of the Olympic rings (see detailed discussion in Garcia 2015, and
Figure 24.4, below).
The existence of an ‘Inspired by’ programme was, however, articulated as an ‘excep-
tion’ and was not delivered under IOC leadership. The Agenda 2020 recommendation
noted above could enable other, similar practices to become embedded in the Olympic

Figure 24.4  ‘Inspired by 2012’ as a referent for non-commercial Olympic branding

Source: London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games Organising Committee (courtesy of the IOC).

377
Beatriz Garcia

hosting process so that non-lucrative Olympic branding associations that can be imple-
mented by cultural organisations in future host cities as well as by other interested parties
between Games.
All of these factors combined suggest the emergence of a more clearly defined global
cultural policy for the Olympic Games. It remains to be seen how the interests and pressures
of leading commercial stakeholders (exclusive media rights broadcasters and sponsors, in
particular) may shape the official IOC-sanctioned cultural narrative, but it is expected that,
if nothing else, expectations around Games cultural programming will be raised, awareness
of the possibilities and challenges of an Olympic cultural showcase relevant to audiences
worldwide will grow and demand for the programme to take place and gain prominence
will become more explicit.

Mega-cultural policy-making
Iconic vision, global moments, once-in-a-life time opportunities, larger-than-life experi-
ences. … The rhetoric and modus-operandi surrounding mega-events has traditionally led
to unapologetic or grandiose takes on cultural statements. In this context, cultural policy
becomes a tool to condense time and place into spectacular images and phrases that can
reinvent (as well as dictate) the official rhetoric behind a given urban centre and its cultural
representation for decades to come.
In the wake of the 1968 Games, Mexico City became largely associated with a black and
white op-art indigenous look; since 1992, the imagery of Barcelona has been dominated by
variations of what could be termed eccentric modernisme by the beach. It is hard to imagine
the same levels of local community support towards such niche reimaginings outside the
context of a mega-event. This is hard to imagine because, even though mega-events, and
the Olympics in particular, are also attractors of opposition movements, highly organised
­activism and contestation,4 their capacity to generate consensus and buy-in towards a collec-
tive image or shared cultural narrative is largely unrivalled.
The implications of such capacity to attain buy-in for cultural policy are vast but come
with a warning: the rhetoric behind ‘once-in-a-life-time’ opportunities is believable only
if it remains so, that is, if it is only resorted to in exceptional circumstances. Reversely, ex-
pecting cultural policy to deliver recurrent or continuous hype and euphoria as a measure of
success is problematic and doomed to fail (see Waitt 2008).
Cities that choose festivalisation as their leading cultural strategy or, more drastically,
cities that choose to focus on hallmark and mega-event bidding as their core cultural vision,
tend to observe diminishing returns and/or a progressive lack of credibility. As an example,
Barcelona, globally celebrated as a ‘model’ of urban regeneration and event hosting, failed to
generate local enthusiasm and international interest for its Universal Forum of Cultures in
2004, a (new, self-awarded) mega-event that claimed to address the most pressing ‘univer-
sal’ issues of the day, from peace to diversity and sustainability (see Degen and Garcia 2012;
Garcia 2004). Alternatively, Manchester, host of the 2002 Commonwealth Games, did not
generate the same level of international attention but delivered a carefully conceived cultural
programme (Garcia 2003) that provided the basis for its now well-established Manchester
International Festival. The main difference between these two examples lies in the tone and
approach of the cities’ respective cultural policies in the aftermath of hosting a mega-event:
while Barcelona basked in its success and resisted lowering the tone more than a decade after
being in the global spotlight, Manchester progressively built its cultural narrative. Barcelona
aimed to become the go-to place for cultural mega-events post 1992 (e.g. the city leaders

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placed bids to host the Universal Expo as well as the European Capital of Culture title, fail-
ing in both instances) so it focused on grand narratives and itinerant one-off events rather
than prioritising smaller scale but more locally rooted cultural initiatives. Alternatively,
Manchester decided to focus on the creation of a regular, city-owned, arts festival with a
clear niche and grow it from edition to edition.
By 2016, the mega-event cultural policy legacy of each city is considerably differ-
ent. In Manchester, we find a solidly defined and increasingly respected arts festival,
supported by a comprehensive cultural and creative industries strategy that built on an
‘event themed’ rather than ‘event led’ legacy plan in the wake of its Commonwealth
Games experience (see Smith and Fox 2007). Barcelona has developed a very strong and
competitive global image as an urban tourism hub – with shopping and gastronomy as
growing calling cards – but has a mixed record in its event hosting strategy and is gen-
erating increasing social contestation towards its perceived focus on external image pro-
jection over community inclusion decades after its Olympic hosting experience (Degen
and Garcia 2012).
Overall, the mega-event phenomenon seems to be here to stay, with emerging econo-
mies keen to build on the models that dominated the 1990s and early 2000s in the Western
world. Acceptance that cultural policy should be an essential part of mega-event plan-
ning in order to ensure post-event sustainability is a relatively new trend, with few fully
successful referents over the last two decades. Despite many good examples of valuable
local cultural policy implementation, the lack of coherent and sustained global frame-
works suggests an ad-hoc approach dominated by time and place-specific interests but
very limited knowledge-­t ransfer or capacity for adaptation in subsequent event editions.
The international bodies behind contemporary mega-events have thus a critical role to
play shaping future definitions of cultural policy, this time with a global outlook and the
aspiration to fully build on the most established strength of a mega-event process: i.e. its
transnational media dimension. As proven by decades of trial and error, such approach
to cultural ­policy-making can have a noticeable impact on the imaging and reimaging
of event host cities through the construction of collective moments and the illusion of a
shared, collective identity that ‘looks good on TV’ while also helping advance broader
social and economic causes. Equally, as also proven by the observable aftermaths of many a
‘model’ host city, it is essential to ensure that this global-outlook-led approach to cultural
policy-making is complemented by other, ­non-event-driven or internationally oriented,
cultural policy foundations. This is so because, no matter its global outreach and external
image success, for cultural policy to be sustainable, it needs to address the many frag-
mented, contested and difficult to ‘translate’ (or iconicise) cultural needs and aspirations of
respective host communities.

Notes
1 In the case of the Olympic Games, the most dominant broadcasting nation is the United States.
2 Mirrlees argues that ‘the emergence of horizontally and vertically integrated media firms and
convergent culture industry, media industry and telecommunication markets has rendered the
distinction between media policy and cultural policy problematic, if not irrelevant’ (p. 108).
3 See examples of the image online: http://images.sports.cn/Image/2013/07/23/1106506039.jpg.
4 A long-standing example is the ‘Bread not Circuses’ coalition that emerged in opposition to the
Toronto 2008 Olympic bid in the late 1990s and continued operating over a number of years and
produced a wide range of publications (see: Bread Not Circuses (2001) Stop playing games with
­Toronto: The people’s anti-Olympic bid book. Toronto: Authors).

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Beatriz Garcia

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 25
The challenges of the new
­media scene for public policies1
George Yúdice

Introduction
The new ICT – especially social networks and new ways of distributing entertainment by
mega-corporations – are radically transforming the media landscape around the world. On
the one hand, it is a scenario in which promises are made to deliver totally diverse content,
including those created by users, to satisfy any preference, and, on the other hand, to provide
increasing digital access to the entire population of the world. Those who make that promise
are not governments but the new Internet mega-platforms like Google and Facebook. Latin
American governments are ill prepared both legally and in their ability to provide support to
domestic enterprises, which in turn contribute to tax revenues. At the same time, the ques-
tion arises as to who should provide a seemingly public service, such as the Internet, which
is the equivalent of electricity, telephony and water in the 20th century: the public sector
(government) or the private sector (corporations)? Or are there other alternatives? What
effect does this all have on users? How are public policies designed for this new scenario?

These children inhabit the virtual. The cognitive sciences have shown us that using the
Internet, reading or writing messages (with one’s thumb), or consulting Wikipedia or
Facebook does not stimulate the same neurons or the same cortical zones as does the use
of a book, a chalkboard, or a notebook. They can manipulate several forms of informa-
tion at the same time, yet they neither understand it, nor integrate it, nor synthesize it
as do we, their ancestors.
They no longer have the same head. With their cell phone, they have access to all
people; with GPS, to all places; with the Internet, to all knowledge. They inhabit a
topological space of neighborhoods, whereas we lived in a metric space, coordinated by
distances. They no longer inhabit the same space.
(Serres 2013: 6–7)

In his defense of the youth culture, developed in the heat of the new media, Michel Serres
argues that another way of thinking (“they do not have the same head”) has emerged, more
connected to digital technology and the new practices this technology makes possible. These

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 The challenges of the new ­media scene

would be the digital natives, but there are also older, well-assimilated digital migrants. One
has to recognize that Serres is talking about French youth, who live in a rich country with
good connectivity. That is why they have a high number – more than 85 percent – who access
the Internet, especially through mobile telephony (Freier 2015; Global Internet Report 2015).
One might think that due to the marked inequality in “emerging” or “developing” coun-
tries, the new habitus would be radically different. According to Internet World Stats for
February 2, 2016, Internet has 3.3 billion users worldwide,2 1.3 billion more than 5 years
ago. This is more or less 45 percent of the 7.4 billion inhabitants of the earth. 3 Although
access is growing rapidly, it is clear that there is much inequality between the richer (North
America has 88 percent coverage) and poorer regions (Africa has 29 percent) (Kemp 2015;
Pew Research Center 2015). Latin America is in the middle with 56 percent, but in this vast
region there is also much inequality between and within countries.
Even so, the near future will see more access to the Internet, especially through mobile
telephony. As researchers at the Pew Research Center found, young people in “emerging” or
“developing” countries access the Internet much more than the older generations. The aver-
age age gap in the 32 countries studied is 15 percentage points, but in all the Latin American
countries included in the study – Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, El Salvador, Mexico,
Nicaragua, Peru and Venezuela – the gap is 30 or more percentage points, a fact that is also
explained by differences in levels of education, incomes and knowledge of English (Pew 2015).
In Brazil, for example, 72 percent of 18 to 43 year olds access the Internet or have a smart-
phone, in contrast to 35 percent of those aged 35 or older. According to the research depart-
ment of the Groupe Mobile Sociale Association, or GSMA Intelligence, there are currently 7.7
billion mobile connections in the world and 3.8 billion unique subscribers of mobile accounts.4
These data are also confirmed when we look at peak numbers of users achieved worldwide
by Facebook and Whatsapp at the end of 2015: 1.59 billion and 1 billion respectively. These
platforms are mostly accessed by mobile (Martí 2016), 90.6 percent according to Facebook
statistics.5 In Latin America, Whatsapp has a subscribership of 93 percent and 84 percent of
mobile Internet users in Brazil and Argentina respectively (Smith 2016). Of course, Face-
book foresaw the rapid growth of Whatsapp when it paid $19 billion USD for the application
in 2014 although it had only generated revenues of $20 million in 2013. Increasingly, these
companies and others are expanding their functions, not only chat and links but also trans-
mission of photos and live real-time videos between friends since December 2015 (Lavrusik
2016). These functions, delivered free of charge to users (or to be exact, in exchange for data
collection), provide something like a simulacrum of public service, enabling these platforms
to negotiate and compete with nation-states, as we shall see shortly.
The most popular uses of mobile Internet in “emerging” or “developing” countries are
communication with family and friends, the use of social networks, and in second place,
the search for information (Pew Research Center 2015). Access to media and entertainment
via mobile telephony are growing rapidly (eMarketer 2016). Even live cultural events, such
as concerts and theater, are accompanied by specialized applications such as Shazam, which
recognizes any song and provides detailed information about the artist, the lyrics, when the
next concert will take place in the vicinity of the user and online ticket sales (López 2015).
Mobile applications not only deliver music, video, texts and user-created content but also
provide a set of tools that enable users to access whatever they want (BuddeComm 2015).
This choice gives advantages to mobile technologies and social networks. An analysis of me-
dia, cultural activities and cultural management in this new digital landscape cannot focus
only on the habits and customs of users; the political economy of this scenario is even more
important. Both users and enterprises/technologies co-construct this landscape.

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This accelerated growth of social media is co-produced by large platforms that respond to
users’ interests. It is not the 20th century-style consumer society, explained and criticized by
sociologists and political scientists from Veblen to Benjamin Barber, although consumerism
remains very strong. The desire – some would say the need – to communicate and estab-
lish solidarity or ties of affection, as in Facebook, prompts the creation of new applications,
which are monetized in different ways and not only oriented toward the consumption of
goods. All kinds of causes and issues are enhanced by these forms of communication, includ-
ing alternatives to hegemonic capitalism, such as the crowdfunding platforms Kickstarter
and Catarse, which have pages on Facebook. Nevertheless, vast data streams are generated
through these platforms, which are put to various uses and not only for the sale of products.
Smart cities, the so-called Internet of Things, data on health and other social interests, as
well as government or business espionage take advantage of this avalanche of information.
Thinkers like Michel Serres, cited above, and Jesús Martín-Barbero characterize this
new scenario as a paradigmatic social change, in which a crisis ensues, a tremendous hubbub
comprised by the chats and conversations of users. As Martín-Barbero writes: “The chats are
not composed only of language but narrations, images, music, experiences communicated by
people and very diverse cultures, saying things about life to each other’ (Rincón and Yúdice,
2016). This noise is an expression not only of the failure of state institutions and society, but
also of the desire for other arrangements, as seen in the expressions of outrage (indignation)
throughout the world. But this social media landscape is also the apogee of new enclosures
comprised of private clouds where data are stored and processed. The complexity is found
in the simultaneity of enthusiasm for communication that seems not to be managed or gov-
erned and the lack of understanding about how communication, which now involves all
life (as in the Internet of Things), is managed, analyzed and used by huge corporations that
increasingly challenge governments over this new way of managing what is public, although
the concept of the public loses robustness in this age of the user.
Citizen, public, audience, spectator, reader, consumer… lose their vitality (but they do
not disappear) as epistemic and practical concepts together with the institutions that have
sustained these categories. Both public service (including education) and the media weaken
confronted by communication and knowledge among all  (Martin-Barbero).6 Information
is no longer emitted from a center to an expanding circumference; users intervene in what
is produced and emitted. This poses a challenge for cultural management, accustomed to
researching and knowing audiences to whom culture is delivered. What does research into
publics mean in an age of usership and producership?
On this issue, the transformation of the music industry is revealing. In streaming services,
which show increasing growth as the purchase or download of phonograms wanes (IFPI
2015), it is use itself – registered in databases and processed by recommendation software –
that guides the creation of repertoires for users. It is a form of curatorship, which today is one
of the most valuable services, in which media provider and experience designer converge.
These providers compete to create memorable sensations that ensue not from spectacle but
from experience (Mulligan 2014). One could sum up the phenomenon by invoking the
concept of affect, which is increasingly used to characterize value in the new era of access
and use. New digital ventures, especially those associated with brands, seek to absorb the
expression of affect to attract ever more users.
It is not by chance, therefore, that large telephone companies offer free streaming services
(for a limited time) to attract users. For example, Deezer has partnered with the telephone
companies Tim and Vivo, which offer Vivo Music. In an ad for this service, they express
one of the major principles of the new media landscape: “The music you want, when and

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wherever you may be.” 7 And there is always the possibility to access YouTube for free music
and video streaming. The combination of mobile telephony and streaming services makes
it possible to transform cultural enjoyment by “freeing” the user not only from the place
where he or she enjoys but also from the traditional platforms of television, which dictate
what programs can be seen, in what order and at what time. Breaking out of this rigid frame-
work explains in part the rapid growth of Netflix, the film and television streaming service.
Called the Uber of TV (IDGNow 2015), Netflix, which recently achieved availability in 190
countries (Chacón Jiménez 2016), also produces its own series, such as 3 percent in Brazil,
using the information it collects on the habits and preferences of users. An example is the de-
tection of when users get hooked to a series (Spangler 2015). In my travels throughout Latin
America I have had a few Marxist friends, who are very critical of the political economy of
the media, talk about being glued to the television or tablet watching 50 episodes of a show
on a weekend.
While the television networks offer programs that not every viewer wants to see, and
therefore need to develop strategies to keep the attention of these viewers throughout the
night so as to achieve good ratings and therefore advertisers, the new streaming services and
OTT (over-the-top content, or content transmitted without the intervention of an opera-
tor) offer what viewers want to see, when they want to and without advertising. That’s why
Amazon Prime created Amazon Studios, to produce their own series using data from user
preferences.8 For Amazon Prime, a well-varied offering based on preferences ensures that
people will sign onto their service (Miller 2016).
In what follows, I raise these topics for debate: (1) changes in cultural enjoyment; (2) the
biopolitics implied in these changes; (3) the political economy of the new media scenario.

Changes in cultural enjoyment

In the first place, we need to recognize that there has been a fundamental shift in attitude
­toward intellectual and cultural property. In the first moment of transition to the digital
world, file sharing prevailed (a practice called piracy by the media industry in post-­Napster
times). Industry failed to convince users that file sharing is a crime. In a second moment, ad-­
supported streaming services appeared, as in various music and video services (e.g., ­YouTube
and the first iterations of Last.fm, Spotify, Pandora and Deezer), thus converting sharing into
a business. Even if a third moment – the transition to paid streaming ­subscriptions – never
consolidates as a significant enterprise, streaming is nevertheless growing in number of users
and profitability. What is interesting about these new services is that users are no longer in-
terested in being collectors. As Martín-Barbero says, knowledge takes place among all and
therefore should generate another attitude regarding property. In the new political economy
of networks, there is much talk of the commons (Gutiérrez 2016). I will return to this topic,
but here I would like to emphasize attitudes toward access and sharing, according to which it
is not necessary to own anything. These attitudes intervene in practices of collecting culture:
recordings, books, films.
There are several theories of collectionism, among them those where discernment, know­
ledge and expertise prevail, others where taste and passion excel and yet others that empha-
size fetishism. For Benjamin, who wrote much about collectionism, passion and ­fetishism
are fundamental qualities: it’s a matter of an intimate relationship with objects (1968: 67).
In contrast to the Renaissance collector, who was public and staged his high status, the
modern collector emerges in anonymity and the privacy of inner life. The modern collector
struggles, additionally, with a contradiction inherent in modern art: on the one hand, the

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fetishization of the object and on the other the refusal of commodification of the object in
order to transform it into art. This makes art a mere object of contemplation. In this way, art
is only a function of taste, which in turn masks the collector’s lack of expertise and limited
experience, which is invested in the objects of the collection. Ackbar Abbas points out that
for Baudelaire, this lack of experience is tantamount to the inability to assimilate the expe-
rience of modernity, that is, the “inhospitable and blinding age of big-scale industrialism”
(Benjamin 1973: 111, cit. 227).
Benjamin also contrasts the way in which the writer and the collector come to their
­experience. The latter removes the objects from circulation by inserting them into the frame
where they “turn to stone” (1999: 305). Objects enter a closed loop. The Internet users are
more like Benjamin’s writer; in their practices, information opens up to rhizomatic connec-
tions, sharing and the establishment of the commons. Abbas stresses the writer’s experience
in Benjamin, referring to tactics of acquisition against grain, which include borrowing books
and not returning them or systematically failing to read them or inheriting them. Even the
most obvious way to acquire them – to buy them – has its tactics, which differ depending
on whether books are bought in bookstores or catalogs or auctions. But “the ‘most praise-
worthy’ method of acquiring books is ‘writing them oneself ’” (Abbas 1988: 230). In this
analysis, Benjamin seems to anticipate the modus operandi of the Internet, where property
parameters are questioned and other forms of acquiring and experimenting with production
and symbolic exchange are practiced without becoming a proprietor. It could be said that
the collector of the 19th and 20th centuries becomes a disseminatory user in the new media
scene, although property laws and conventional profit strategies limit this trend.
To understand the transformation of collecting in our time, we would have to do the
same as Benjamin did: insert collecting into the political economy of symbolic production,
which has some features different from the 19th and 20th industrial mode of production
and the mid-20th century mode of consumerism. In the new economy-of-information-­
experience-and-affect the content of the products – which are exchanges, services, commu-
nications, etc. – is intangible, which is what circulates and links subjectivities and bodies.
This is to say that the affect previously invested in objects finds other circuits of cathexis;
this intangible content becomes more valuable than physical things used to produce these
exchanges, services and communications. It is not by chance that in the new digital age, we
deal with texts, images, sounds, communications, that is, everything that can be recombined
and not appropriated but supplemented and put into circulation again. The value given by
users to these items is definitely a use value and at the same time a circulation value, but not
necessarily an exchange value. In any case, at present we see a tension between the desire for
the commons that many users assume to exist in their practices and the tendency of compa-
nies to monetize any action and turn it into property. The fuel for the production of value
in the Internet economy is the very action of users, which in most cases they do not even
realize they provide.9

The biopolitics of the new media scene

Benjamin’s insights would support the idea that users of social networks manifest an agency,
not only in directly political actions such as the movements of outrage around the world,9 but
also in media consumption, as argued by Simone Pereira de Sá (2016), from another theoret-
ical perspective, with respect to fans in social networks. Yet the very use of social networks
has biopolitical repercussions. You only have to think about the mining of data generated by
users. It is significant that in this biopolitics users want to use the platforms that profit from

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the information that they hand over. They are not subjected or oppressed. This harvesting
of value is not experienced as exploitation. The vast majority do not even read the terms of
use and simply accept them in order to get access to the platforms on which they express
themselves and connect to others. This imperative to express themselves predominates in
social networks that are necessary for the experience-and-affect economy. At a time when
less profit is generated by the sale or licensing of cultural products, new companies have
developed technologies to facilitate the expression of affect, which is a means of business
and also control. The affective turn in cultural studies in the new millennium tends not to
have a critical view of the technologies that facilitate the generation of affect. The analysis
of the data generated by recognition software in streaming services, of the preferences in the
new curatorship of music and audiovisual texts and of new forms of co-creation, as in Jorge
Drexler’s aplicanciones ( Jorge Drexler n) are some examples of the use of affect. Biopolitics
takes advantage of what we have understood to be the most profound materiality of human
being: affect.
It could be said that affect is the intermediary solvent in which subjectivities, bodies and
cybernetic machines are cathected. Affect theorists Patricia Clough et al. argue that in the
current stage of capitalism, “the distinction between organic and non-organic matter is
dissolving in relation to information,” with the result that matter itself emerges as informa-
tional (2007: 62). This reflection leads them to postulate that “science and capital are engaged
in efforts to directly modulate the pre-individual or the potentiality of the indeterminate,
the emergent creativity of affect-itself,” thus requiring critical thinkers to pay attention to
the tension between control (the topic of Deleuze’s (1992) frequently cited essay on control
­societies) and the indeterminate emergence or potency in the Spinozian terms of Hardt and
Negri (2005). This tension “constitutes the problematic at the heart of a radical neoliberal
governance of productivity” (Clough et al. 2007: 63).
The Internet of Things (IoT) or the Internet of Everything, this galactic network of
interconnection and communication of things, processes and people through sensors and
databases, is already becoming an everyday experience in the linking of culture, cities, trans-
portation, health, agriculture, industry, housing, etc. in a ”smart” environment. In the early
stages of this network, one of the most cited affect theorists characterized ubiquitous com-
puting as an immersive and interactive web suggestive of the IoT, which:

seamlessly and continuously relay digitally coded impulses into and out of the body through
multiple, superposable sense connections, eventually developing into an ­encompassing
network of infinitely reversible analog-digital circuiting on a planetary scale.
(Massumi 2002: 142)

In fact, Massumi was talking about the potentiality of affect. In relation to affect, the cultural
and creative industries in the digital age play an important role in the changes that are tak-
ing place in society and economy because they are quite apt as the means to insert people in
immersive environments. As we have seen in the case of streaming, people are increasingly
connected to music and video, and this traffic of contents stimulates the extension of the
so-called cloud, which is nothing more than centers where all data is stored and processed.
According to a 2014 report, “2/3rds of digital universe content is consumed or created by
consumers… video watching, social media usage, image sharing” (Meeker 2014: 65), thus
playing a key role in the growth of IoT. According to estimates, the IoT will reach 50 billion
connected objects and a value of $14.4 trillion USD in just 4 years, which would today equal
the second economy in the world, between the United States and China (Edwards 2015).

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Data mining and analysis, which will increase exponentially with the IoT, has a bene-
ficial side in terms of the administration of public services, support to business enterprises,
health monitoring, empowerment of people with disabilities, etc. However, security, which
is one of the chief uses of IoT, is a more complex issue. Everyone needs security, not only in
terms of defense against crime or natural contingencies, but IoT facilitates the invasion of
privacy. In a world saturated with “smart” appliances everything will be known, or already
is known. With an arsenal of analytical tools, and using technologies developed in cognitive
psychology and neuromarketing, not only are attention, perception, behavior, preferences
and feelings measured, but so also is the unconscious. The objective of these measurements
is to go beyond the thinking brain to understand what lies at the most material level of affect
where “motivation begins… With a series of brain chemical triggers rooted in primal neural
circuits that evolved to help humans make decisions” (Crowe 2013).
Given the enormity of the IoT, it is evident that only the richest states or the world’s
­largest platforms/companies can make the investments required to create and manage this
new phenomenon. And this gives them the opportunity to harness information and the
profit or the “intelligence” for surveillance that derives from that information. For example,
it is for such a purpose that Google paid $3.2 billion USD to acquire Nest Labs, a manufac-
turer of thermostats and high-tech smoke detectors. The thermostat regulates the ambient
temperature in relation to users’ preferences; in this way, the device learns over time. These
devices operate with algorithms that allow all of a user’s devices to communicate with each
other, creating user profiles to anticipate their needs (Trefis Team 2014). Thus, Google
increases the reach of the cloud where the data is stored and creates a system of rhizomatic
communication among users, devices and the media.

Political economy of the new media scene

It is true that more than half of the world’s population is excluded from the web, although
more and more are connecting through mobile phones. In relation to that gap, companies
like Facebook and Google have strategies to connect to the disconnected. To achieve this,
Facebook bought a fleet of drones that will continuously fly for months or years thanks to
solar energy, emitting laser broadband signals in areas with low connectivity in Asia, Africa
and Latin America (Wakefield 2014). Yael Maguire, engineering director of Facebook Con-
nectivity Lab, designed an intermediate backbone between satellites and land terminals that
will receive at all times signals from drones flying at 20 km altitude, above other aircraft and
even the weather, but sufficiently close to the earth for signals to be strong, approximating
the quality of optical fiber (Internet.org 2014).
Likewise, in 2013 Google began Project Loon, which will send helium balloons
20 ­k ilometers high to transmit Internet signals to disconnected or poorly connected areas.
Google also bought Titan Aerospace, a company that makes drones, for an undisclosed
amount to complement the balloons of the Loon project. It also acquired Skybox Imaging
for $1 billion USD, a company that has its own satellite network and specializes in data min-
ing and analysis and the production of detailed videos and images of the earth, extending
Google Earth’s ability to capture images of the planet in real time, thus linking profiles and
location (Inam 2014).
Of course, it is naive to think that Facebook and Google are providing a humanitarian
public service that governments do not provide, although it is true that there will be more
connectivity and that the poor may have cheaper access to such operations as digital bank
transfers or receiving remittances via cell phone, among others. The Gates Foundation,

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in partnership with the World Bank, has a project to integrate billions of people into the
banking system by means of mobile telephony and digital money. Google does not need to
profit directly from these transactions; people will use their platform with the endorsement
of an intergovernmental public institution (Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation 2015), and it’s
this added value that matters. To facilitate the use of its platform, Google has introduced
a cheap smartphone in Africa where 95 percent of Internet access takes place via mobile
­telephony. The phone prioritizes two Google properties: the Android operating system
and use of YouTube (owned by Google), specially tailored for offline use (Sengupta 2015).
The development of cheap smartphones by other companies – Mozilla ($33 USD), Huawei
($80 USD), etc. – is facilitating an increase in the number of users and the triumph of the
Android platform.10
These giant companies emerged in the new millennium to combine the packaging of web
pages, e-mail, text messages, audiovisual texts and music file transferred via FTP, financial
services, etc., which were offered separately on the Internet by the end of the 1990s (van der
Velden and Kruk 2012–2013). This bundling takes place on these companies’ own platforms,
to which the metaphor of the cloud was applied, but which are rooted in a very costly and
polluting materiality. As reported by Glanz (2012), global data centers “use about 30 ­billion
watts of electricity, roughly equivalent to the output of 30 nuclear power plants…”, but
video occupies more and more space on the web. According to Cisco Systems (2014) global
IP video traffic will be 79 percent of all Internet consumer traffic by 2018, up from 66 ­percent
in 2013. This does not include video exchanged via peer-to-peer (P2P) file sharing. The sum
of all forms of video (TV, video on demand [VOD], Internet and P2P) will be in the range
of 80 to 90 percent of global consumer traffic by 2018. All of the six largest companies that
build cloud infrastructure – Amazon, Microsoft, IBM, Google, Oracle, R ­ ackspace – are
American and provide services to other companies (Netflix and other streaming providers)
and governments (e.g. the US Central Intelligence Agency) (Weinberger 2015).
In the next section I comment on Internet.org, Facebook’s foundation, which seeks to
­establish agreements with governments to provide Internet access to those without con-
nections. This attempt by Facebook is part of its political economy; by simulating a public
service it intends to exponentially increase its market value. Precisely in terms of the increase
in the number of users on their platforms, especially via mobile telephony, that Facebook,
Google and other companies are valued in the market. On February 2, 2106, the newly
created ­A lphabet, Google’s parent company, overtook Apple as the most valued company in
the world. Five of the nine most valued companies in the world are Alphabet ($ 554.8 billion
USD), Apple ($ 529.3 billion USD), Microsoft ($ 425 billion USD), Facebook ($ 334 billion
USD) and Amazon ($ 264 billion USD). At the beginning of February, these five companies
had a combined value of $ 2.1 trillion (Krantz 2016), which is equivalent to India’s GDP, the
7th largest economy in the world, overtaking the GDP of Italy, Brazil and Canada (Statistics
Times 2016).
It is not surprising, therefore, as Benjamin Bratton (2014) writes, that platforms increas-
ingly exercise transnational and global sovereignty, and some nations adapt to the form of
the platform (e.g. the National Security Agency NSA, new Chinese initiatives such as the
microblogging site Sina Weibo, etc.). The issue of sovereignty is crucial, since the big plat-
forms run the Internet of Things, which, as we have seen, aims to manage everyday life
through the connection of appliances and other devices, media, objects, cities and human
behaviors.
The power and size of these companies make it easier for them to compete and nego-
tiate with governments. The conflict between China and Google is well known. China

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aims to replace Western platforms (Gibbs 2014), which in turn – as in the case of ­G oogle –
behave as if they were protecting a global sovereignty and not just their business. In turn,
China refers to Chinese Internet sovereignty (Information Office 2010), although some
analysts see such sovereignty claims as informational authoritarianism and censorship
­( Jiang 2010).

Latin America
Following the scandal of privacy violations revealed by Edward Snowden, the Brazilian
government accelerated the process of consultation and design of the Civil Internet Frame-
work that President Rousseff sanctioned in April 2014 ( Estarque 2014). In anticipation of
the new law, Google, which has collaborated with the NSA spying on communications from
heads of state around the world (IBN Live 2013), moved its DNS service from Brazil to the
USA, which permitted making visible use of its service on the Internet.  Internet analyst
Doug Madory (2013) argued that this move affected the service –delaying the time of data
­t ransmission – because, in its efforts to avoid the monitoring of its operations by the Brazilian
government, operations were now carried out in the US.
Another example of the conflict and negotiation of platforms and states was seen at the
Summit of the Americas in Panama in April 2015, when the presidents of Argentina, Brazil,
Panama and Peru met with the Facebook Chief Executive, Mark Zuckerberg, who sought
to establish agreements for its foundation Internet.org with those countries, adding them to
the agreements it had already brokered with Colombia, Guatemala and Paraguay, the latter
where the beta version of Facebook Livre was tested. The debate in Brazil is an example of
the complexity and danger of the promise of free Internet for the poor, at least according to
the Internet.org model. Zuckerberg and President Rousseff signed an agreement that would
appear to be in conflict with the Civil Internet Framework. One of the problems is that Face-
book Livre provides only a subset of Internet services for the poorest, thus creating unequal
access. Another problem is that the practice of Zero Rating seems to violate the principle of
net neutrality since “operators… and some technology companies… allow free access, or do
not charge for mobile data traffic for some online services, such as social networking apps
and messages” (Ribeiro 2015).
Carolina Botero, executive director of the Karisma Foundation in Colombia, and one of
the most important activists on equal access to the media and Internet, criticized Internet.
org and the governments that support it:

We have serious concerns that Internet.org is presented as a public policy strategy for
universal access to the Internet. This initiative compromises everyones’ rights and blurs
the government’s obligation to reduce the digital divide for its citizens for compromised
access to certain applications. No matter how interesting they are, these services are
associated with the commercial interest of a multinational which the state is directly
supporting.
(Cited in Bogado and Rodríguez 2015)

By the end of 2015, this apparent contradiction, which is in violation of the principle of neu-
trality that is underpinned by the Civil Internet Framework, had not yet been resolved. In
the process of recommending to the president for the preparation of the Draft of the Presi-
dential Decree that will regulate the Civil Code, the Task Force on Internet Management
was able to “reach an agreement, without mentioning zero-rating” (Aquino 2015).

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Conclusion
What has all this – globalized platforms, sovereignty, Internet of Things, etc. – to do with
cultural management?  In my view, a lot. Public policies – including the lack of policies,
which is a policy in itself – have a double effect: on the one hand, they can facilitate or hinder
new undertakings and practices, not only for making culture but also circulating and sharing
it; on the other hand, they contribute to or regulate biopolitical intervention and the growth
of huge Internet platforms, which in turn exercise sovereignty.
Latin America is a very coveted region for many reasons (Téllez 2015). It is the region where
users spend more time connected to the Internet (Mander 2015). According to the Internet
analytics company Com.Score, five of the ten most active countries in social network use are
in Latin America: Brazil, Argentina, Peru, Mexico and Chile. Latin America as a region has
almost double the world average of user connection hours in social networks; and Brazil stands
out with 240 percent above the world average (ComScore 2013: 21). But as in the rest of the
world, American platforms such as Facebook, Google, YouTube and Twitter (Vaughn-Nichols
2013) dominate, and they want not only to maintain their dominance but to increase it. Face-
book is the leading publisher in the two largest media markets, Mexico and Brazil (ComScore
2013: 49). And Google/YouTube is the largest video provider in the region (52).
This information is crucial for Latin America, especially if we think about how to access
the media. As for connections to Internet, Latin America is the third region in the world
after North America and Europe, with 10.2 percent of global connections for a world pop-
ulation share of 8.6 percent.11 In terms of the online market, Latin America is the second
fastest growing market in the world, after China, and much of this growth is due to mo-
bile telephony (eMarketer 2015b). As for mobile accounts, in 2014 penetration was 65.2
­percent, with 395.5 million unique accounts.  Mobile Internet access accounts will grow
from 55.4 percent in 2015 to 72.6 percent in 2019 (Statista 2016). As for smartphones, in
2012 there was a penetration of 20 percent, estimated at about 48 percent in 2017, a number
that will grow rapidly in 2020, when it is estimated there will be 245.7 million smartphones
or a penetration of 57 percent (eMarketer 2015a). To be sure, mobile Internet connections
outnumber fixed-line connections throughout the region (GSMA 2014: 16). These data
require incorporating the use of mobile phones into any inquiry into the enjoyment of mu-
sic, video and text, but also the consequences in terms of the uses to which the information
collected from users is put.
Culture is transversal, necessarily intertwined with technology, media, enterprise, politics,
etc. It is also globalized. The United States and its allies in cognitive-experience-and-affect
capitalism seek to establish and strengthen world trade laws through the intergovernmental
institutions they dominate (WTO, WIPO, etc.). Latin America is a very unequal region in
cultural commerce: according to PriceWaterhouseCoopers (2012), the media and entertain-
ment market for 2015 was estimated at 6 percent of the world market. But that does not mean
that Latin American ventures exported this percentage. That’s the size of what dominant
companies can take advantage of. The export market would be more similar to the percent-
age of Latin American companies included in the Forbes list of the world’s largest companies,
which is more or less 3 percent (Wright and Pasquali 2015). Of course, the most important
criteria to be taken into consideration in assessing Latin America’s market share, from a cul-
tural viewpoint, are the cultural offerings, in the broadest sense of what might be meant by
culture, and this has not been measured in these reports on cultural industries or media and
entertainment. But even when the measure shows that the market is larger, the arguments
I offer in this essay suggest that the platforms on which the cultural sector is developed are

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George Yúdice

very important, and these platforms have the ability to monitor and guide development, as
in the example given above of telephone operators that offer streaming services. In addition
to thinking about small local markets in the region, which is fundamental, one must think
about the regional macro-market, since the dominant companies aim to capture it precisely
in these terms, as a region.
This is why although national policies are necessary (e.g. the Civilian Internet Frame-
work) they are not sufficiently effective; regional agreements are needed with other coun-
tries seeking to level the playing field. In this sense, I comment very briefly on a promising
initiative, but it should include a serious and actionable reflection on the new media scene,
both in terms of its effects on culture and its techno-economic policy, which are two sides
of the same coin.
I refer to MICSUR, the South American Cultural Industries Market, whose first edi-
tion was held in Mar del Plata, Argentina, in May 2014 and second in Bogotá, Colombia,
in October 2016. Its importance has to do with the regional alliance necessary to address
inequalities in Latin American cultural trade. As we already know, the sources and strategies
of public financing for cultural enterprises are quite weak in all Latin American countries.
The creation of a general market aims to increase imports from neighboring countries, thus
generating income that remains in the region and does not migrate to the United States or
Europe. To do this, other ministries and undertakings from other sectors – telephone oper-
ators, the law, banking, engineering, etc. – should be included in addition to those that are
mentioned (education and tourism) in cultural meetings. Moreover, these Latin American
cultural summits should reflect on policies that support a commons, not just a cultural one
but one in which diverse cultural practices and forms of circulation interact with other sec-
tors. This goal requires a set of strategies debated and linked between governments, enter-
prises, the legal sector, civil society and social networks.

Notes
1 First appeared, in Portuguese, in Revista Observatório, 20 (2016): 87–112. http://www.itaucul-
tural.org.br/revista/91827/
2 The number of users in real time can be found at: www.internetlivestats.com/internet-users/.
2/2/16.
3 The world population in real time can be found at: www.worldometers.info/world-population/.
2/2/16.
4 GSMA Intelligence statistics in real time can be found at: https://gsmaintelligence.com/. 2/4/16,
20:17 -6 time zone.
5 http://newsroom.f b.com/company-info/. 1/28/16.
6 The reference to what is “known among all” requires at least mention of various adaptations of the
concept of General Intellect proposed by Marx in the Grundrisse. There he suggests that starting
with a particular point of capital development the real generation of wealth will depend not only
on labor time but also on scientific expertise and organization. The main factor of production will
be the general productive forces of the social brain (Marx 1973). Marx anticipates information
theory and the knowledge economy, or cognitive capitalism, which for some heralds the potential
for neo-communist transformation of the world by the constituent power of the multitude (Virno,
Hardt and Negri) and for others constitutes the necessary development for salvaging the neoliberal
world order, which foments greater inequality, for example, information systems that make possi-
ble outsourcing and transnational subcontracting that lead to greater precarity (Dean 2005; Žižek
2009).
7 Vivo Música, www.vivo.com.br/VivoMusica. 7/21/15.
8 In Hollywood, there are several companies specializing in sentiment analysis for the purpose of
fine tuning screenplays and audiovisual soundtracks (Barnes 2013).

392
 The challenges of the new ­media scene

9 There is an interesting debate about the concept of value in relation to the actions of users in this
new digital scene. On the one hand, there are those like Christian Fuchs (2013: 11) for whom the
prosumer [a neologism resulting from the combination of producer + consumer or professional +
consumer] creates value that is voluntarily yielded in use. Assuming a more orthodox Marxist
position, Rabosto (2014: 40) argues that what is productive is exclusively labor that “is objectified
as a use value for consumption by others, in platforms, networks, contents, etc.” That other labor
“which transforms data and information into advertising profiles to facilitate the transformation of
goods into money” is unproductive. Those who produce the data are not the users but the engi-
neers who design the software that enables the transformation of use of networks and data (2. 3).
10 In early February 2016, Mozilla’s board of directors declared that the company would no longer
offer a good mobile experience, which suggests that it failed in its attempt to compete with Goo-
gle’s (Android’s) dominance in the mobile market (Heilman 2016).
11 Statistics taken from: www.internetlivestats.com/internetusers/, for the number of users in real
time, and www.worldometers.info/world-population/#region for the population of Latin ­A merica
in January 2016.

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 26
Uniting the nations of ­Europe?
Exploring the European Union’s
cultural policy agenda

Kate Mattocks

Introduction

No one wants to see a technocratic Europe. European Union must be experienced by

the citizen in his everyday life.
(Tindemans Report on European Union, 1975, p. 12)

Where does culture fit in in the ‘experience’ of the European Union? This chapter explores
the European Union’s involvement in the field of cultural policy. A formal part of a Euro-
pean treaty since 1992, culture is seen as a rather limited but symbolically powerful policy
area.1 Over the past few decades, culture has become a more developed policy area in the
EU. Despite this, questions surrounding its EU cultural policy governance often remain on
the periphery of both cultural policy studies and EU studies. What kind of cultural pro-
grammes does the EU operate? What legal powers does it have, and who is responsible for
making decisions about cultural policy? These questions are important ones, not only for the
discussion of cultural policy in a supranational and global context, but also for deepening the
understanding of the EU in cultural terms. As Kathleen McNamara states, “we have spent
much less time examining the cultural underpinnings of the EU’s governance” (2015, p. 22),
in favour of primarily economic and political paradigms.
What exactly do we mean by ‘EU cultural policy’? The 2007 Agenda for Culture, the
EU’s current framework for cultural action, does not explicitly define culture, but refers to
its many possible meanings and says that “it plays a fundamental role in human development
and in the complex fabric of the identities and habits of individuals and communities” (CEC,
2007, p. 3). Culture is a ‘functional’ policy area in the European Union, meaning that the EU
has a narrow and specific remit (Versluis et al., 2011), which can be divided into three basic
powers: (1) encouraging and facilitating cooperation between Member States; (2) promoting
the incorporation of culture into other areas of EU jurisdiction; and (3) cooperating with
Member States on cultural action. Much of EU cultural policy is based on voluntary coop-
eration, restricted by the principle of subsidiarity,2 as “[l]egally speaking, it is not for the EU
to take the lead or to control” in this sector (Sandell, 1996, p. 271).

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Kate Mattocks

Thinking about ‘culture’ and ‘the European Union’ brings to mind innumerable ­topics,
from questions on European identity and citizenship to narrower questions concerning spe-
cific cultural programmes. It also challenges us to think beyond the nation-state, tradition-
ally the most common ‘level of analysis’ associated with cultural policy (Sassatelli, 2006).
This is in part due to cultural policy’s symbolic association with legitimacy, nation-building,
stability, and boundary-marking (in both a literal and metaphorical sense), which can be
traced to the relationship of culture, cultural identity, and political legitimacy. The cultural
foundations of modern citizenship are civic responsibility and social trust (Kalberg, 1993, in
Shore, 2001); both of these, in turn, “depend upon the sense people have of belonging to a
political community” (Shore, 2001, p. 108). Cultural policy thus plays a role in nation-states’
identity formation and perpetuation. In fact, for these same reasons the EU introduced a cul-
tural programme, in an attempt to emphasise a shared cultural heritage and sense of cultural
identity in order to garner more popular support for European integration.
The existing literature on EU cultural policy encompasses a broad variety of themes. A
holistic picture of cultural governance is difficult to find (though, see Psychogiopoulou’s
(2015a) recent edited volume), although scholars have been interested in many different
areas pertaining to culture and the EU: questions concerning the European Union’s basis
for legitimacy (Delanty, 1995; Shore, 2000); issues of agenda setting, framing, and histor-
ical progression of the cultural competence (Forrest, 1994; Sandell, 1996; Littoz-Monnet,
2007, 2012, 2015); legal perspectives, including the role of the European Court of Justice
in cultural matters and ‘cultural mainstreaming’ – the incorporation of culture into other
EU policy areas (see Craufurd Smith, 2004a; Psychogiopoulou, 2006; Isar, 2015); specific
cultural programmes and actions (see sources in the list below); and finally European cultural
identity and heritage (see Shore, 2000, 2001, 2006; Sassatelli, 2002, 2006, 2009; Eder, 2009;
Vidmar-Horvat, 2012; Calligaro, 2013a).3 Much of this work interprets ‘culture’ broadly,
and thus it is often difficult to delineate where cultural policy begins and ends, a challenge
facing cultural policy researchers in general (Ahearne, 2009).
The chapter investigates EU cultural policy from a governance perspective (Kohler-Koch
and Rittberger, 2006), reflecting a more general view that the study of cultural policy can
benefit from more institutionally rigorous analysis. A governance perspective asks questions
about everyday processes, actors, and institutions in policy-making.4 Its focus is not the
substantive content of policy but how it is made and how the EU functions on a day-to-day
basis.5 In order to understand how changes in sovereignty due to Europeanization and inte-
gration have affected governance within the EU, the chapter draws on the concept of multi-
level governance (MLG) (Marks, 1993). MLG refers to the changing nature of boundaries
between different levels of government and the changes and challenges to sovereignty this
brings about. It has three main premises (Hooghe and Marks, 2001). First, decision-making
in the EU is more than bargaining amongst national governments – supranational institu-
tions such as the European Commission and Parliament also exert their own influence. Sec-
ond, this “involves a significant loss of control for individual national governments” (Ibid.,
p.  4). The final premise is that actors operate in subnational, national, and supranational
arenas and so are not nested but interconnected. MLG therefore provides a framework for
researchers to address the complexities of diffused competences as well as the interactions
between various levels of government (Littoz-Monnet, 2007).
The chapter is framed around three key themes that run throughout the discussion; these
are the multi-level nature of EU cultural governance, the institutional fragmentation and
complexity of EU cultural policy, and the role of culture in European integration. These
themes also form the basis of the discussion later in the chapter. The EU is a multi-layered

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 Uniting the nations of ­Europe?

organisation, with negotiations and decision-making taking place within Member States,
between Member States and the EU, and between EU institutions. With cultural policy
transcending all levels, this makes for an intricate set of actors and negotiations, all with their
own ideas of what the EU’s involvement in the field should be. This makes the field of EU
cultural policy a complex and fragmented one, due to both the nature of EU policy-making
in general and the specific challenges that culture presents as a ‘limited’ and controversial
policy field. Some scholars even suggest that complexity is the defining feature of EU gov-
ernance (Zahariadis, 2013). It is not that other political systems are not also complex, but
rather that “the complexity of the EU renders policy-making difficult to understand” (Ibid.,
p. 810).6 In addition, culture is a policy area in which:

diversities between member states are particularly obvious – not only are peoples’ cul-
tures, in an anthropological sense, very different, but institutional forms of managing
this area are also specific to each country – and anchored in national cultural styles.
(Littoz-Monnet, 2007, p. 2)

This means that there are competing institutional positions on the nature of what the EU’s
involvement in culture should be. The chapter will show that while the EU does a great deal
in the field of culture, particularly regarding funding in its current programme, Creative
Europe, this does not translate into a coherent narrative on the bigger question of culture’s
role in EU integration.
The chapter proceeds as follows. I first turn to a brief historical overview of the European
Union and its involvement in cultural policy. I then give an overview of the EU’s current
programmes and policies before discussing the main actors in EU cultural policy and their
roles within the complex EU policy-making process. The chapter concludes with a discus-
sion that brings the three main themes together.

The European Union and cultural policy: a historical overview7

What is now known as the European Union has its origins in the European Coal and
Steel Community, created in 1951 with the signing of the Treaty of Paris by France, West
­Germany, Italy, Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands (see Rittberger, 2012). The
ECSC brought these countries together to safeguard economic and geopolitical stability.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, early Community treaties contained only “fleeting” references to
culture (Sandell, 1996, p. 268), such as article 36 of the 1957 Treaty of Rome, which con-
cerns the protection of national treasures with “artistic, historic or archaeological value.”
However, in the decades prior to Maastricht, the European Community had some involve-
ment in the cultural sector. This was mostly accomplished through the European Com-
mission’s framing of culture in economic terms (Craufurd Smith, 2004b; Littoz-Monnet,
2007). This activity actually took place without legal grounding. The focus at this time was
economic and industrial aspects of cultural production and consumption, such as training,
working conditions, and the distribution of cultural goods. This framing of intervention
on economic terms was a “successful agenda-setting exercise,” which led to “extending the
reach of its competence to the cultural sector when its formal powers were limited to the
economic sphere” (Littoz-Monnet, 2007, pp. 43–44).
In the early 1980s, EU cultural ministers began meeting, first informally and then formally.
Early cultural programmes, including the European Youth Orchestra and the European City
(now Capital) of Culture were created, respectively, in 1976 and 1985. While these have been

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deemed “cautious and largely symbolic” initiatives, they represent Community action before
any formal competence (Craufurd Smith, 2004b, p. 22) and thus a coming-­together of the
Member States. At the same time, the European Court of Justice throughout the 1970s and
1980s made judgements on subjects such as copyright and book trade ­( Littoz-Monnet, 2007).
Sentiments expressed in a series of high-profile reports throughout the 1970s and 1980s
encouraged a deepening of cultural action in the Community in order to boost popular
support for European integration. Leo Tindemans, in his 1975 Report on European Union,
outlined several ideas for implementing a ‘Citizen’s Europe,’ such as fundamental rights
and consumer rights. Similarly, the Committee on a People’s Europe (Adonnino report) in
1985 recommended various developments concerning television, an Academy of Science,
Technology, and Art, a Euro-lottery (“to make Europe come alive for the Europeans”), and
access to museums and cultural events. The report argued that culture and communication
can contribute to “support for the advancement of Europe,” which “can and must be sought”
(p. 21) in order to “strengthen and promote [European Community] identity and its image
both for its citizens and for the rest of the world” (p. 5).
While most of the intergovernmental cultural initiatives of the 1970s and 1980s were mod-
est and symbolic, these initiatives paved the way for culture’s more formal introduction in the
early 1990s. The EC’s legitimacy regarding cultural matters had increased, and ‘­European
identity’ and ‘European culture’ were becoming mainstream discourses within the EU’s insti-
tutions (Sassatelli, 2009). Policy framing thus began to go beyond the economic argument in an
attempt to develop a sense of community identity – “a crucial necessity for integration, which
hitherto had barely been touched upon” (Urwin, 1996, p. 9). In the 1987 Communication A
Fresh Boost for Culture in the European Community, the Commission argued for a deepening in
cultural cooperation in advance of the Maastricht Treaty, arguing that “…it is this sense of be-
ing part of a European culture which is one of the prerequisites for the solidarity which is vital
if the advent of the large market … is to secure the popular support it needs” (CEC, 1987, p. 5).
A cultural remit was thus first formally introduced in the Treaty on European Union
(TEU, also known as the Maastricht Treaty), which was signed in 1992 and came into effect
in 1993. Maastricht created the European Union – a “new social-political framework within
an accelerated economic and monetary union” (Nectoux, 1996, p. 31). Article 128 of the
TEU (now 167 in the Treaty on the Functioning of the European Union) stated that,

1. The Union shall contribute to the flowering of the cultures of the Member States, while
respecting their national and regional diversity and at the same time bringing the com-
mon cultural heritage to the fore.
2. Action by the Union shall be aimed at encouraging cooperation between Member States
and, if necessary, supporting and supplementing their action in the following areas:
-improvement of the knowledge and dissemination of the culture and history of the
European peoples,
-conservation and safeguarding of cultural heritage of European significance,
-non-commercial cultural exchanges,
-artistic and literary creation, including in the audiovisual sector.
3. The Union and the Member States shall foster cooperation with third countries and the
competent international organisations in the sphere of culture, in particular the Council
of Europe.
4. The Union shall take cultural aspects into account in its action under other provisions of
the Treaties, in particular in order to respect and to promote the diversity of its cultures.8

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The article both legitimised the EU’s prior activities in the field and paved the way for new
ones (Shore, 2001). It was a compromise, reflecting the contentious nature of supranational
cultural policy:

While the broader and historically more significant principle of culture being a legiti-
mate area of Community competence was secured by the countries which took a max-
imalist approach, the minimalist countries built into the drafting various restraining,
defensive elements. …
(Sandell, 1996, p. 270)

This inclusion, along with other competences in social policy, was a turning point, with
the added social and cultural dimension representing an ‘ever-closer union’ – an attempt,
argue many, by political elite to increase political support for deeper European integration
(Delanty, 1995; Shore, 2006). The rise of the cultural agenda must be therefore seen as a
part of the grander European integration project (Barnett, 2001), an attempt to reduce the
‘cultural deficit’ (Shore, 2006) and garner more popular support. It is from this point that we
can begin to analyse the EU’s current involvement as it has developed since culture’s formal
treaty introduction. I now turn to an overview of the policies and programmes that the EU
currently operates.

Policies and programmes

As indicated above, Member States maintain full autonomy over their own cultural policies:
the introduction of a cultural competence was “not to establish a ‘common’ cultural policy
but to bring to the forefront Community efforts rooted in the protection and promotion of
Member States’ diverse cultural systems” (Psychogiopoulou, 2006, p. 583). The main doc-
ument that sets out the EU’s overarching cultural priorities is the 2007 Agenda for Culture.
This document outlines the three main strategic objectives around which the EU bases its
cultural activities:

1. Promotion of cultural diversity and intercultural dialogue;

2. Promotion of culture as a catalyst for creativity in the framework of the Lisbon Strategy
for growth and jobs;9
3. Promotion of culture as a vital element in the Union’s international relations (CEC,
2007).

The EU’s activities in the cultural field encompass a wide variety of actions. Notably, the
word ‘policy’ itself is rarely used to describe action in the field – rather, less binding-­sounding
terms such as ‘programmes’ and ‘actions’ are favoured. In the European Commission’s own
words,

[the] work done by the EU complements that and adds a different dimension. Informa-
tion gathered from the EU as a whole can be used to support national policy decisions or
provide examples of best practice that others can share. Programmes run across the EU
can have a greater overall impact than those just run on national grounds, and policies
put in place throughout the EU can help further national goals.
(CEC, 2013, p. 3)

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The EU’s current programmes are outlined below, separated into supporting, coordination and
communicative, and supplementary measures. These programmes have all developed at varying
times and have different historical trajectories; they thus should not necessarily be seen as a con-
gruent set of initiatives but rather co-existing. Where possible, I have included further sources
on these programmes. This list focuses on ‘explicit’ actions within the D ­ irectorate-General
for Education and Culture (see below); cultural aspects of other programmes in different fields
such as cohesion and education policy have largely been left out here.

Supporting measures
• Creative Europe – Creative Europe (CE) is the EU’s current cultural funding programme.
Between 2014 and 2020 it will award €1.46 billion within its two strands, MEDIA and
Culture. This funding is used to support cooperation projects that involve three or more
Member States. For more on CE, see Kandyla (2015).
• EU prizes – Administered by the Commission, the EU has several annual prizes in the
fields of literature, music, heritage, and contemporary architecture.
• European heritage including annual heritage days and the heritage label – Heritage has been
an increasingly important area for the European Union. The EU’s role is “to assist
and complement the actions of the Member States in preserving and promoting Eu-
rope’s cultural heritage” (CEC, 2015). It has its own heritage label10 and promotes, along
with the Council of Europe, annual heritage days.11 For more on heritage see Calligaro
(2013a) and Lähdesmäki (2014).

Policy coordination and communication measures

• Open Method of Coordination (OMC) – The OMC is a voluntary policy coordination
process that brings together Member States in a series of working groups in order to
share best practices on themes that have been agreed upon in the Council of Ministers’
triennial Work Plans for Culture. Used in other policy areas as well, the OMC seeks
to “put the EU Member States on a path towards achieving common objectives, while
respecting different underlying values and arrangements” (de la Porte, 2002, p. 39). On
the culture OMC, see Psychogiopoulou (2015b) and Mattocks (2017).
• Structured Dialogue – Structured Dialogue exists to foster exchange between the cul-
tural sector and the EU via a series of transnational platforms and a biennial Culture
Forum. The platforms and Forum bring together stakeholders, cultural sector represen-
tatives, and policy-makers to debate and discuss key issues in the field (see Ecorys, 2013;
­Littoz-Monnet, 2015).
• Expertise – As part of its dialogue with the sector, the EU supports a transnational net-
work of experts, the European Expert Network on Culture (EENC). According to its
website, the group “contributes to the improvement of policy development in culture in
Europe, through the provision of advice and support to the European Commission in
the analysis of cultural policies and their implications at national, regional and European
levels.”
• Information provision and cooperation – the Commission has undertaken or commis-
sioned a large number of studies about various issues relating to the cultural sector.
It also cooperates with other European networks on information dissemination and
networking.

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Supplementary measures
• European Capital of Culture programme – Perhaps the most well known of all of the EU’s
cultural programmes, the ECoC started in 1985 and has been held in 53 cities since.
The programme aims to increase arts and cultural programmes within the city but also
strengthen and project its ‘European dimension’ (see Palmer-Rae Associates, 2004; Sas-
satelli, 2009; Garcia et al., 2013; Patel, 2013).
• Audiovisual policy – Television without Frontiers was established in 1989 and amended
in 2007 to the ‘audiovisual media services directive’ (DIRECTIVE 2010/13/EU). This
policy makes it easier to access audiovisual material from other European countries and
sets out a number of minimum requirements with regards to digital access. It is a binding
agreement with flexibility to the Member States as to how to implement it. Requirements
include the accessibility for people with disabilities, measures for the promotion of Euro-
pean works, some requirements for commercial communications, and rules concerning
sponsorship and product placement. On audiovisual and media policy, see Collins (1994),
Wheeler (2004), Harcourt (2006), Sarikakis (2007a), and Erickson and Dewey (2011).
• Mainstreaming culture – The Commission works with other EU and external organi-
sations to incorporate culture into other policy areas where possible, such as external
relations and European Neighbourhood Policy.12 For more on this see Craufurd Smith
(2004b) and Psychogiopoulou (2006).

Key actors
One of the difficulties in studying EU policy-making is grappling with the sheer number
of actors involved as well as their interconnectedness. As Dewey (2008, p. 100) comments,
“few people know how to navigate the complicated maze of laws, institutions, policy actors,
and affiliated organizations in this field.”13 This section unpacks the complexity of EU gov-
ernance and offers a brief description of the main actors in EU cultural policy as well as their
roles. It demonstrates the competing positions of various institutions, reflecting the necessity
of consensus and inter-institutional bargaining in EU governance.

European Commission
The main EU institution involved in cultural policy is the European Commission, the EU’s
executive institution. In ‘national’ terms, the Commission can be considered the equivalent
of an executive branch of government, whereas legislative power is shared by the Council
and Parliament. The Commission is the guardian of the treaties (and therefore takes subsid-
iarity seriously) and in general has power of policy initiation.
The Commission is composed of a core appointed College of Commissioners as well
as an administrative bureaucracy of Directorate-Generals (DGs). Culture is part of the
­Directorate-General for Education and Culture, known informally as DG-EAC. The DG’s
remit in terms of culture is encompassed in “culture and audiovisual.”14 The administra-
tion and management of most of the programmes listed above are shared by two units in
­DG-EAC, called ‘Cultural Diversity and Innovation’ and ‘Creative Europe programme,’ and
the Commission’s Education, Audiovisual and Culture Executive Agency.15
Historically, the Commission has played a rather important role in the development of EU
action in this field. The work of Annabelle Littoz-Monnet (2007, 2012), for example, shows

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how the DG has taken an active stance in advancing further cultural cooperation by framing
intervention in terms of culture’s potential to foster economic growth and competitiveness,
bringing it in line with competition and economic policy of the Lisbon Strategy (European
Council, 2000). The DG also has a history of collaboration and networking with other DGs,
such as DG Regional Policy and DG Internal Market, as well as external actors (Sassatelli,
2006; Littoz-Monnet, 2012). Littoz-Monnet (2012, p. 516) argues that “by extending the tradi-
tional realm of participants to the policy formulation process, DG Culture can more effectively
promote the strategic role of culture as a potential solution to broader economic challenges.”
In line with this argument, Sassatelli (2006) maintains that networking and collaboration,
primarily with NGOs and cultural networks, have given creed to the DG’s policies. In other
words, despite its limited remit, the Commission has done all it can to maximise cultural col-
laboration in the EU and has been a key driver of further cooperation in the field since 1992.
Although DG-EAC is the main DG for culture, other DGs’ remits fall into the cul-
tural realm as well, reinforcing both the fragmented nature of organisation and the often-­
controversial question of where ‘culture’ begins and ends. For example, DG Internal Market
is responsible for copyright issues, and DG Regional Policy can, with substantial budget-
ing privileges, grant funding to regions for cultural projects via the structural funds (see
­Delgado-Moreira, 2000).

European Parliament
The European Parliament (EP), which shares legislative power with the Council of the
European Union, is composed of 751 directly elected representatives from the 28 Member
States. Members of the European Parliament represent their constituency and sit in one of
seven political groups. Legislation is brought to the EP and is then sent to one of 22 par-
liamentary standing committees, where it is evaluated. The decision-making system in the
EP operates entirely on negotiation and consensus-building because by design there is not
a majority political party: to achieve anything, compromises must be made (Versluis, van
Keulen, and Stephenson, 2011).
Culture is represented in the standing committee on Culture and Education, composed
of 31 Members of the European Parliament (MEPs). The committee outlines its priorities
as such:

the cultural aspects of the European Union, and in particular: (a) improving the knowl-
edge and dissemination of culture, (b) the protection and promotion of cultural and
linguistic diversity, (c) the conservation and safeguarding of cultural heritage, cultural
exchanges and artistic creation.
(European Parliament, 2014, p. 144)

Unfortunately, there is little work dedicated to the role of the EP in cultural policy-making,
although consensus is that the Culture and Education Committee has in general advocated
for an increased role for the EU in this field (Forrest, 1994; European Parliament, 2001;
Littoz-Monnet, 2007; Staiger, 2013), carving out a distinct role for itself in advocating for
a firmer stance on culture’s role in integration (aligning with the Committee of the Re-
gions but opposed to the more restrained position of the Council – see below). Much of
the ­Parliament’s work on culture argues that EU cultural action must go beyond a symbolic
role and gives credit to the “specificity of culture and the need for special laws” to govern it
(Littoz-Monnet, 2007, p. 34). The EP has often focused on specific problems, such as labour

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market issues for artists in Europe (Gordon and Adams, 2007). Barnett’s (2001) findings also
indicate that the EP has tried over the years to expand the cultural programme but has not
met with much success. His findings are supported by Gordon and Adams (2007), who argue
that more robust proposals from both the Parliament and Commission are often stymied by
the Council of Ministers and in particular the larger Member States.

Council of the European Union (Council of Ministers)

The Council of the European Union, also known as the Council of Ministers (to avoid
confusion with the European Council), is the body that represents the interests of Mem-
ber States. It is composed of current ministers from Member States’ national governments.
The Council shares legislative power with the European Parliament. Broadly, its role is to
evaluate legislation from the point of view of perceived benefits or losses to citizens in their
Member State. The Council’s Presidency also rotates every six months, allowing limited
agenda-setting power for that particular Member State. The Council is split into ten groups,
or formations. What this means is that ‘the Council’ is actually several policy sector-specific
‘Councils.’
Cultural policy is the responsibility of the Education, Youth, Culture, and Sport Council
(EYCS). The EYCS Council is composed of national ministers of culture and meet several
times a year to debate relevant issues. Most legislation in the field is non-binding and does not
legally require national Parliaments to adopt it. According to the official Council website,

The policy areas covered by the EYCS Council are the responsibility of member states.
The EU’s role in areas of education, youth, culture and sport is therefore to provide a
framework for cooperation between member states, for exchange of information and experience
on areas of common interest.
(Council of the European Union, 2015; emphasis added)

Until November 2014, decisions on cultural policy matters were taken by unanimity. This
changed with the introduction of Qualified Majority Voting (QMV) as a part of the 2009
Treaty of Lisbon. However, outside of the meetings of the culture ministers for the EU-28,
an extensive system of work is done by permanent representatives in both ad hoc and perma-
nent committees and workings parties. The Cultural Affairs Committee (CAC), composed
of seconded representatives from the Member States, prepares the work of EU ministers for
culture, and a high percentage of decisions are ‘settled’ at the level of permanent represen-
tatives, rather than by the EU-28 Culture Ministers themselves (Versluis et al., 2011). This
reflects the multi-level nature of the Council’s work and the fact that boundaries are no
longer able to be neatly drawn between various levels of subnational, national, and suprana-
tional government as seconded representatives in the Council in Brussels are often working
with two hats on.
Historically, the Council has played, perhaps a bit surprisingly, a role in the development
of some of the first cultural activity at the intergovernmental level. In 1985, the European
City of Culture programme was initiated in the Council by then Greek Minister for Culture
Melina Mercouri. The founding principles were based on culture as a vehicle of cohesion,
along with the special role of cities as locales of cultural exchange. However, in general, the
Council’s role to act in the interests of the Member States has meant that as an institution
it is highly respectful of subsidiarity and therefore cannot be considered an agenda-setter in
the field.

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Other actors

Committee of the Regions (CoR)

The Committee of the Regions is an advisory body composed of 350 members who are re-
gionally and locally elected in Member States. Its role is to represent regional interests at the
European level and to provide a local viewpoint on relevant legislation that affects regions, to
bring regional and local perspectives into EU policy-making. For a competence like cultural
policy, this is important, as culture is a subnational competence in some EU Member States.
The CoR is consulted on all cultural policy proposals.
The CoR is divided into six ‘Commissions,’ one of which is Education, Youth, Culture,
and Research (EDUC). The body has, since its inception in 1992, argued for an enhanced
role for local and regional actors in the design of cultural policy (Barnett, 2001). Barnett
maintains that the CoR has had some influence in helping strengthen networking systems
within the cultural field through increased dialogue. The body has questioned the mean-
ing of subsidiarity and argued that cultural action is not necessarily the responsibility of
the Member States (since this incorrectly assumes homogenous national cultures within
them) and that culture is best handled at the subnational level. Despite this, as the CoR is
an ­advisory body and not a decision-making one, its overall influence has been relatively
limited (Gordon, 2010; Versluis et al., 2011).

Lobby groups and civil society platforms

Brussels is the second most lobbied city in the world after Washington (Versluis et al., 2011).
and lobbying has been the subject of a large amount of research on the role it plays in agenda
setting and policy-making, particularly within the European Parliament. The role and influ-
ence of lobbying is better understood in other sectors because it has been the subject of more
scrutiny. However, it is often difficult to determine the precise role that lobby groups play,
particularly as politicians may be reluctant to admit how much they are influenced by them.
There is even less known about the relatively smaller lobbying presence of cultural groups
and organisations and the amount that they may or may not influence decision-making,
though the Commission is committed to dialogue with the sector. Historically, professional
cultural networks in Europe have been critical of the sector’s slow development and frag-
mented funding schemes within the EU (Barnett, 2001). This gave rise to the mobilisation of
arts and cultural advocacy organisations, particularly after the inclusion of the competence in
the Treaty of Maastricht, who have generally advocated for a greater role for culture in Eu-
ropean integration.16 However, while they have participated in a great deal of dialogue and
cooperation concerning cultural matters, more work needs to be done to trace the precise
impact this has had in EU decision-making.

Discussion
So far in this chapter we have discussed the historical trajectory of EU cultural policy, the
main programmes and policies that it operates, and the main political actors involved in
creating and managing these. It is now time to bring these areas together and address the
overarching themes that run throughout the discussion.
The first theme running throughout the chapter concerns the multi-level nature of EU
cultural governance. Thinking back to Hooghe and Marks’ three premises of multi-level

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governance, culture conforms, to varying degrees, to all three of them. First, supranational
institutions such as the European Commission exert their own influence when it comes to EU
cultural policy. Consensus is that Commission has been the institution responsible for advanc-
ing further cooperation in the field, at least since Maastricht, and plays a crucial role in setting
the supranational cultural policy agenda; Commission officers try to do what they can within
the legal limitations of the competence (Mattocks, 2017). This results in a loss of control for
individual Member State governments in that they must compromise to achieve agreement.
Bargaining, particularly in the Parliament and the Council of Ministers, is important. The
EU’s institutional procedures are designed to allow consensus to be achieved, which some-
times presents difficulties in a controversial competence such as culture where certain Member
States and EU institutions would like to see a more robust programme and others would not.
Multi-level governance also means that a plethora of actors operate in interconnected
relationships involving local, regional, national, and supranational levels of government, not
to mention the complicated influences of public-private partnerships, lobby groups, civil so-
ciety platforms, and non-government organisations in cultural matters. These relationships
are present in the EU institutions themselves – the Commission, Parliament, and Council
of Ministers – as well as the Committee of the Regions and formal and informal cultural
networks. Individuals within these institutions operate within a complex system of intercon-
nectedness: complex domestic relationships also extend to the supranational level, meaning
that there are always questions regarding the exact nature of cultural policy, its jurisdiction
(particularly in those Member States where culture is a regional competence), and the extent
to which the EU should be involved in it.
The second theme is the complex and fragmented nature of EU cultural policy and governance.
Community involvement in the cultural field pre-Maastricht, argues Craufurd Smith
(2004b, p. 49) was “at best fragmented, at worst inconsistent or distorted.” What can we say
about it now, more than 20 years later? There are two linked points to develop here, the first
the nature of the policies themselves and second the fragmentation of EU governance more
generally. First of all, the EU’s involvement in the cultural field has grown since Maastricht,
with more programmes, actions, and initiatives now than ever before. However, while made
somewhat clearer in documents such as the Agenda for Culture, EU cultural policy is still
highly fragmented: there is no one place to turn to for an overall picture of what the EU
does in this field, nor the impacts it has. Nor is there an overarching narrative about culture’s
overall ‘role’ within the European Union. From the literature on public policy, we know
that governments rarely make single decisions for any given policy issue; rather, sets of cu-
mulative decisions add up to outcomes (Howlett et al., 2009). In addition, policy is rarely
systemic or easily traceable. This indeed what we see within EU cultural policy. Programmes
are piecemeal and fragmented, having been developed at different times throughout history,
reflecting bargaining and consensus-seeking, various justifications for EU interventions, and
different goals.
Another reason for this fragmentation has to do with the political sensitivity of culture.
As Patel (2013) outlines, EU cultural action is marked by a paradox: it is desired in order to
further European integration and unity, but its development is constrained by subsidiarity
and Member States’ wishes to keep culture a national competence. In their book on analysing
the EU policy process, Versluis et al. (2011) designate culture as a policy area in which ‘the
EU’ (perhaps left vague for a reason) would like to have more involvement but is met by resis-
tance from Member States, who still see culture as best handled at the national or subnational
level. Similarly, Littoz-Monnet (2007, p. 2), argues that culture has been an area that Member
States have been “particularly disinclined” to transfer competence to the EU. Simply put,

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Because it is of minor importance and yet ideologically highly charged at the same time,
culture is considered a controversial issue – especially when it comes to discussing the
division of competencies between the EU and its member states.
(Kaufmann and Raunig, 2002, n.p.)

Part of the issue of this fragmentation is to do with the complexity of EU governance and not
only the number of actors involved in decision-making but their competing positions. This
complexity makes studying the European Union challenging because of the high number
of actors, the diversity of their interactions, and the multitude of different ways or ‘modes’
that policy is made.17 In addition, culture is a competence that “entered the arena of EU
jurisdiction under complex and contradictory conditions” (Sarikakis, 2007b, p. 14). Quite
simply, there are debates between those actors who wish to extend the competence and those
who do not (Barnett, 2001). As the EU does not have the competences to override, but only
supplement, Member States on cultural policy, action in the field requires constant justifi-
cation. This means that it is difficult to create and operate robust cultural programmes and
policies at the European level. This has led McNamara (2015) to argue that the European
cultural space is so focused on not eroding ‘the national’ that cultural governance is additive
and piecemeal.18
This leads onto the third overarching theme, which is the role of culture in European
­integration. Cultural policies in the EU “cannot be understood outside of the wider context
of the political project for European integration” (Shore, 2001, p. 107). After all, the contin-
ued integration of a supranational European polity, from European Community to Union,
has been a project of economics rather than a cultural or social one, these traditionally
being policy areas that Member States prefer to keep in the domestic domain. Where does
culture fit in in the ‘ever-closer’ union? Ultimately, the EU lacks an overall narrative about
what culture is and what the nature of its intervention in the field should be. Clive Barnett
(2001, p. 412) has argued that culture has become “a multi-dimensional sector” that can be
co-opted for a number of policy pursuits, be they employment, social cohesion, or urban re-
generation. It is more difficult, if nigh on impossible, to operate a fuller cultural programme
for cultural purposes due to a lack of political will: the EU does not have the legal power to
harmonise cultural policy, and Member States agreeing to a supranational legally binding
cultural policy is not viable: a “consensual approach to European culture…is simply un-
reachable” (Calligaro, 2013b, p. 29). This is in part emblematic of the particular difficulties
of culture as a contested policy field, as well as the restricted legal conditions under which
it operates.
Because of the ‘soft’ and supplementary nature of EU governance, the EU’s cultural pro-
grammes have had rather modest and uneven impacts in the Member States (Gray, 2000).
The Creative Europe programme is somewhat unique among the EU’s actions, as it rep-
resents direct funding to Member States. The EU’s efforts at cooperation, networking, and
promotion initiatives such as Heritage Days and the European Capital for Culture can also
be said to have many positive benefits, particularly in raising the profiles of artists and help-
ing cross-border mobility and visibility (Bell and Oakley, 2015). Policy coordination via
the OMC has also shown to produce limited policy transfer and convergence, though it
represents an opportunity for intergovernmental exchange and learning (Mattocks, 2017).
However, in general, most of the policies and programmes do not have a significant impact
within national policies or programmes, nor have they been shown to substantively further
deepen a sense of shared European identity (Shore, 2000; Palmer-Rae Associates, 2004;
Sassatelli, 2008, Garcia et al., 2013).

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 Uniting the nations of ­Europe?

Conclusion
This chapter has demonstrated the complex relationship between the European Union and
cultural policy. The development of EU cultural policies has been a process of legitimation
since the 1970s, with the 1992 Maastricht Treaty representing a turning point in terms of a
legal grounding and a move towards the deepening of the European project. However, the
chapter has shown that despite a place in the treaty, cultural action is subject to restraints
and contradictions, making a robust programme at the European level difficult to achieve.
Development in this policy field is constrained by the principle of subsidiarity as well as
some Member States (such as the United Kingdom, Germany, and Nordic countries) who
do not desire further cooperation in the field. Member States retain control of their own
cultural policies. Turning back to earlier in this chapter, a close reading of article 167 shows
just how restricted the legal base of the cultural competence is: paragraph 2 lays out the areas
that the Community may become involved in, “if necessary,” and paragraph 5 restricts the
Union from any policy harmonisation. EU cultural governance is thus mostly accomplished
through voluntary cooperation, resulting in a series of programmes that typically have un-
even impacts at the national and subnational levels.
Policy-making in the European Union is a fragmented process best characterised as a
multiplicity of ‘processes’ rather than a single, linear progression. As the chapter has shown,
there are multilevel interactions among subnational, national, and supranational actors in
all of the key EU institutions in cultural policy – the European Commission, Parliament,
Council of Ministers, and Committee of the Regions. This multitude of actors participates
in an ongoing dialogue with respect to the appropriate scale and measures that the EU
should be involved in. The most important institution is the European Commission, which
has been shown to be an agenda-setter in the field acting where possible within its remit to
foster cooperation between Member States.19 However, the domain of cultural policy still
rests with the nation-state, a scenario that is unlikely to change.
To end, it is worthwhile thinking back to the beginning – the history of European
cultural involvement, which developed in an effort to forge popular support for European
integration and foster a sense of common European identity. Culture is still emphasised as an
important part of this.20 However, there is a disconnect between what is presented in pol-
icy documents and what happens in practice. Indeed, despite these efforts, “there has been
no corresponding shift in popular sentiment or political loyalty” (Shore, 2000, p. 18). The
narrative of culture’s ‘place’ in the European Union has been a subject of controversy from
the beginning and, while the EU has made important strides in its funding, networking,
and cooperation projects in particular, the reality of European cultural policy is still rather at
odds with the view that Europe needs a robust, imaginative cultural programme in order to
tackle the current and future challenges facing the continent.

Notes
1 As a supranational body, the European Union has ‘competences’ in specific fields. These
­competences are set out in the various European treaties, which are signed by all Member State
governments. In general, there are four categories of competence: exclusive, shared, supporting,
and special. Culture belongs to the ‘supporting’ category.
2 Subsidiarity, outlined in article 5(3) of Maastricht (TEU) is a principle of EU law. It says that the
EU will only become involved in a policy area if it is deemed the best ‘level’ of government to do
so, i.e. Member States acting on their own is insufficient.
3 This list is not exhaustive but rather aims to show the key areas of the literature to date.

409
Kate Mattocks

4 By ‘everyday’ I mean not the ‘high politics’ of the Heads of State and EU leaders, but the policy officers
and managers, legislators, and civil servants responsible for creating and implementing programmes.
5 For more on the content of EU cultural policy, see the references to individual programmes below,
as well as Littoz-Monnet (2015).
6 Versluis, van Keulen, and Stephenson’s (2011) volume is a good introduction for those wanting to
know more about EU governance more generally.
7 Due to space restraints, this is a shortened and condensed version. For more detail, see, for example,
CEC (1992), Shore (2000), Craufurd Smith (2004a), and Sassatelli (2009). In addition, the Council
of Europe – an entirely separate supranational institution – had been involved in the cultural field
since just after the Second World War. The development of EU cultural policy should be seen in
conjunction with the CoE’s development (see Sassatelli, 2009).
8 Article 167 also contains a fifth paragraph referring to legal and policy-making procedures, which
explicitly excludes any policy harmonisation between Member States in the field of culture.
9 The Lisbon Strategy (2000–2010) has been replaced by Europe 2020 (2010–2020), focusing on
“smart, sustainable, and inclusive growth.”
10 http://ec.europa.eu/programmes/creative-europe/actions/heritage-label/discover_en.htm.
11 www.europeanheritagedays.com/.
12 http://cultureinexternalrelations.eu/.
13 For an example of how EU cultural policy is made step-by-step, see Dewey (2008) on the 2007
Agenda for Culture.
14 Obuljen (2004) notes that in most EU countries, culture and audiovisual would not be separated
out as such, but be both considered a part of cultural policy and be subsumed within the Ministry
of Culture (or equivalent). Audiovisual policy has a different history within the EU, as it has been
more easily framed around economic and free trade objectives.
15 The European executive agencies perform largely management and administrative roles.
16 According to the website of one of the main lobby groups in the arts and cultural sectors, Cul-
ture Action Europe, created in 1992, their aim is to “be the leading platform for representing the
­d iverse interests of the sector with a coherent and clear message.”
17 Wallace and Wallace (2007) identify five different modes of policy-making in the EU, each with
its own processes and treaty bases.
18 For McNamara, culture is “a process of meaning making, shared among some particular group of
people” (p. 27), so much more in line with broader customs and habits than a narrower definition
of artistic practices.
19 A fruitful topic for future research is investigating in more detail the role of non-institutional
bodies such as the Committee of the Regions and professional cultural networks and lobby groups
located in Brussels.
20 To take one example, at the opening of the Culture Forum in November 2013, Past President of
the European Commission Jose Manuel Barroso said that “Culture is, and always has been, the
cement that binds Europe together. It is an essential part of the very foundations of our European
project and must remain firmly entrenched in our ideals if we are to succeed in achieving a more
united, a stronger and open Europe.”

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 Part VI
Development and cultural policy
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 27
The international politics of the
nexus ‘culture and development’
Four policy agendas for
whom and for what?

Antonios Vlassis

Culture and development are both ubiquitous and highly contested terms in social sciences.
By paraphrasing Joseph Nye’s quote on power and love (Nye 1990, p. 177), I should perhaps
acknowledge two things: whereas culture, like love, is easier to experience than to define
or measure, development seems to be the reverse; it’s easier to define or measure than to
experience. Of course, in recent years, there has been a proliferation of international norms
and mechanisms dealing with the ‘culture and development’ nexus, and multiple actors have
demonstrated a willingness to promote a specific set of ideas on the nexus. At the same time,
the main question asked by an increasingly academic form of research is from which point
of view to address the links among culture, cultural policies, and development (Stupples and
Teaiwa 2016): sociological, economic, anthropological, institutional, or legal?
The chapter that follows is more empirical and analytical than theoretical. It does not
aim to highlight if the increased attention has necessarily improved our understanding on
the interactions between culture, cultural policies, and development. By contrast, it explores
these interactions by contextualizing the dynamics of international policy agenda setting for
this issue and by dealing with four main questions: who seeks to set an international policy
agenda on the ‘culture-development’ nexus, for what reasons, under which conditions, and
with which outcomes.
Here, I attempt to see how the relationship between culture and development has been
defined and used by multiple actors in international relations, thereby demonstrating its im-
portance for world politics. To address these questions, the chapter primarily discusses the
initial political pathways through which the nexus travelled onto the international stage. It
focuses, furthermore, on four policy agendas that have emerged within international arenas
since the early 1990s: the free trade-focused approach, the policy agenda based on the diver-
sity of cultural expressions, the creative economy perspective, and the policy agenda based
on the intangible cultural heritage. In the end, I examine how the post-2015 development
agenda and the arrival of digital age could produce new insights into the links among cul-
ture, cultural policies, and development.

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Antonios Vlassis

‘Culture and development’ in the multilateral arenas:

first steps
Since the 1970s, UNESCO – as the sole UN agency with a cultural mandate – has sought
to feed the multilateral debate on the links between culture and development (De Beukelaer
2015, pp. 50–55; Garner 2016, pp. 71–102; Vlassis 2016a). In the wake of decolonization
of the 1950s and 1960s, UNESCO was faced with the needs and expectations of a number
of newly independent States, and with an approach that saw culture as ‘a marker of iden-
tity’ (UNESCO 2007, p. 76). In 1970, the organization took the initiative to organize the
Intergovernmental Conference on the Institutional, Administrative and Financial Aspects of
Culture in Venice, which acknowledged the responsibilities of national governments with
respect to the cultural life of the nation (UNESCO 1970, pp. 7–11). Following this, in 1974,
the 18e UNESCO General Conference established the International Fund for the Promotion
of Culture, the first intergovernmental Fund dealing with the public support to cultural de-
velopment. At the same time, UNESCO adopted in 1972 the World Heritage Convention,
the first standard-setting instrument recognizing the importance of culture in international
cultural policies. Additionally, UNESCO organized the World Conference on Cultural Poli­
cies (Mondiacult), held in Mexico in 1982 and attended by 960 participants from 126 States.
The Mondiacult Declaration argued for strengthening the links between development and
culture in the broadest sense, and it called for ‘humanizing development’ (UNESCO 1982).
Alongside such developments, UNESCO went through an unprecedented institutional
and financial crisis. The political controversy for establishing a New World Information
and Communication Order (NWICO) advanced under the leadership of the Non-Aligned
movement led to the United States (US) and United Kingdom (UK) withdrawing from
the organization in 1984. In fact, the ‘Third World’ countries denounced the dominance
of information and cultural products from the Western media industries as bringing about
a cultural imperialism and called on UNESCO to pay special attention to maintaining
national cultures and political independence for the development of the global South. In
1980, UNESCO published the report Many Voices, One World, prepared by the International
Commission for the Study of Communication Problems chaired by Irish Nobel Prize win-
ner Sean MacBride. The report stressed that the implementation of the free flow principle
had resulted in an imbalance in international information exchanges, and it called for a more
equitable circulation of information and cultural products. By contrast, the main US argu-
ments for their withdrawal focused on two points: (i) an international debate threatening the
‘free flow information’ and ‘free trade’ principles in media industries; (ii) a harsh critique of
the politicization of the UNESCO, and of a lack of efficiency, relevance and pragmatism on
the part of the organization (Imber 1989).
Despite financial and institutional challenges during the 1980s and 1990s,1 UNESCO
launched the World Decade for Cultural Development (1988–1997), the most tangible result
of the Mondiacult conference, which aimed to place culture at the heart of development. As
part of that Decade, in 1991, UNESCO established the World Commission on Culture and
Development, chaired by former UN Secretary-General Javier Pérez de Cuéllar. In 1996,
the Commission presented the report Our Creative Diversity. As argued in the report, “is
culture an aspect or a means of ‘development’, the latter understood as material progress, or is
culture the end and aim of ‘development’, the latter understood as the flourishing of human
existence in its forms and as a whole?” (World Commission on Culture and Development
1996, p. 13). In the same vein, the Stockholm Intergovernmental Conference on Cultural
Policies for Development was held in 1998, again aiming to embed cultural policy as a key

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 Nexus ‘culture and development’

component of development strategy (objective 1 of the Action Plan on Cultural Policies

for Development) and to make more human and financial resources available for cultural
development (objective 5 of the Action Plan on Cultural Policies for Development). Yet all
these initiatives did not advance far enough towards more prescriptive actions. The debates
were thus limited to broad moral commitments, without establishing institutional mecha-
nisms and standard-setting instruments.
Lastly, it’s worth pointing out that these initiatives were based on the UN debates with
reference to an alternative approach of development, beyond its economic aspects. The last
two decades of the twentieth century saw the flourishing of new conceptions questioning eco-
nomic and material criteria as hegemonic policy principles of development: the adoption of the
Declaration on the Right to Development in 1986, the publication of the Brundtland Report
‘Our Common Future’ prepared by the United Nations Commission on Environment and
Development in 1987, and the first publication of the Human Development Report in 1990
commissioned by the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) and based on Amartya
Sen’s philosophical ideas. Such initiatives paid attention to the non-economic dimensions of
development and considered development as a multifaceted problem. That is, growth is not
an end in itself but needs to have a positive impact on human well-being. Moreover, it was
argued that development should be measured by a broad spectrum of data, including political
rights, economic and social freedoms, nutrition, governance structures, gender policies, the
health system, and environmental and educational policies (Rist 2007, pp. 345–416).

Four policy agendas on the ‘culture-development’ nexus

As Risse (1994) said, “ideas do not float freely” on the international stage, but they are linked
to actors and institutions. With this in mind, the agenda setting as regards the ‘culture-­
development’ nexus is closely attached to interests and resources of a wide variety of actors
who exercise power across borders, mobilize multiple strategies, and promote their own
specific set of ideas. In this respect, this section explores the political dynamics of the setting
of four policy agendas on the nexus, highlighting how the nexus is defined, which issues are
created, and which norms and programs are established.

A free trade-focused approach on development

Since the early 1990s, the deregulation of cultural markets and the elimination of regulatory
and financial measures in the cultural sector, as prominent conditions of development for the
sector, have been a major priority of the US diplomacy as well as a stumbling block in the
process of the international and regional economic integration (Vlassis 2015a). As Miller and
Yúdice (2002, p. 174) note, “The US motivation was obvious: replacing national societies
of culture with a global society of alleged efficiency”. The goal of the US administration,
followed mainly by several powerful industrial associations such as the Motion Picture Asso-
ciation of America, was to include cultural goods and services within the agenda of interna-
tional trade negotiations, including the last period of negotiations on the General Agreement
on Trade in Services (GATS) of the World Trade Organization (WTO) in 1993; the negoti-
ations on the Multilateral Agreement on Investment within the Organization for Economic
Cooperation and Development; and the negotiations around free trade agreement (FTA)
between the US and Canada brought into force in 1989, as well as on the North American
Free Trade Agreement among US, Canada, and Mexico entered into force in 1994.

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Antonios Vlassis

The US position was largely associated with the Washington consensus in development
policies, which has gained ascension since the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the
bipolar world order. The consensus asserts that global welfare would be maximized by the
liberalization of trade, finance, and investment, and by restructuring national economies to
provide an enabling environment for capital (Rist 2007). Consequently, the Washington
consensus called for governments to focus on macroeconomic criteria and to open up their
economies to market forces. In this regard, by the 1990s, as neoliberalism emerged tri-
umphant, the assumption was cultural policies should admit an underlying principle that
“human well-being can best be advanced by liberating individual entrepreneurial freedoms
and skills within an institutional framework characterized by strong private property rights,
free markets, and free trade” (Harvey 2005, p. 2).
Even though a coalition of actors, driven by France and Canada, defended the term ‘cultural
exception’ (exception culturelle) in order to protect cultural policies and to exclude cultural goods
and services from the agenda of the trade negotiations, the WTO does have a competence for
trade of cultural services, and the latter are not permanently excluded from WTO negotiations
(Pauwels and Loisen 2003). As of February 2016, 36 WTO members have agreed to make
some commitments in the audiovisual services sector.2 Interestingly, whereas 18 governments3
of 134 founding members of the WTO took commitments in 1995, during the period from
1996 to 2016, 18 governments4 of the 27 new WTO members agreed to be subject to certain
restrictions in the audiovisual sector. This reveals not only the strong US pressures – mostly to
the economically developing countries – in order to push the liberalization of their audiovisual
sector forward, but also the fact that a government negotiates its accession to the WTO without
being able to build political coalitions favoring the protection of cultural policies.
Likewise, the US sought to judicialize its trade disputes in terms of cultural services
through the WTO Dispute Settlement Body. In 2009, following a complaint lodged by the
US administration in 2007, the WTO condemned China for its trade practices within the
cultural sector and especially for its strict regulatory policies on audiovisual services, such as
the annual quota of 20 foreign films to be distributed, and revenue sharing (Neuwirth 2010;
Vlassis 2016b). As a result, the US and China signed a ‘Memorandum of Understanding on
WTO Related Problems in the Film Industry’, which provides that China allows the impor-
tation of 14 more Hollywood movies and increased the percentage of sharing revenues to the
foreign operators from 13 percent to 25 percent.
However, since 2001 (the Doha Round), the WTO has struggled to conclude a round of
trade negotiations among its members, illustrating an institutional crisis of its multilateral
model. The US administration, therefore, has opted for the bilateral pathway, concluding
FTAs with several countries. During bilateral negotiations, the lack of human resources
and of expertise, the lack of pressure from culture professional organizations – often loosely
organized and representing poorly developed industries, as well as the ability of other more
powerful sectors to influence the decision-making process, often lead developing countries
to give in to the demands of trading partners, such as the US, and to not preserve the cul-
tural field (Vlassis and Richieri Hanania 2014; Gagné 2016). Conversely, the bilateral nature
of negotiations offers a power asymmetry to the benefit of the US administration, whereby
the negotiating countries cannot hide behind alliances in favor of cultural policies and the
recognition of cultural specificity. That is, seven countries – Oman, Panama, Bahrain,
Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, and El Salvador – inscribed few reservations within their
bilateral agreements with the US regarding the cultural sector; therefore, they have signifi-
cantly limited their capacity to implement public policies in that sector.

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Diversity of cultural expressions: recognizing

cultural industries in development policies
Rapid financial globalization, international and regional economic integration, and the lib-
eralization of trade exchanges raised major concerns for several actors over the implications
for cultural policies, flows of cultural goods and services, and cultural diversity. By the
end of the 1990s, an alliance of actors including national governments, such as Canada and
France; intergovernmental organizations, such as Organisation internationale de la Francophonie
and Council of Europe; sub-national governments (Quebec and Catalonia); and non-­
governmental organizations (National Coalitions for Cultural Diversity5) has mobilized in
favor of ‘the diversity of cultural expressions’ and the establishment of an international policy
tool on this principle (Musitelli 2005; Vlassis 2015a).
Just as during the debate on the NWICO, several countries made a strong plea for
balanced and equitable flows of cultural goods and services around the world, whereas the
US administration called for two policy principles: free trade and free flow of information
and images. Following hard negotiations on a number of issues such as the link between
trade agreements and culture, the appropriate cultural policies for the protection and pro-
motion of diversity of cultural expressions, or the type of contributions for a fund for cul-
tural diversity, a new standard-­setting instrument – the Convention on the Protection and
the Promotion of Diversity of Cultural Expressions (hereafter CDCE) – was adopted by
UNESCO in 2005. As of December 2016, it has received the support of 144 Member States
and of the European Union (EU). Instead, the US – fierce opponent of the CDCE – Russia,
Japan, Turkey, Pakistan, as well as several Southeast Asian (Malaysia, Myanmar, Philippines,
Singapore, Thailand) and Middle Eastern (Iran, Israel, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Syria) coun-
tries have not yet ratified the CDCE.
The object of the CDCE does not refer to cultural diversity in the broadest sense of the
term, but to a specific aspect of the latter with reference to the cultural goods and services
created, produced and distributed by cultural industries. The CDCE recognizes the specific-
ity of cultural goods and services and the importance of cultural policies for the protection
and promotion of the diversity of cultural expressions. Furthermore, even though the main
interest of CDCE’s promoters was to offer an international culture-driven response towards
the international trade regime, the CDCE included also concrete provisions to the link
‘culture and development’. These provisions are the result of a request by several developing
countries and independent experts that did not want to make the CDCE a normative tool
serving only the interests of developed countries (Vlassis 2011, p. 498).
The CDCE stipulates the integration of cultural industries in sustainable development
(Article 13), and it aims to strengthen international cultural cooperation through various
tools, such as the expert and information exchange among the Parties (Articles 9 and 19), the
collaborative arrangements (Article 15), and the preferential treatment for developing coun-
tries (Article 16) as well as the setting up of the International Fund for Cultural Diversity
(IFCD), a multi-donor voluntary fund established under Article 18 (Albornoz 2016; Vlassis
2014). As of March 2017, the IFCD has supported 84 projects in 49 developing countries,
and the total contributions received reach 8.8 million USD. More than 75 percent of the
projects are either in Africa or in Latin America and the Caribbean. Yet the contributions are
increasingly disparate. On the one hand, the combined contributions of France, Finland and
Norway reach more than 3.8 million USD,6 and those of three new international powers,
namely, Brazil, China, and Mexico, are so far regular and dynamic, reaching more than 1.1

421
Antonios Vlassis

million USD. On the other hand, the UK, the Netherlands, Republic of Korea and Italy,
very developed countries in terms of cultural goods and services, have not yet contributed
to the IFCD resources.
In addition, throughout 2011–2015, UNESCO established an expert facility project,
funded by the EU in order to implement the CDCE through the strengthening of the
system of governance for cultural industries in developing countries. Besides, the expert
facility activities for 2015–2017 are funded with the support of Swedish Agency for Interna-
tional Development Cooperation, which also gave resources for the elaboration of the 2005
Convention Global Report published in 2015. In this respect, during the period of 2011–2017,
the project has allocated in total €3.7 million for creating a pool of 57 experts in public pol-
icies for cultural industries. Twenty-five technical assistance missions have been put in place
in order to transfer knowledge and know-how towards countries in Africa (Burkina Faso,
Democratic Republic of the Congo, Kenya, Malawi, Mauritius, Morocco, Niger, Rwanda,
Seychelles, Senegal, Tunisia, Zimbabwe), Latin America (Argentina, Colombia, Honduras),
Asia (Cambodia, Indonesia, Vietnam), and the Caribbean (Barbados, Cuba, Haiti).
In a similar vein, the Protocol on Cultural Cooperation is a new policy instrument elab-
orated by the European Commission in order to promote the CDCE’s implementation
through trade agreements, and especially Article 16 regarding the ‘Preferential treatment for
developing countries’ (Loisen and De Ville 2011; Vlassis 2016c). Since 2008, the Commis-
sion has introduced in total four protocols, with the Caribbean States (Cariforum) signed in
2008, with the Republic of Korea concluded in 2009, with Central America signed in 2010,
and with Peru/Colombia concluded in 2011.

Creative economy: linking ‘culture and

development’ to informational society
Since the early 2000s, the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development
(UNCTAD), an international organization traditionally “reflecting the aspirations and needs
of least developed countries” (Davies and Woodward 2014, p. 348), has elaborated a new
approach on the nexus ‘culture and development’, based on the concept of ‘creative econ-
omy’, which is seen as a “feasible development option” (UNCTAD 2010). Under the lead-
ership of the UNCTAD Secretary-General from 1995 and 2004, Rubens Ricupero, former
Brazilian minister of finance, and the support of Brazilian culture minister Gilberto Gil, the
UNCTAD XI Conference held in Brazil in 2004 introduced the creative industries into
the international economic and development agenda (Isar 2008). The Sao Paulo Consensus,
adopted by 153 Member States, stressed, “The international community should support
national efforts of developing countries to increase their participation in and benefit from
dynamic sectors and to foster, protect and promote their creative industries” (UNCTAD
2004, p. 19). In this context, a UN multi-agency Partnership for Technical Assistance for
Enhancing the Creative Economy in Developing Countries has established at a ‘UN Global
South-South Creative Economy Symposium’ held in Shanghai (China) in December 2005.
This partnership was mobilized for the preparation of the first Creative Economy report,
launched during the UNCTAD XII Conference in Ghana in 2008.
The aim of this policy-oriented report was to make an intellectual contribution of UN
agencies to the discussions of creative economy with a view to assist governments in formu-
lating policies and to reshape the development agenda with creative industries in mind. The
report gives a central role in the linkage among creativity, intellectual property, knowledge,

422
 Nexus ‘culture and development’

and access to information. It sees the creative industries as a key new growth sector of the
global economy and as contributors to wealth creation, employment growth, and export
performance for developing countries, giving a potential to diversify their economies.

“The creative economy has become an even stronger driver of development: world
trade of creative goods and services totaled a record 624 billion USD in 2011, more than
doubling between 2002 and 2011. The average annual growth rate of the sector during
that period was 8.8 percent, and the exports of creative goods were even stronger in
developing countries, averaging 12.1 percent in growth annually over the same period”.
(UNCTAD 2013, p. 153)

In fact, the UNCTAD classification of creative industries seems to “integrate and assimilate
the cultural industries” (Tremblay 2008, p. 67), and it is divided into four broad categories:
cultural heritage, arts, media, and functional creations (design, architecture, advertising,
research and development, computer services, etc.). UNCTAD and UNDP took the lead
in preparing the 2008 and 2010 reports,7 whereas the 2013 report was notably executed
by UNESCO and UNDP. The reports brought contributions from UNCTAD, UNDP,
UNESCO, World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO), and International Trade
Centre. Moreover, the last few years have seen a boom in interest in the idea of ‘creative
industries’. That is, the creative economy policy strategy was manifested in initiatives across
several Latin American, Caribbean, and Asian countries, such as Peru, Colombia, Barbados,
Jamaica, Singapore, Thailand, Taiwan, or even in EU, whose new program for the cul-
tural and creative sectors (2014–2020, budget €1.46 billion) is called Creative Europe (Littoz-­
Monnet 2012).
Noteworthy is that the concept ‘Creative industries’ first has been elaborated in Anglo-­
Saxon countries (Garnham 2005; Cunningham 2009). It has emerged in Australia with
the Labour government’s ‘Creative nation’ initiative of 1994. It was given wider exposure
with the election of ‘New Labour’ in the UK in 1997 when the Blair government set up
the Creative Industries Task Force as a central activity of its new Department of Culture,
Media and Sport. Hence, it established the creative industries “as a plank of the UK’s ‘post-­
industrial’ economy”, strongly linked to policy agendas surrounding technological conver-
gence, innovation policy, and information society and going beyond the traditional ideas of
the subsidized arts (Flew and Cunningham 2010, p. 113).
As Galloway and Dunlop (2007, p. 18) argued, culture was abandoned as elitist and ex-
clusive, whereas ‘creativity’ was embraced as democratic and inclusive. In the early 2000s,
policy consultant and journalist John Howkins (2001) claimed in an influential and widely
read book that creative economy would be the dominant economic form in the twenty-first
century. In the meantime, the US academic and policy consultant Richard Florida (2002)
popularized the idea that creativity is central to new economies, leading to a change in the
class system itself, with the rise of a ‘new creative class’ (Hesmondhalgh 2008, pp. 560–561).
In this context, in 2008, the document Creative Britain “sets out an ambitious agenda which
sought to reiterate the significance of the creative industries to the UK’s economic future”
(Banks and O’Connor 2009, p. 365). Nevertheless, several countries that made a strong plea
for the cultural exception (see above) appeared reluctant to the new concept, insofar as the
amalgamation of cultural industries and creative economy harbors a real danger: “that of
watering down the specificity of cultural industries and the weakening of arguments in favor
of the intervention of public authority” (Tremblay 2008, p. 83).

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Antonios Vlassis

Intangible cultural heritage: deconstructing the

Western development paradigm?
At a diplomatic level, the building of the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangi-
ble Cultural Heritage (hereafter CSICH) is mainly based on the political support of non-­
Western countries, such as Japan – the first country that recognized the ‘intangible cultural
properties’ in 1950 – Republic of Korea, China, Turkey, Peru, and Colombia. The objective
was to rebalance the global political economy of the cultural heritage and to put on the in-
ternational cultural policy agenda an issue-area of their choice.
The first international legal instrument dealing with the preservation of the intangible
cultural heritage was the Recommendation on the Safeguarding of Traditional Culture and
Folklore adopted by UNESCO in 1989. Subsequently, several initiatives have affirmed the
necessity for a convention that would address the protection of intangible cultural heritage:
the establishment of the UNESCO-Japan Funds-in-Trust for the Preservation and Promo-
tion of the Intangible Cultural Heritage in 1993; the program ‘Living Human Treasures’
proposed by the Republic of Korea in 1993, identifying persons who possess to a high degree
the knowledge and skills for performing or recreating specific elements of the intangible cul-
tural heritage; and the program titled ‘Proclamation of Masterpieces of Oral and Intangible
Cultural Heritage of Humanity’ in 1997 (Kozymka 2014). At the end of 1990s, several gov-
ernments were already committed to safeguard intangible cultural heritage as their national
heritage, revealing the bottom-up character of the Convention: according to UNESCO’s
2000 World Cultural Report, 57 States adopted national cultural policies related to intan-
gible cultural heritage and 80 States provided moral or economic support to individuals and
institutions promoting intangible heritage (UNESCO 2000, p. 175).
The political process to the adoption in 2003 of the CSICH has also been facilitated by
two factors. First, the international debate on intangible heritage met the cultural turn in
development questioning Western ethnocentrism. At the end of 1990s, several multilateral
institutions such as World Bank, Inter-American Development Bank and UNDP began to
focus on ‘culturally appropriate development’ (Stupples 2014) or ‘culturally sensitive ap-
proaches’ (Sims 2015, p. 6)8. Second, the intangible cultural heritage took part of the main
mandate’s priorities of the UNESCO’s Director-General, Kōichirō Matsuura, a Japanese
career diplomat, elected in 1999.
The CSICH recognizes a new type of heritage as an expression of the cultural identity of
peoples and communities, thereby questioning the Western and monumental approach on
heritage, depending on the 1972 World Heritage Convention and based on a sacralization of
the object rather than on the practices. In turn, the CSICH deals with the safeguarding of
intangible cultural heritage, meaning the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge,
and skills that communities, groups, and, in some cases, individuals recognize as part of
their cultural heritage. It proposes five broad domains in which intangible cultural heritage
is manifested: oral traditions and expressions; performing arts; social practices, rituals, and
festive events; knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe; and traditional
craftsmanship. The Convention thus stresses the importance of international cooperation
for development and provides for the establishment of the Fund for the Safeguarding of the
Intangible Cultural Heritage. “The intangible cultural heritage is the mainspring of cultural
diversity and a guarantee of sustainable development” (UNESCO 2007, p. 133).9
Clearly, the World Heritage List, inspired by movable cultural property and material cul-
tural expressions, which are specifically Western concepts, favors European monuments and
buildings, and is unbalanced in terms of regional distribution (Frey and Steiner 2011). As of

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 Nexus ‘culture and development’

December 2016, 52.5 percent of all cultural sites ‘of outstanding universal value’ are to be
found in Europe and North America – 426 out of 814 cultural sites.
On the one hand, accompanied by fears of global cultural homogenization and hege-
mony by the West, the CSICH questions “Western ethnocentrism as the implicit culture of
developmentalism” as well as the paradigm ‘modernization/westernization’. In this respect,
it illustrates “the retreat from structural and macro approaches in development practices in
favor of micro and actor-oriented approaches” (Nederveen Pieterse 1995, p. 176). Conse-
quently, it strongly challenges the Eurocentricity of the World Heritage List. As of Decem-
ber 2016, 40 percent of all the elements within the List of Intangible Cultural Heritage are
to be found in 11 non-Western countries (171 out of 430 inscribed elements): China (39),
Japan (21), Republic of Korea (19), Turkey (15), Mongolia (13), India (13), Iran (12), Vietnam
(11), Peru (10), Colombia (9), and Mexico (9). Obviously, “the West is no longer a privileged
interlocutor in the age of polycentrism” (Nederveen Pieterse 1995, p. 176).
On the other hand, CSICH Article 15 recognizes the communities as a main actor for
creating, maintaining, and transmitting intangible cultural heritage. This has led several
Western countries to wonder about the risks from a political use of the CSICH and to express
reluctance about the promotion of the ‘intangible cultural heritage’ on the international
development agenda. In this sense, five Anglo-Saxon countries with strong communitarian
traditions, namely the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the UK, have not yet rat-
ified the CSICH. They particularly worried either about the manipulation of the CSICH
by the country’s communities or the exploitation by the central national government of the
communities’ heritage (Maguet 2011). Last but not least, note too that Finland, Sweden,
Denmark, and the Netherlands, parties to the CSICH, have not proposed any element for
inscription within the List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage.

Conclusion: beyond the four policy agendas?

Today, the interactions among culture, cultural policies, and development could be defined
in new ways by the rising of two major issues: the post-2015 UN development agenda and
the arrival of digital age, which have spurred additional calls for new norms and new respon-
sibilities for the actors involved.
On the one hand, throughout 2012–2015, several actors were advocating that culture be
explicitly integrated within the post-2015 agenda on the Sustainable Development Goals, re-
placing the Millennium Development Goals. UNESCO, followed by many Latin ­A merican,
African, and Asian countries, intergovernmental organizations (UNCTAD, UNDP), and
NGOs on cultural affairs, stressed that culture should play an essential role in the social,
environmental, and economic development pillars of sustainable development agenda. Yet
the political strategy of these actors was a broad and potentially contradictory mixture of
components from three of the policy agendas examined above: diversity of cultural expres-
sions, intangible cultural heritage, and creative economy. Unsurprisingly perhaps, it included
ambivalent policy principles relating to crucial issues: the role of government policy in the
cultural sector, the importance of marketization and of private entrepreneurship in the do-
main of culture, and the impact of indigenous peoples and local communities in maintaining
and promoting traditional cultural expressions. Thus, references to culture in the final version
of the agenda are minor. Notably, international mobilization for the inclusion of culture in
the post-2015 development agenda faced the reluctance of developed countries, based on two
main arguments. One, culture is broad, abstract, and has no quantifiable domain, complicated

425
Antonios Vlassis

by developed countries seeking to rationalize the objectives and economic resources of the
future UN development agenda and emphasizing an operationalized agenda dealing with
measurable targets and indicators. Two, culture is a controversial concept, raising the risks of
cultural relativism. In other words, culture could justify policy practices that would be the
reverse of the previous national commitments to key priorities of the agenda, such as human
rights, status of women, or environmental protection (Vlassis 2015b, pp. 1655–1657).
On the other hand, the reality of the dematerialization of cultural content, of technological
convergence, and of the deterritorialisation of cultural offerings raises enormous challenges
for the raison d’être of cultural policies. New powerful digital actors such as content aggregators
(iTunes), video sharing websites (YouTube), video on demand services (Netflix), social net-
working services (Facebook), electronic commerce companies (Amazon) have unequalled ca-
pacities to disseminate cultural expressions and “exercise considerable influence over whether
and how cultural expressions can be accessed, in turn controlling much of the cultural offer-
ings and influencing the evolution of the diversity of cultural expressions” (Guèvremont 2015,
p. 149). Besides, as the European Digital Agenda highlighted, the free trade approach and the
creative economy brand become increasingly attractive for the formulation of cultural poli-
cies. This suggests laying emphasis on economic competitiveness, innovation, and free flow of
cultural contents. This would be superficially effective, insofar as regulatory measures seem to
be obsolete at the digital age and the great multiplication of cultural offers and the remarkable
facilitation of access give the illusion of balanced flow of cultural contents.
However, at the end of the day, it should be acknowledged that the arrival of the digital
age turns upside down the components of the four policy agendas discussed above, and it
poses five significant opportunities and risks for the interactions among culture, cultural pol-
icies, and development (Rioux et al. 2015, p. 10): One, the greater affordability of cultural
products and the possibility to reach dispersed and far away publics, but decreasing financial
means because of piracy, free sharing, and the marginalization of certain populations be-
cause of this digital fracture. Two, the establishment of new forms of financing (participative
financing), but the emergence of new powerful actors playing a decisive role in access to
cultural content. Three, the increasing accessibility of content on the web, but institutional
and economic uncertainties. Four, hyper-multiplication of cultural contents, but the am-
plification of a process of concentration in Internet economic powers controlling data and
networks. Five, the potential strengthening of international cultural exchanges, but major
problems of effectiveness of national cultural policies regarding regulations, fiscal systems,
and property rights regimes.

Notes
1 The UK and the US returned to UNESCO in 1997 and in 2003, respectively.
2 According to the WTO, the audiovisual sector includes motion picture and videotape production
and distribution services, motion picture projection services, radio and television services, and
sound recording.
3 Central African Republic, Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Hong Kong, India, Israel, Japan,
Kenya, Republic of Korea, Lesotho, Malaysia, Mexico, New Zeeland, Nicaragua, Singapore,
Thailand, US, and Vietnam.
4 Armenia, Cape Verde, China, Gambia, Georgia, Jordan, Kyrgyzstan, Oman, Panama, Russia,
Samoa, Saudi Arabia, Seychelles, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Tonga, Vanuatu, and Yemen.
5 In September 2007, the International Federation of the Coalitions for Cultural Diversity was
created by 42 national coalitions for cultural diversity grouping in the aggregate more than 600 cul-
tural professional organizations representing creators, artists, independent producers, distributors,

426
 Nexus ‘culture and development’

broadcasters, and editors in the publishing, motion picture, television, music, performing arts, and
visual art fields. The Federation is incorporated in Canada and has its Secretariat in Montreal.
6 It’s worth noting that many countries seek to favor more the development aid by bilateral or
plurilateral channels perhaps more efficient than the multilateral institutions. For instance, it’s im-
portant to mention two policy instruments towards the film cooperation: the French financial aid
Aides aux cinemas du monde, with an annual budget of €6 million and the program IBERMEDIA,
including Spain, Portugal, and several countries in Latin America, to which Spain has contributed
36 million USD in the period of 1998–2014.
7 The 2008 and 2010 Creative Economy Reports have been coordinated by Edna dos Santos (Brazil),
a development economist working as Chief of the UNCTAD Creative Economy and Industries
Program and Francisco Simplicio (Brazil), Chief of the Division for Knowledge Management and
Operations of the UNDP Special Unit for South-South Cooperation, with the strong support of
Yiping Zhou, former senior trade official for the Chinese government and Director of the UNDP
Special Unit for South-South Cooperation.
8 The World Bank, under the leadership of its former Egyptian vice president Ismaïl Serageldin
(1992–2000), made a plea for the contribution of culture and identity of peoples to economic
development. In 1998, the organization hosted, with UNESCO’s sponsorship, the international
conference ‘Culture and development at the Millennium: the Challenge and the Response’ in
Washington DC, and in 1999, it published the report Culture and Sustainable Development: A
Framework for Action.
9 It’s worth mentioning that in 2000, the WIPO members established an Intergovernmental
Committee on Intellectual Property and Genetic Resources, Traditional Knowledge and Folklore.
In 2009, they tasked the Committee to undertake negotiations for the development of an interna-
tional standard-setting instrument that would give traditional knowledge, genetic resources, and
traditional cultural expressions effective protection.

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 28
Reimagining development
in times of crises
Cultural policies, social imagination, and
the creative economy in Puerto Rico

Mareia Quintero Rivera and Javier J. Hernández Acosta

Introduction
This essay intends to articulate a situated reflection based on the authors’ direct involvement
in the developing of cultural policies through participatory methodologies, in the recent ex-
perience of the Commission for Cultural Development (CODECU). Puerto Rico represents
a singular case, with historical and cultural parallels with Latin America, but subject to the
legal, political, and trade framework of the United States. We propose to understand cul-
tural policies not as an instrument for the advancement of given development agendas, but
as a vital arena for discussing and re-imagining development strategies. Debates on culture
in Puerto Rico are generally subordinated to political or economic issues. In the face of an
unparalleled economic and financial crisis, cultural policies tend to be seen as irrelevant. But
they can also wake up passions for its connotations in controversies over the colonial question
and political status. We argue that culture is crucial for facing present dilemmas in Puerto
Rican society and that its place in public policy should be urgently redefined.
Once seen as a showcase of democracy and development, Puerto Rico is now submerged
in a multidimensional crisis. After a decade of economic recession, a heavily indebted gov-
ernment with no political powers to decide how to manage its financial emergency, critical
structural problems in its economy, a significant presence of drug trafficking with its detri-
mental social consequences, and growing citizenship distrust in public institutions and the
political process, no signs of hope are detected on the nearby horizon. Within this context,
the Commission for Cultural Development (CODECU), created in 2013, faced the challenge
of thinking about the role cultural policies could perform in helping the island to move ahead.
Named by the former governor as an independent and non-remunerated body, CODECU
counted on a small amount of public resources to put forward a participatory process aimed at
proposing a cultural policy. In June 2015, the Commission presented its final report, together
with a study of the cultural ecosystem in Puerto Rico, developed as part of its research process.
To set the basis for a reflection of our experience in CODECU, we start by addressing
current debates around culture and development, stressing the importance of public policies

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committed to enabling citizens’ social agency and autonomy in the face of hegemonic values.
Second, we present a historical synthesis of the evolution of cultural policies in Puerto Rico,
pointing to the particularities of the island’s cultural dynamics, as a consequence of colonial
subjection to the United States, and tracing the development of the main public cultural
institutions.
CODECU’s initial proposal was based on two main ideas: first that a cultural policy
should arise from an open and active public discussion and second that it must incorpo-
rate a research process to generate a radiography of cultural dynamics in the island. The
third section of this article details the participatory process that was put forward, as well
as the components of a study of the cultural ecosystem. Finally the latter sections address
CODECU’s main findings and proposals, which include: (1) a shift from an idea of culture
as a sector to an understanding of culture as a transversal and fundamental dimension of
public policy; (2) a need to re-design the institutional framework of cultural policies, based
on principles such as horizontality, participation, articulation of different agents, and cultural
rights; (3) the strengthening of an eco-system that promotes cultural initiatives and entre-
preneurship, based on a paradigm of sustainability; (4) a space to problematize and rethink
our values and modes of social interaction, including challenging all forms of discrimination,
exclusion and cultural hierarchies.
Special attention is given to the emergence of the creative economy as a new field of ac-
tion for cultural policies. Stepping away from an uncritical notion that praises the creative
industries as a panacea for jumping the economy, we stress on the importance of contextual-
izing the discourses that surround it. The development of frameworks and strategies for the
creative economy require, among other things, the creation of cultural information systems,
which should play a fundamental role as a support for decision-making. In order to broaden
the discussion of the creative industries’ impact, we proposed a sustainable creative economy
index. Our experience as academics and cultural agents in the collective process put forward
by CODECU strengthened our belief in building sustainable collaborations between aca-
demic research and public policy.

Cultural agency and social imagination

In times of multiple crises, governments, international organizations, the private sector and
citizen’s movements have turned to culture as a resource for fostering economic growth,
social inclusion and wellbeing (Yúdice, 2003). This general approach has brought about
an innumerable array of policies, projects and initiatives in very different contexts, often
with dissimilar methodologies and variable effects. It has also produced different kinds of
discourses about cultural instrumentalization, from the entirely functional to neoliberalism,
to the utterly critical that invoke culture as a space to question hegemonies and incite social
transformation. Paradoxically, objections to viewing culture as a resource also come from
a very broad ideological spectrum, from a conservative claim for culture’s autonomy, to a
criticism of cultural policies as governing tools.
At the heart of these debates lies the relationship between culture and development: an
affair with a long history of tensions, attractions and contradictions (Arizpe, 2004). Even
though much has been written and discussed about culture as a constitutive dimension of de-
velopment (Sen, 2004), public agenda tends to be culture-blind in many ways. On the other
extreme, when invoked as a resource, culture is frequently seen as a magic wand, as a recently
found gold mine ready to be exploited for immediate profit. Between these poles, cul-
ture’s potentialities of actively having a role in personal and collective strategies to deal with

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everyday challenges, and build resilient and transformative practices, can be overshadowed.
What kind of expediency is expected from culture? Who is supposed to capitalize on it?
Doris Sommer (2006, 2014) refers to cultural agency-in a Gramscian sense, as a “room
for maneuver”, as the “small shifts in perspective and practice” that put forward collective
change. Exploring the ways in which culture enables agency demands a careful consideration
of a broad range of concrete experiences where cultural practices engage with commu-
nity and social processes. In Latin America, there is a long history of social practice deeply
sensible to culture as a key element of intervention in emancipation processes. As noted
by Ochoa (2002), this involvement is rooted in the legacy of endogenous practices – such
as the ones developed by Paulo Freire, Orlando Fals Borda and others – and not solely in
discourses around culture and development promoted by international organizations, such
as UNESCO. An understanding of these legacies in their specific contexts, and with their
particular dilemmas, might help us move from the mining metaphor (with all its potential
collateral damage) to a more sustainable perspective based on mobilizing agency.
But how could cultural policies contribute to enable citizen’s agency? We suggest seeing
cultural policies as a potential alley for expanding social imagination about the present and
the future, a job that artists and cultural agents are continually involved with. Following
institutionalism theories, economist Franscico Catalá (2007) has described the incapacity of
successive Puerto Rican government administrations to put forward new paths for economic
development, as a product of a “ceremonial encapsulation”, or blind faith in the instruments
that once made growth possible. Instead of a mere tool for development, culture should be
seen as the arena for rethinking development; for demystifying old strategies and opening
up emergent and more sustainable values and practices. Instrumentalizing culture, without
interrogating development strategies in an integral way, will only reproduce and accentuate
social inequalities.
To challenge prevailing ideologies of progress in Puerto Rico requires a thorough work-
ing with the collective social imagination. When a high-level public servant justified the
exclusion of poor people from a projected development plan by affirming, in a public hearing
with the community in 2009, that “not everyone has been born with the same luck”, and
“such is life”, it became clear that we are living in a society where inequalities are seen by
many people – including government representatives – as a natural phenomenon. Fortu-
nately, the community responded. And responded through cultural agency. The discussion
had to do with a plan for the gorgeous terrains of Roosevelt Roads Naval Station on the east-
ern coast of Puerto Rico, closed in 2004. The government’s plan included the construction
of a marina for luxury yachts, casinos, hotel facilities and “world class” boutiques, all activi-
ties for elite consumption. According to the then-director of the Port Authority, low-income
people could amuse themselves by watching the rich consumers walking around and having
a very popular kind of artisan ice cream that we call “limber”. A few days after such unfortu-
nate declarations, the community was celebrating a “Limber” Festival, paying tribute to this
long-lasting tradition of self-generating income, proclaiming their dignity and defending
another development model: one based on citizens’ participation, on local commerce instead
of foreign investment, on community enjoyment, instead of exclusive elite consumption.
The phrase “such is life” became a popular way to refer, with irony, to the increasing social
polarization of Puerto Rican society, as well as to the invisible alliances between the political
and economic powers. The festival became an annual celebration that serves as a reminder of
how community culture can mobilize social imagination.
According to Grimson (2014), culture is “a condition, a medium, and an end of develop-
ment” [translation by the authors]. If economic justice and political participation are essential

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requirements to build democratic societies with high levels of human development, it is also
critical to direct policies towards cultural justice, which implies “to increase the autonomy
of the citizens against the historically instituted common senses” [translation by the authors]
(Grimson, 2014, p. 11). Rao and Walton (2004) suggest that considering the centrality of cul-
ture in the development process involves moving the emphasis from “equal opportunities” to
“equality of agency”. Before discussing CODECU’s strategies to develop policies committed
to opening roads for an equality of cultural agency, the next section contextualizes the role
culture and cultural policies have played in Puerto Rico until the present.

Cultural policies in Puerto Rico

A former Spanish colony, Puerto Rico became a US territory in 1898 and since 1952 holds
commonwealth status. The “Associated Free State of Puerto Rico”, as it was named, enabled
self-government, but it is subject to the plenary powers of the United States Congress and
Federal Constitution. The country’s cultural dilemmas burst from this double colonial expe-
rience whose imprints can be traced in many dimensions of Puerto Rican society, from the
way social hierarchies and inequalities have been embedded to the dynamics of interrelations
between individuals, the colonial state and the imperial power.
After a military invasion of the island, as part of the Spanish-Cuban-American War,
the United States imposed a colonial regime with scarce participation of Puerto Ricans
in government. Based on the idea of a “civilizing tutelage”, an assimilation policy was
implemented through the creation of a public education system. English was imposed as the
official language to a Spanish-speaking population, and US symbols were disseminated in
schools, through rituals such as the pledge of alliance, civic parades to commemorate US
holidays, patriotic songs and images of the founding fathers, maps and landscapes unfamiliar
to the Island’s children (Flores Collazo, 2004; Quintero, 2013).
The legislative arena provided a small space of maneuver for opposing colonial cultural
policy. During the first four decades of US rule, some approved legislation intended to af-
firm national identity and Spanish heritage. These included the reinstatement of several local
holidays, the establishment of the Historical Archive of Puerto Rico, the appointment of a
Historian of Puerto Rico, the construction of public libraries, the erection of monuments
in honor of illustrious local figures and the conservation of Spanish colonial architecture
(Rodríguez Cancel, 2007). The acceptance of these measures can also be understood as part
of the United States’ strategy to gain popular consent and avoid uprisings in the colony. The
imposition of US citizenship to the population in 1917, even though controversial at the
time, was a key factor in the consolidation of a hegemonic power (Rivera Ramos, 2001). On
the other hand, the extension of labor rights to workers in Puerto Rico generated support
for annexation movements as a means of expanding democratic rights.
The progressive expansion of Puerto Rican’s self-governing powers during the 1940s,
culminating in the establishment of the Commonwealth in 1952, enabled the foundations
for a cultural policy of a greater scope. Efforts were directed to mitigate the cultural impact
of fast-paced modernization. Through the so-called “Operation Serenity”, cultural policies
aimed at strengthening the link between the state apparatus and the citizenship, particularly
the rural population, as exemplified by the creation of the Division for Community Educa-
tion (DIVEDCO) under the Education Department. Some of the most distinguished artists
of the time were recruited to create educational materials in the form of posters, films and
booklets that would spread basic lessons of citizenship for democracy (Marsh Kennerley,
2009). In 1949, together with the establishment of the DIVEDCO, Spanish was reinstalled

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in the public education system, after decades of resistance to the imposition of a foreign
language. The Education Department was also the home of the first educational radio sta-
tion, created in 1950, and since 1958 of the public television station (WIPR-TV).
The decade of the 1950s observed the foundation of long-standing public cultural in-
stitutions. The Institute of Puerto Rican Culture (ICP) was created in 1955 with a focus
on the preservation and dissemination of cultural heritage. The Casals Festival, the Puerto
Rican Symphonic Orchestra and the Conservatory of Music were created between 1957 and
1959, under the influence of Pablo Casals, who was residing in the island. The advancement
of classical music was consonant with a civilizing agenda of locating Puerto Rico within
modernity (Quintero, 2009). The institutions created by Casals were part of the Industrial
Development Company and had a role in the strategy promoting the island as a destiny for
manufacturing industries and tourism. Ever since the foundation of these two cultural policy
fronts, a contentious relationship was generated between the cultural nationalism repre-
sented by the ICP and the promotion of high culture as part of a modernizing development
strategy.
Under the direction of anthropologist Ricardo E. Alegría, the ICP worked towards the
preservation and dissemination of cultural expressions and traditions that, until that time,
did not benefit from government support. In a short period of time, the institution gained
social legitimacy and international recognition for its intensive program of cultural initia-
tives. Some of these included: the revival of autochthonous music instruments and of tradi-
tional crafts, through research, workshops and the establishment of itinerary markets; the
foundation of a Visual Arts School; the assembly of a national art collection and the creation
of the San Juan Print Biennial; the organization of a national archive; a program for historic
site’s preservation; the foundation of theater festivals and promotion of dance groups; and the
formation of local cultural centers throughout the island. The ICP was designed as a public
semi-autonomous corporation, governed by a board of directors appointed by the governor,
in some cases with the recommendation of cultural organizations. The policies advanced by
DIVEDCO and the ICP consolidated a domain for the advancement of a national culture
dissociated from the political status and seemingly protected from political and social rup-
tures, which divide Puerto Rican society (Flores Collazo, 2000; Marsh Kennerley, 2009).
According to Lydia Milagros González (1990), the growing sense of national identity
affirmation, promoted by the ICP, also emanated from community cultural engagement.
González observes a shift from political activism and workers’ organizations to the cultural
sphere, in search for more democratic spaces of participation (not provided by traditional
parties) and of broader popular support, based on culture’s unifying strength in Puerto Rican
society during the decade of the 1970s. These grassroots movements’ appeal to culture –
in defense of environmental causes, and other social issues – converged with the adop-
tion of cultural traditions and symbols by advertising campaigns (González, 1990; Dávila,
1997). Political parties would also reformulate their discourses towards national identity,
assuming – with subtle differences – a rhetoric defense of Puerto Rican culture.
Beyond this apparent discursive consensus, political and ideological disputes have per-
sistently affected the management of cultural public institutions and the development of
coherent cultural policies, particularly after the Popular Democratic Party (PPD) lost its
hegemony at the end of the 1960s with the rise of the statehood movement and its political
instrument, the New Progressive Party (PNP). A dispersed institutional apparatus with no
clear policies and increasing lack of social legitimacy has been, partly, a consequence of po-
litical alternation between the PPD and the PNP, which represent the two main electoral
forces in the island. Under PNP administrations, there has been a tendency to limit the ICP’s

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range of action. For example, the creation of a State Historic Preservation Office in 1983,
transfer from the ICP to this new agency the responsibilities of overviewing the compli-
ance with the federal National Historic Preservation Act of 1966, even though the ICP still
has local responsibility over historical and archeological patrimony. The current situation
is characterized by an inefficient duplicity of duties with zones of ambiguous jurisdiction
over patrimony. Another example of this dispersing politics was the relocation of resources
to promote the artisan sector from the ICP to the Department of Economic Development.
Neoliberal policies of the last decades have focused on promoting tourism and invest-
ing in building monumental facilities – a convention center and a coliseum arena, among
others – as a strategy to insert the island in global circuits of the entertainment industry.
The creation of new governmental cultural dependencies in the last decade has favored cul-
ture’s economic potential, as exemplified by the Program for the Development of the Film
Industry and the Division of the Creative Industries, both attached to the Department of
Economic Development. The emphasis on promoting the island as location for the interna-
tional film industry, instead of strengthening national film production, has been subject of
criticism and debate. On the other hand, public financing of cultural institutions has been in
steady decline for more than one decade. From 2005 to 2015, the budget of cultural public
instrumentalities decreased by 24% (CODECU, 2015b, pp. 61–62).
The public cultural sector is comprised today of seven governmental entities of the ex-
ecutive branch and four programs that are part of the Economic Development Department.
These are: the Institute of Puerto Rican Culture; the Corporation for Public Broadcast-
ing; the Corporation for the Musical Arts; the Luis A. Ferré Performing Arts Center; the
Conservatory of Music of Puerto Rico; the School of Visual Arts; the State Historic Preser-
vation Office; the Program for the Development of the Film Industry; the Division for Crafts
Promotion; the Division of the Creative Industries, and the Convention Center District
Authority. Aside from these entities, a group of non-governmental organizations depends
heavily on public allocations, such as the main museums, and some performing ensembles,
among others (CODECU, 2015b).

An arena for public debate

In 1979, after serving a three-year term as member of the Arts Council in Great Britain,
cultural theorist Raymond Williams wrote a brief article analyzing the core challenges of
the Council and outlining a few proposals for its reformation (Williams, 1989). The central
principle of his proposal was democratization in structure and modes. This could only be
achieved, in his opinion, with a wider, complex discussion, allowing “vigorous public ar-
gument” around the Council and within it. Debates on cultural policies have moved from
the conception of State-based interventions to the recognition of different agents’ involve-
ment and the importance of citizen participation in policy-making. According to Ochoa
(2003), cultural policy can be defined as “the mobilization of culture carried out by differ-
ent actors-the State, social movements, cultural industries, institutions, such as museums or
tourist organizations and associations of artists-for the purpose of aesthetic, organizational,
political, economic and/or social transformation” [translation by the authors] (Ochoa, 2003,
p. 20). Furthermore, as recognized by Vich (2006), it is not only important to understand
the interests that move each of these actors, his or her strategies and aims, but it also becomes
crucial to consider the intersections among them and their possible spaces of coincidence. A
strategic articulation of different actors could enable cultural policies that work towards the
transformation of social relationships (Vich, 2006, p. 47).

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Mareia Quintero Rivera and Javier J. Hernández Acosta

The Commission for Cultural Development was not the first attempt to reform cultural
public institutions in Puerto Rico through a process of evaluation and analysis. However, its
extensive call for citizen participation, with the interest in enabling a social dialogue, had no
precedent in our context. In 2002 and 2005, two different governmental efforts were carried
out aiming at developing a coherent cultural policy. The first one was launched by the
Senate’s Commission on Culture, Science, and Education and the second one by a cultural
policy committee designed by the governor (Comisión de Educación, Ciencia y Cultura del
Senado de Puerto Rico, 2005; Junta de Política Cultural, 2005). The 2002 Senate report
on public cultural institutions was based on public hearings with the participation of 20
deponents, individual and group meetings with leaders in the cultural field and analysis of
legislation, reports and the existing bibliography about cultural activities in the country. It
introduced international discussions on culture and development to the local context and
made a valuable diagnosis of some of the state’s cultural institutions. It identified contentious
zones in cultural legislation, particularly regarding heritage preservation, and the obsta-
cles to implement coherent policies that respond at the same time to the federal and local
legal dispositions (Comisión de Educación, Ciencia y Cultura del Senado de Puerto Rico,
2005). However, the report does not address the private and non-profit cultural sector or
the municipal sphere of action. In this sense, it presents only a partial scope of the cultural
ecosystem.
The special committee named by the governor in 2005 made a call for presentations and
received 89 papers in a short period of time, making evident a very high interest in the pro-
cess from the cultural sector. However, the papers were not presented in public hearing or
made available with the report, which was not published ( Junta de Política Cultural, 2005).
This situation severely limited the possibility of generating a broader social dialogue on the
subject. The report introduces the concept of a “culture of high performance”, understood
as an emblematic symbolic production that should receive priority for its economic, human-
izing and normative potential. Both reports highlighted the importance of restructuring the
cultural agencies. However, they do not elaborate on a new architecture for cultural insti-
tutions, aside from some imprecise suggestions. They also coincide in underlining the need
for greater government’s funds allocation. In both cases, very few of the recommendations
were implemented.
After more than a decade of failed attempts to revise cultural policies, CODECU was cre-
ated with the task to recommend a remodeling of public cultural institutions and providing a
roadmap for the development of cultural entrepreneurship and self-initiative. Diverse actors
in the cultural sector have been demanding governmental action, particularly in the face of
a continuous reduction in budget allocations. However, there seem to be profound disagree-
ments in the public opinion, concerning the performance of public cultural institutions, as
well as the government’s role with regards to culture. In this sense, CODECU understood
that a space for vigorous public argument was needed. While the cited attempts to develop a
cultural policy incorporated participatory mechanisms, these consisted basically of audience
hearings. CODECU decided to go a step further, proposing a dialogical methodology. The
challenge was to open ears to the others’ experiences, ideas and world-views, and finding
common ground without obliterating differences. This is a process that takes time, which
may trouble those who are accustomed to making decisions unilaterally but cultivates what
Martha Nussbaum (2010) defines as our “inner eye”, our ability to think from the place of
the other.
In addition to the participatory character, a second element that has internationally
proven vital to the development of democratic cultural policies is interdisciplinary research

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and accessibility to data sources that can inform public policy decisions. Thus, together with
the participatory dialogues, CODECU elaborated a comprehensive study of the cultural
ecosystem in Puerto Rico, which serves as the basis for the future establishment of a cultural
information system. In sum, CODECU’s methodology comprised four key perspectives:
The socio-analytical perspective encompassed the participatory dialogues with different sectors
and the collection of empirical data through a study of the cultural ecosystem. The interpreta-
tive perspective included an extensive literature review in the field of cultural policies, research
on the historical background of the local cultural scene, including the main institutions and
agents that have built each of the arts and cultural sectors and conversations with local and
international experts. The practical perspective included designing institutional mechanisms
that could respond to the strengths and needs of the cultural sector, provide cohesion and
vitality and assure the understanding of culture as a transversal element of all public poli-
cies. Specific proposals were elaborated as well for the cultural and creative industries, the
arts and heritage and cross-cutting topics, such as internationalization of the Puerto Rican
culture, ties and cooperation with the diaspora, diversity and equity. Finally, the documentary
perspective consisted of making available the outcomes of dialogues and research experiences,
throughout the whole process, as a tool to amplify the scope and further democratize the
discussion and elaboration of alternatives.
Thematically, CODECU structured its work plan from a multi-level perspective, group-
ing the different subject matters into the following three categories: creative sectors (music,
theater, dance, visual arts, crafts, cinema and audiovisual, literature, design, gastronomy,
criticism and research); cultural infrastructure (public administration, private sector, museums,
archives, libraries, performing spaces, festivals, digital media, etc.); and a transversal approach
(cultural rights, heritage and memory, entrepreneurship and cultural industries, education,
racism, social capital and community, internationalization, culture and environment, etc.).
Various formats for the collection of ideas, experiences and proposals were developed. Four
multi-sectorial meetings were held on different regions of the island, promoting the inclu-
sion of populations outside the metropolitan area. Additionally, a meeting with the Puerto
Rican diaspora was held in New York. Sectorial and thematic discussions took the form of
participatory table dialogues, forums, chats, conferences, focus groups and surveys, among
others. The intention was to guarantee a balance between the inclusion of all interested indi-
viduals and groups, and the space for discussion and analysis with specialized agents. Overall,
29 public discussion activities were held in a one-year period. The attendance lists collected
the signature of 1, 283 participants, 26% of whom represented organizations (approximately
260); 18.5% being artists; 17.7% linked to the Academy and 14% to government entities.
Some arts sectors and other interest groups organized themselves independently to develop
recommendations and presented them to CODECU to be incorporated into the analysis.
To complement the data collection, the study on the cultural ecosystem included an eco-
nomic impact analysis, a survey for cultural agents, a survey on cultural consumption and
participation and interviews with key informants linked to the academia, government, foun-
dations, non-profits, private sector and the cultural sector. Existing data were systematized
to provide a picture of the dynamics of production and employment in the cultural sectors
and their relationship with the rest of the Puerto Rican economy. A survey of 164 artists,
businesses and cultural organizations presented a profile of their operation, including aspects
such as voluntary work, unpaid work, intellectual property and management. Finally, a
representative survey of 800 people around the country provided a picture of the patterns
of consumption and participation in a broad array of cultural activities, including the arts,
heritage, media, new technologies and social imaginaries. It enabled an audience profile

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of each sector and pinpointed differences in access and cultural participation according to
socio-­economic and geographic variables, among others.

Transversal and participatory policies

Cultural policies need to be particularly sensitive to specific socio-political conditions.
CODECU’s participatory process included an effort to understand the ideas about culture
that circulate in our context, aiming to make visible the hierarchies and power relations that
prevail in the cultural ecosystem, its dynamics of exclusion and inclusion as well as identify-
ing emergent practices. When asked about the notions of culture that inform their practice,
participants of the meetings came up with a very broad array of references. From arts to
science and technology, from tradition to experimentation, from identity and heritage to
creative freedom and a global reach, from education to empowerment and entrepreneurship,
from personal transformation to social justice, the participatory process revealed that culture
is seen and practiced by cultural agents in a very transversal and interrelated way.
These outcomes strengthen the idea that proposals for cultural policies should assert the
importance of a transversal approach to culture in public policy. They also validate the
idea that cultural policies need to question some of its most foundational notions, such as
“arts” and “heritage”. In some contexts, cultural policies have been restricted to arts policies.
However, several authors have recognized at least two dimensions in cultural policies: one
that has to do with the ways of life of a society, its conceptions of history, its ideas of the
future, its values, among other element related to culture in an anthropological sense, and
another one that refers to the socially organized symbolic production, including the arts, tra-
ditions, heritage and cultural industries (Brunner, 1998; Miller & Yúdice, 2002; Garretón,
2008). Policies regarding the first dimension are often “invisible”, while the State’s cultural
institutions usually have to do with the second dimension. Grimson (2011) suggests that
there is a theoretical and political need to transcend the idea of culture as a distinct sphere
separated from economy or politics. For the author, cultural policies, in a broad sense, are
the ones “that intend to explicitly have an impact in signification processes” [translation by
the authors] (Grimson, 2014, p. 10). In this line, Vich (2013) proposes to deculturalize culture,
a move in cultural policies towards intervening in the social imagination.
Based on the belief that the State is an essential actor in the fulfillment of cultural rights,
rethinking public institutions was at the core of CODECU’s task. However, the Commis-
sion was highly conscious that institutions don’t work in a vacuum. Thus, one of its main
challenges was to design a way to connect different actors and promote an articulation of
their agendas. Cultural institutions in their form and content respond to the ways culture
and the arts are seen in society. At the same time, as Douglas (1986) has noted, the role of
institutions is fundamental in the forging of these imaginaries. In the Puerto Rican context,
this dynamic is very complex, because of our political subjection to the U.S. and the con-
trasting visions towards culture in both societies. Developing a proposal for a new cultural
policy in Puerto Rico requires addressing the conflicts with the public policy framework of
the United States. Following the four cultural policy approaches developed by Hillman and
McCaughey (1989), the United States represents one of the scenarios of less direct interven-
tion in cultural policy, which could be defined in the category of facilitator. In this case, the
federal government uses the mechanism of the National Endowment for the Arts for direct
support, and indirect support is supplied through tax credits to private contributions.
Cultural institutions founded in the decade of the ’50s in Puerto Rico responded to a
vision much more in tune with the Latin American context than the US model. However,

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Puerto Rican public policies in general and cultural institution in particular have been in-
creasingly influenced by federal policies. This situation has forged a sort of hybrid model,
creating various contentious zones and instances where significant clashes occur. CODECU’s
proposal tried to respond to the very specific characteristics of the Puerto Rican context, un-
derstanding that some areas – such as media policies – are determined by federal law, leaving
little room to maneuver at the local level. A group of fundamental principles was articulated
to serve as a guide in the entire cultural policy design process. These include: autonomy from
the political parties and their influence in the public service; creative independence; deter-
mination to fight inequalities, prejudices and social violence; endorsing diversity in all its
dimensions; acknowledgment of the State’s role as a coordinator, facilitator and generator of
infrastructure; promoting access and participation of every person in cultural life; transver-
sal approach to cultural policies; and strengthening entrepreneurship and nongovernmental
cultural organizations.
In addressing the institutional challenge, CODECU took into consideration emerging
models of governance, as well the organizing models that sprout from the experience of
artists and cultural agents. Cultural networking, for example, is a phenomenon on the rise,
as “open organizational forms, flexible and contingent [that] work as complement to more
stable institutions of the State, the market and civil society” [translation by the authors]
(Yúdice, 2003b). Networks are not only a product of the growing interest in participation,
but enable “different logics” of organization of cultural work (Nivón et al., 2012). A revalo-
rization of reciprocity, the channeling of collective efforts to increase the political influence
of cultural agents and the generation of spaces for exchanging experiences and information,
are some of the characteristics of contemporary cultural networks. Beyond the cultural field,
networks have emerged as new figures of public policies, capable of producing new kinds
of articulation between different actors in public and private organizations. They have been
recognized also as a factor of innovation of the governmental apparatus (Considine & Lewis,
2007).
Several initiatives in Latin America have generated significant changes in the relations be-
tween the state and civil society, focusing on the principle of participation as a human right.
On the one hand, there has been a growing process of organization of non-governmental
associations and national networks, establishing common agendas and alliances, and, on the
other, in some contexts public policies have institutionalized participation processes. Within
this frame of reference, CODECU proposed an institutional redesign based on participa-
tion, autonomy and horizontality, through the creation of a National Network of Culture
(ReNaC or Red Nacional de Cultura), an organism that would combine decision-making
functions exercised in an horizontal and participatory manner through a multi-sectorial
board and advisory and coordinating functions exercised by specialists in cultural policies,
information systems, finance and strategic planning. Its governing board will be comprised
of a majority of cultural agents, elected by their peers, and with regional representation
and participation of the Puerto Rican diaspora, representatives of the academia, of the gen-
eral citizens through the cultural centers and governmental appointees as liaison with the
Institute of Puerto Rican Culture, the Education Department, Tourism, the Department of
Economic Development, and Municipal Governments. Its mission will be to create bridges
between state cultural agencies, other governmental dependences, universities, municipal-
ities, the non-profit and private sectors, artists, educators and other professionals of culture
as well as the general citizenship, in order to generate and periodically review culture plans,
which would establish common priorities and serve as a framework for the internal work
plan of each of the agents that participate in the network.

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Mareia Quintero Rivera and Javier J. Hernández Acosta

The articulation of a network such as the one proposed by CODECU is based on the
need to develop a transversal approach to cultural policy, where culture becomes an integral
dimension to be considered in any kind of public policy. Culture has an extremely dynamic
and changing dimension, with the continuous emergence of new practices and emerging
actors. In terms of strengthening its capacity of articulation and efficiency, it is our belief that
institutions must have the flexibility to respond to these changes and maintain their rele-
vance. They must be porous to social dynamics and incorporate mechanisms for an ongoing
review of programs and processes, becoming incubators of social and cultural innovation.
Finally, public institutions of culture must exist according to the fulfillment of the cul-
tural rights of the population. Their social penetration should be a high-priority objective.
Cultural institutions should avoid, at all costs, becoming strongholds of particular sectors.
To reach different sectors of the population requires differentiated strategies and an attitude
of permanent social dialogue.

Creative economy as a new dimension of cultural policies

Most of the discourse around the creative economy has been grounded in the approach of
culture as a resource (Yúdice, 2003a). This has been evidenced by an increase in research on
the direct and indirect impacts of cultural and creative industries. Some of the main aspects
include its impact on international trade (UNCTAD, 2010) and the effect of the creative
economy in local development (Florida, 2002). However, these arguments have met strong
criticism because of the lack of empirical evidence to support this impact. They have raised
concerns based on the dangers of generalizing strategies, with the creative economy as a de-
velopment engine (De Beukelaer, 2014), the role of creative industries in urban development
(Markusen, 2006), working conditions of cultural workers (McRobbie, 2016) and the lack of
causality concerning the development of large cultural infrastructures’ impact in cities and
international designation, such as the European Capital of Culture (Campbell, 2014; Miles,
2015). For this reason, it is important to stress that creative economy strategies and dynamics
should respond to cultural policies, since the production of symbolic content remains their
main impact, and this has major implications beyond economics.
The creative economy is one of the new fields of action of cultural policies. There are
big debates about what the main focus should be for the development of the economic di-
mension of cultural activity. Often, it is argued that cultural industries must respond only to
the economic logic of production, employment and exports. However, it is also important
that these dynamics respond to cultural policies, since the production of symbolic content
remains their main impact, and this has major implications beyond economics.
How can we develop strategies for cultural and creative industries to maximize their eco-
nomic potential while guaranteeing and advancing cultural policy objectives? An important
premise is that a key segment of creative activity is generated outside the market dynamics.
Precisely this characteristic makes it innovative and attractive to multiple markets. Then,
ensuring creative freedom, diversity, access and participation is necessary to develop and
strengthen a sustainable cultural and creative ecosystem.
Definitions for the creative industries have been a constant challenge for countries,
considering that broad definitions may be the result of the interest in overestimating the
economic impact and not necessarily the development of cultural policies (Hesmondhalgh &
Pratt, 2005). Sometimes, the concept of creative industries has complemented the cultural
sector by incorporating activities related to creative services and technology. However, it

440
 Reimagining development in times of crises

is important to establish that many of these new activities are actually support elements for
cultural activities and incorporate cultural content into their business models. Therefore,
a broad definition of creative industries is recommended, ranging from heritage to cre-
ative services, allowing the collaboration and cross-fertilization that promote innovation
and added value. In the case of Puerto Rico, in addition to the traditional sectors, activities
such as gastronomy and cultural tourism, as well as interactive media, design and creative
services were included.

The pyramid of the cultural ecosystem

In the process of developing new frameworks to promote sustainability in the creative sector,
we propose understanding the cultural ecosystem as a priority of creative industries policies.
The ecosystem concept is very relevant to the cultural sector. It could be described as a set of
interdependent organisms that share a habitat, which is precisely the way in which cultural
activity works. Unlike other industries, it is necessary to establish that economic activity is
not generated in isolation. It is an environment in which each agent has its role, and altering
that system has negative results.
All cultural agents have a role in the creative economy, and the responsibility of public
policy is to recognize that role and enhance their development. Indeed, the main benefit
is that some ventures nurture others with talent, by providing research and development
(R&D) of artistic and creative practices, promoting education that translates into audience
development, promoting diversity and covering certain gaps in their value chains. Therefore,
it is important to establish that cultural organizations and businesses also have a responsibility
to understand their role in the ecosystem and incorporate strategic actions to strengthen it.
A strategy for the development of cultural and creative industries should be designed
primarily to strengthen the ecosystem and not only incentivize individual companies and
start-ups. The first approach ensures the latter, but not the opposite way. Sometimes, the
development of high-impact ventures requires supporting and subsidizing projects and
organizations whose main contribution is not a direct economic impact, but audience and
talent development and innovation.
A pyramid schematic with three levels is proposed as a framework to understand a cul-
tural ecosystem. In the pyramid, the highest levels will produce a higher direct economic
impact. However, as expected in a pyramid structure, their presence depends on a broad and
solid base. In between, there is a segment of market-oriented businesses and organizations
with a better balance between economic and cultural value (Figure 28.1).

• Input Firms – This level is composed mainly of individual artists and organizations
in the segments of training, creation and conservation in the value chain of the cultural
sector. Usually, their main focus is to produce or preserve artistic and cultural goods and
expressions. In many cases, their activities are based on traditional or highly innovative
and experimental cultural expressions, so their scope, mainly, is not market oriented.
These sectors often work on a project basis and are financed through incentives, grants
or subsidies. In many cases, financial sustainability is their main challenge because of the
lack of formal structures and continuity. Yet, this also could represent their greatest con-
tribution. Operating outside the market (supply and demand logic) ensures both ends of
the value chain: ensuring the preservation of traditional cultural expressions or serving
as innovation agents that alter the established order in artistic and cultural production.

441
Mareia Quintero Rivera and Javier J. Hernández Acosta

• Competitive Firms – This level is composed of organizations or companies operating

in a market-oriented dynamic. In many cases, companies operate under a sector, such
as traditional arts, media, entertainment and other creative industries. In many cases,
these organizations compete in a free market economy and receive their main income
streams from services to private companies or through the sale of goods and services to
final consumers. Sometimes, they access government funds to develop specific projects,
although it is not usual to sustain their operations through subsidies.
• High-Impact Firms – This level is composed of ventures that have a direct eco-
nomic impact through the sale of cultural goods and services for local and international
markets. These cultural and creative projects sometimes have a direct impact through
revenues and employment and promoting local and international recognition. Some
of them are sometimes supported by multinational companies and benefit from digital
business models.

There are several key assumptions in this model. The nature of the pyramid suggests that
if the base is weak, the emergence of high-impact projects will be more difficult. Similarly,
the pyramid does not mean that companies will level up. Although some companies may
show a sustained growth, the logic of the ecosystem recognizes the role of each component
in the macro analysis of the ecosystem. Therefore, it is a mistake to think that it is necessary
to focus on the higher levels and avoid those companies that require subsidies to survive.
CODECU decided to use this model as a framework for its cultural and creative industries
strategy. The initial efforts to promote the creative economy in Puerto Rico based success
indicators on variables such as revenues and employment. However, because the cultural
and creative ecosystem is at a very early stage, it is important to be inclusive in the policy
approach, assuming that many grassroots projects do not generate a high direct economic
impact but are responsible for generating cultural innovation, which subsequently results
in economic development. A strategy that impacts different firm levels will allow greater
diversity in the creative economy in Puerto Rico.

High
impact
firms

Competitive
firms

Input firms

Figure 28.1  The cultural ecosystem pyramid

Source: This image is reproduced with the permission of the International Journal of Arts Management.

442
 Reimagining development in times of crises

A strategy for the creative industries

Countries and local governments should be able to develop strategies beyond formal insti-
tutions. These strategies should be based on a combination of methodologies as described
earlier. In the case of Puerto Rico, the analysis was based on macro level data, benchmark
analysis and a survey on the production side, including artists, cultural agents, nonprofit
organizations and businesses. Also, the analysis includes meetings and interviews with key
informants. Based on diagnosis, summarized through a SWOT analysis, four key problems
were identified. These problems were translated into strategic actions that included the cre-
ation of cultural businesses; access to financing; access to markets and the development of
cultural information systems. Each of the strategic actions includes objectives, actions, time-
frame and agents responsible for its implementation (Figure 28.2).

Cultural information systems

Cultural information systems have become an important tool to support decision-making
in cultural policy. In recent years, countries like Brazil, Argentina, Spain, Colombia and
Mexico, among many others, have emphasized these processes (Ministerio de Cultura de
Colombia, 2010; Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, 2012; Instituto Nacional de

Figure 28.2  A strategy for the creative industries

443
Mareia Quintero Rivera and Javier J. Hernández Acosta

Estadística y Geografía, 2014). In many cases, it has been a coordinated effort among gov-
ernment, academia, the private sector and the cultural sector. Generally, governments are
responsible for gathering information and keeping updated statistics on national accounts.
Similarly, academia mainly provides support in the stages of design and data analysis.

Toward a sustainable creative economy index

There is a need to build bridges between cultural information systems and a new discourse
on the development of cultural and creative industries. One proposal is the creation of a
Sustainable Creative Economy Index. These indices always have the challenge of simplifying
complex dynamics surrounding social, economic and cultural aspects. However, the use of
adequate indicators could precisely suggest that complexity and its multidisciplinary dynam-
ics. Until now, indicators such as production, employment and exports lead the discussion.
As stated by being under the scope of cultural policies, other objectives and indicators should
get into the discussion. The proposed index has four major components: the economic, the
creative ecosystem, education and cultural consumption. Each of these components inte-
grates several indicators available through the national accounts and cultural information
systems in different countries.
The first component integrates macroeconomic indicators such as production, employment
and international trade. This in itself can be a sub-index, which must be analyzed considering
the differences between creative sectors and levels of imports of goods and cultural services.
The second component, the creative ecosystem, raises the need for a diversified produc-
tion. Beyond the direct impact at the macro level, it is necessary to ensure diversity in terms
of creative activity and location. This may seem to contradict cluster theories based on ac-
tivity and geographical agglomeration as an element of competitiveness. However, existing
linkages between different creative sectors is more relevant to cultural industries. Therefore, a
sustainable creative economy requires a balance of artistic production, media, design, creative
services and heritage. Similarly, excess geographical agglomeration of cultural activity could
represent barriers to cultural consumption, which arose repeatedly in the consultation process
in Puerto Rico, related to the high concentration of cultural production and diffusion in
the metropolitan area. Therefore, concentration indexes, such as the Herfindahl-Hirschman
Index, could be used in the cultural industries as part of a measure of a sustainable creative
economy. The Herfindahl-Hirschman Index allows determining the level of market concen-
tration of firms in an industry at a geographical area (Alonso & Ríos, 2011).
The third component is still not present in the discourses of the creative economy but is
key to achieving a balance between production and consumption. In many cases countries
have a vast artistic and cultural production. However, almost all sectors face a limited de-
mand. The Survey on Cultural Consumption and Participation of Puerto Rico establishes a direct
relationship between arts education during childhood and adulthood and a higher level of
cultural consumption (CODECU, 2015a). For this reason, indicators such as the ratio of arts
teachers to students in primary and secondary school and the offering of courses in this area
are proposed as indicators. Similarly, human capital is an important indicator, so the total
number of graduates annually in the various creative professions is another key indicator.
Finally, we propose an indicator of cultural consumption. This sub-index should include
elements such as diversity in cultural consumption (number of activities performed) by in-
dividuals, the demographic profile of consumers, always from a perspective of diversity and
barriers to accessing cultural consumption, including variables such as geography, gender,
income and education level.

444
 Reimagining development in times of crises

Economic Production Employment

International
Indicators Trade

Creative Geographical Sector

Ecosystem Concentration Concentration

Creative
Art's Teachers
Education per Students
Profession
Graduates

Cultural Consumption Demographic

Access Barriers
Consumption Diversity Pro
ile

Figure 28.3  Sustainable creative economy index

The recommendations presented by the Commission for Cultural Development represent

an effort to develop a comprehensive and coherent cultural policy for Puerto Rico. However,
a proper implementation requires the development of a system of indicators that reflect the
diversity of its impact. The proposal of a sustainable creative economy index represents an opportu-
nity to place the creative economy as a component of cultural policy. Thus, the analysis is not
limited to direct economic impact, but includes dimensions such as education, diversity, eq-
uity and access, elements that guided the cultural policy proposed by CODECU (Figure 28.3).

Cultural policies and development in question

The state’s cultural policies in Puerto Rico, as well as in most Latin American countries,
were forged around three basic areas: heritage preservation, arts promotion and cultural
dissemination (Mejía, 2009). These notions, however, have been the subject of interroga-
tion and reformulations, which are fundamental for rethinking contemporary cultural pol-
icies. The demarcations between “Art” with a capital letter and other practices of symbolic
production have been problematized (Gaztambide-Fernández, 2013). Their boundaries are
no longer seen as natural, but are the result of processes of distinction, elaboration of aes-
thetic and social hierarchies and complex symbolic systems of inclusion and exclusion. Arts
and heritage have ceased to be considered “sacred objects” and are understood as practices
in which meanings are embedded in the particular contexts in which they emerge. Thus,
their significance and connotations are subjected to continuous transformation. The notion
of cultural dissemination has also been questioned, because of its hidden assumptions, based
on the cultural hierarchies mentioned before. Moreover, the development of cultural indus-
tries and technological innovations has induced major and ongoing changes in the modes of
producing and circulating symbolic goods.
These transformations in the cultural sector, and in the critical approaches to understand
its complex dynamics, constitute a fundamental arena for the emergence of new paradigms

445
Mareia Quintero Rivera and Javier J. Hernández Acosta

in cultural policies. However, as we have discussed, cultural policies are been requested to
broaden their scope and pay attention to the modes in which culture is embedded in social
life. What role is culture playing in the questioning and restyling of national, ethnic, gender
and sexual identities, among others? How is culture implicated in economic development?
What has it to do with policies to promote environmental sustainability and consciousness?
How are cultural agents involved in expanding democratic practices? To see culture as a tool
is probably a reductive mistake, but to obliterate its participation in multiple social processes
can hinder a complex understanding of reality, and the potentialities of cultural agency.
As the Puerto Rican context has illustrated, engaging in participatory processes for the
development of cultural policies enables a space for a social dialogue and for collective imag-
ination. However, cultural policies also require certain principles of political action. The
government’s invitation to artists, academics and cultural producers to lead a process of
articulating a cultural policy, through the creation of CODECU, could be seen as a step
towards the recognition of these agents as vital for the revision of current public policies. But
the fact that one year after presenting its report, which was apparently well received by gov-
ernment officials, none of the main proposals has been put into practice is certainly a matter
of concern. Of course, it is true that precisely in the last year, the country’s fiscal emergency
has worsened, and there seems to be no space in the public agenda to speak of anything else.
Once again, and contrary to what CODECU’s report tried to convey, culture is not under-
stood as a basic need and is not taken into account in the process of conceiving alternatives
to the island dead-end road.
When the government opens up spaces for citizens’ participation and does not compro-
mise with the outcomes, skepticism and distrust in public institutions increase. However,
a rich occasion of exchange and conversation, a “vigorous public argument” in Williams’
(1989) terms, is never lost time. Social dialogue is vital so that we may face our assumptions
and find a lexicon to envision social and cultural transformations. Government’s inaction
in the cultural realm is confronted day after day with an array of individual and communal
initiatives. CODECU’s proposal makes a plea to different sectors, such as academia, cultural
producers, artists, social movements and others, to engage in continuous exchange of ideas
and practices, to strengthen their interconnections and capacity to collaborate.
Intense social dialogue, collective imagination and articulation, as well as a vindication
of the public, are indispensable elements of addressing a much-needed rethinking of devel-
opment strategies. In this endeavor, local processes could be tremendously enriched from an
international critical conversation.

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Vich, Víctor. (2006). Gestionar riesgos: agencia y maniobra en la política cultural. In Guillermo
Cortés & Víctor Vich (Eds.), Políticas culturales: ensayos críticos (pp. 45–70). Lima: Instituto de
­Estudios Peruanos.
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Williams, Raymond. (1989). Resources of Hope. London and New York: Verso.
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Yúdice, George. (2003b) Sistema y redes culturales: ¿cómo y para qué? Paper presented at the
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como_y_para_que.pdf.

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 29
Neoliberalised development
of cultural policies in Taiwan
and a case of the ­Taiwanese
film industry in a c­ reative
industries model
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

Introduction
The neoliberalised plan of creative industries has eroded the public value of c­ ulture and media
policies and changed the cultural landscape. Neoliberal rhetoric has become pivotal to the
successful ‘common-sense’ of recent decades (Harvey 2005, pp. 39–42; Hall 2011). It has not
only infiltrated society but also penetrated the field of cultural policies. The British concep-
tion of creative industries, for example, was grafted onto a new cultural and creative indus-
tries project in Taiwan. The localisation of British policy discourses and the process of public
acceptance—this common-sense that ‘culture is a good business’ of the same underlying
neoliberal agenda—has occurred not only in Britain but also in the Taiwanese context.
This article analyses neoliberalised cultural industries policies in Taiwan, in particular, how
its discourses shape the image of ‘creative industries’ and profoundly change the form of public
subsidies. The research explores this issue across three dimensions: the adoption of the British cre-
ative industries model in Taiwan; the neoliberal subsidy system in creative industries policy; and
the combination of a broadly neoliberal frame for cultural policy and emerging utilitarian agents.
First, creative industries policy was officially adopted in 2002 and accelerated the neo-
liberal development of culture and media policies in Taiwan. However, 2000 to 2002 was
a crucial period for the dissemination of creative economies from Britain through the in-
ternational creative economy conferences. The British Council and several ­independent
cultural organisations invited creative industries experts from Britain as a stepping stone
to developing an official creative industries policy statement and Taiwan Cultural and Cre-
ative Industries Project in 2002 (Executive Yuan 2002). Secondly, neoliberal creative in-
dustries policy accelerated a serious deterioration of the Taiwanese film production
industry. For example, the film market structure was monopolised by chain cinemas and
Hollywood film distributors in Taiwan (Crane 2014). Consequently, Taiwanese filmmak-
ers face two structural dilemmas: first, neoliberalised public subsidy and investment pol-
icies in a creative industries model and, second, a Hollywood-dominated industry (i.e.,
movies, distributors, and domestic chain cinemas) that has maintained a high market share
449
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

for decades.1 This occurred as a result of competitive and cooperative situations, which in-
serted a neoliberalised creative industries model. The neoliberal rhetoric of creative industries
poli­cies discourse seeped almost imperceptibly into the film industry subsidy system, in parti­
cular, the National Development Fund (NDF), a new investment mechanism for supporting
emerging industries such as creative industries since 2003. However, these projects for the
revitalization of the film industry were not successful because they were too focused on short-
term results, such as prioritising immediate profit over creating shared value rather than on
long-term thinking. The government should mainly provide plentiful and planned public
funds allowed for the cultivation of directing, camera and editing talents. It will also encour-
age companies to invest in equipment and training for domestic film production and screen-
ing. Finally, we explore how market-oriented film policymaking and the commercialised
public subsidies system have changed the relationship between independent filmmaker and
the public sector. Here the government and private corporations began to develop a new close
relation through neoliberal discourse, arguing that the new public-private partnerships are
more efficient than public investment (Von Rimscha 2011). These developments are explored
through analysis of official records, documentary material, newspapers, previous studies, and
surveys tracing the history of creative industries policymaking.

The diffusion and adaptation of creative industries policy

Welcoming the international creative industries experts between 2000 and 2002
Neoliberalism, global capitalism and the profitable growth of global cultural industries grad-
ually penetrated the direction of cultural policy in Taiwan. Its first official cultural and
creative industries project was proposed in 2002. The ‘creative industries’ concept had been
discussed in the United Kingdom since 1997 and Australia since 1994 (Flew 2012). Here, the
imbalance of priorities in cultural policies has been linked to the chronic short-termism of
cultural governance. These discourses regard the creative industries as a feasible solution for
transforming traditional industry and increasing employment and the value of production.
However, as this economic role of cultural policy has intensified, it has created a new conflict
between two values: market-oriented investment and public-service subsidies.
To several Asian countries such as Japan, Taiwan, Korea, and Singapore, this British cre-
ative industries policy appeared to be a successful paradigm since New Labour won the 1997
election. Several international conferences of ‘creative industries’ were held between 2000
and 2002, and the Taiwanese government implemented a creative industries policy in 2002.
Therefore, the conceptions and practices of British creative industries were portrayed as a
new strategy for both cultural policy and cultural economy in Taiwan.
These three conferences (2000–2002)2 were key moments for disseminating discourses
relating to creative economies from Britain to Taiwan; in particular, the British Council and
several independent cultural institutions played a significant role in the process. The British
Council was one of the most important intermediaries in the export of the idea of creative
industries. Elledge (2012) analysed the British Council as an ambitious player, successfully
introducing British culture and reputable education system to the global market. He said:
The British Council, it’s widely thought, is a thoroughly good thing. It is the epitome of
soft power, a long-established arm of the Foreign Office that promotes British interests
not with bombs and guns, but through culture and education.[…] The British Council
isn’t just a charity.
(Elledge 2012)

450
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

Another study (Kong et al., 2006) goes even further, arguing that the creative industries
discourse was disseminated from West Europe to Asia, especially in cities such as Hong
Kong, Taipei, Tokyo, Seoul, and Singapore between 1999 and 2000. The adoption of cre-
ative industries policy discourse by the cultural policy planners, artists, and academics was
derived from Western creative industries experts through various international conferences,
procurement contracts and consultancy work. International conferences, workshops, and
seminars held by the British Council and other local cultural organisations can be under-
stood in the context of the needs of the new Asian cultural economy and its interests.
The first forum, entitled ‘2000 New Government and New Cultural Policy’, consisted
of two main sections (see Table 29.1). First, Dr Chris Bilton, who since 1997 had been a
lecturer at ­Warwick University where he founded and acted as course director for a master’s
programme in creative and media enterprises, spoke about British cultural and creative pol-
icy, particularly the New Labour government’s policies and the new relationship between
government and small creative businesses. The second section of the seminar comprised a
discussion. The main participants were two members of parliament, artists, representatives
of local cultural organisations, art institutions, and Bilton. Some attendees worried that the
protection of Taiwanese cultural industries may be insufficient in an era of globalisation (Shi
2000, p. 14). Bilton’s speech was the main event and focused on cultural localisation and
globalisation. The critique of high-cost cultural events was reported in national newspapers
such as United Daily News and Chinese Times (Chen 2000, p. 11; Shi 2000, p. 14). Bilton
(2000), in this first conference, pointed out the contradictions in cultural policymaking in
Britain and expressed the belief that small creative businesses, local cultural organisations,
and individuals were the hope of cultural policy. He asserted that the government should
support them by building training infrastructure, providing opportunities, and coordinating
different sectors through micro-policy (Bilton 2000; Chen 2000; Shi 2000). In response to
the plight of New Labour’s cultural policy, Bilton (2000) suggested that the government
should more vigorously support the growth of local culture, such as small creative businesses.
Furthermore, he demonstrated that the optimal development of the creative industries must
not be driven by government. On the contrary, the role of the government should be that of
a facilitator or promoter in the process.
Representing the localised approach, conference attendees—Taiwanese politicians, cul-
tural organisations and scholars—responded by describing conflicts between globalised
cultural industries and the subjectivity of Taiwanese culture (Chen 2000; Shi 2000). Ac-
cordingly, the practice of art education, the development of community culture and the
preservation of cultural heritage were discussed in the second section of the seminar.
However, the problems relating to New Labour’s creative industries policymaking were
not unveiled until 2004 (Oakley 2004; Garnham 2005; McGuigan 2005a,b). Only a few crit-
ical academics writing about the UK addressed these issues during that period (McGuigan &
Gilmore 2000; Volkerling 2001), even though certain dilemmas were mentioned at the con-
ferences; for example, the overextended development of intellectual property rights legally
sanctioned monopolistic practices, leaving enterprises free to set their own prices (Bilton
2001). At the same time, positive aspects, such as increasing employment, industrial trans-
formation and freelancers in creative industries were magnified, rather than negative aspects.
In 2001, three experts from the UK participated in the second meeting, titled 2001
Creative Money: Culture Economy Seminar (see Table 29.1). This was also the first time that
the local government (Taipei City) supported this activity. Experts from academia, local
cultural affairs, and government sectors contributed with further practical help and effective
advice. Creative Industries International Summit was held in 2002 soon after the government

451
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

announced the second national project. Five experts came from Britain, some of whom
shared the successful British experience in terms of holding regional cultural festivals. Some
worked in government sectors such as the Department for Culture, Media & Sport (DCMS)
and local council, which shared the idea of ‘Cool Britannia’ and the Millennium Dome as
an urban renewal project. However, New Labour adopted a neoliberal approach to practice
its ‘democratisation of culture’ and Hewison (2014) analysed how New Labour’s cultural
policy was ornamented with fake democracy (p. 33). Hewison (2014) demonstrated that
DCMS is a neoliberal project that combines all cultural aspects, including arts, broadcasting,
creative industries, the national lottery, tourism, sport, and Olympics, and is ‘creating an ef-
ficient and competitive market [which] is consistent with the neoliberal approach to culture’
(p. 70). A
­ ccording to several studies (McGuigan 2004, 2016; Oakley 2004; Garnham 2005;
Hewison 2011, 2014; Hesmondhalgh et al. 2015; Bell & Oakley 2015; Newsinger 2015), the
problems of cultural policies in the UK during the post-Thatcherite period were different
from those of the previous period. Under Thatcherism, the arts and culture were of little
importance, perhaps no more worthwhile than other commodities in the marketplace.

Table 29.1  Creative industries seminars in 2000, 2001, and 2002

Date Topic International speakers/background Organisers

17 April 2000 New Chris BiltonDirector of MA in Creative Organised by

2000 Government, and Media Enterprise,
1. School of Continuing
New Cultural Centre for the Studies of
Education, Chinese
Policy Cultural Policy, School of
Culture University
Theatre Studies, University
2. Culture Concern
of Warwick, UK
Association
3. British Council
18–19 Creative Chris Bilton Listed above Advised by
August Money: Culture Phyllida Shaw Researcher in cultural Department of Cultural
2001 Economy policy and practice Affairs, Taipei City
Seminar Toby Hyam Chief Executive of The Government, British
Huddersfield Media Council, and Ministry of
Centre Economic Affairs.
Organised by academic
institutions and cultural
foundations.
25–27 Creativity Michael Seeney Head of the creative Organised by
October Is Endless industries division in the Council for Cultural
2002 Resources: department for culture, Affairs, British Council,
2002 Creative media and sport and other foundations
Industries Phyllida Shaw Researcher in cultural
International policy and practice
Summit Kathryn Director city of London
McDowell Festival
Alastair Director of the Highland
McDonald Festival
Jeremy Tyndall Head of Festivals,
Cheltenham Borough
Council

452
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

The second creative industries seminar (see Table 29.1) focused on a very different objec-
tive: exploring the economic value of creative industries. The title, Creative Money: Culture
Economy Seminar, revealed the real intent of new cultural policymaking, and the seminar
showed that the discourse of the creative industries was developing new keywords: turn-
over, size of employment, profit, loss and growth potential. At the seminar, the economic
value of the creative industries was heavily emphasised. Some successful British experiences
were embellished with statistical data to demonstrate that the creative industries worked
economically in the UK. The introduction to the project declares its purpose: ‘Great Brit-
ain brought in the Industrial Revolution in the 18th century, and now the British creative
industries will again be crucial to a new wave of industrial revolution in the 21st century’
(2001 Creative Money: Culture Economy Seminar 2001). It also asked a question: ‘Do art
and culture have weak performance compared to industry?’ The aim of the programme im-
plied that the creative industries should be combined with cultural activities to double their
economic value in the industrialised economy. Three British experts were invited to the
second conference: Bilton (2001), who spoke at the first conference; Phyllida Shaw (2001),
a freelance researcher in cultural policy; and Toby Hyam (2001), who founded a successful
creative business and advised the cultural sector in local government in developing creative
industries (see ­Table 29.1). New ideas were discussed on this occasion, such as new cultural
policymaking, increasing self-employment (freelance), and the new relationship between the
government and enterprises. These ideas illustrated that these new creative industries require
cooperation among the government, corporations, and creative individuals.
It can be argued that the increase in cultural and creative jobs has been a key employment
trend in the knowledge economy and information society. Self-employment has not only
meant creative freedom but has also entailed financial risk. In addition, young people who
choose to engage with creative and cultural works usually deal with erratic incomes and low
wages. However, the freedom to pursue a job that one likes may be the main reason that
new entrants into the labour force manage to muster low wages without fighting for their
economic rights or for reasonable treatment. In her speech, Shaw explained the meaning of
‘self-employment’ as creative freedom and financial risk. However, she also rationalised the
structure of exploitation in the context of ‘creative people with a saleable skill’ (Shaw 2001).
She opined: ‘It would be quite wrong to imply that all self-employed people in the cultural
sector are struggling financially. This is not so. For anyone who is offering a service that
the market wants, there is a good living to be earned’ (Shaw 2001). Nevertheless, except for
those offering a marketable service or saleable skill, such as record producers, film actors,
screen writers, and pop musicians, most freelancers are on the lower income scale in the
creative industries. Regional cultural sector officials, local cultural institutions, and artists
played a significant role in the second conference.
The invited Taiwanese artists and cultural organisations mainly discussed the protection
of their livelihoods in the new creative industries in Taiwan. It can be argued that this was
the moment the projected development of the creative industries began, since government
representatives from the economic and cultural sectors were questioned by artists and cul-
tural workers who had also been deployed along the front lines in this conference. Questions
focused particularly on the new relationship among the government, private enterprises, and
the individuals involved—artists, curators, cultural workers, and so on—in developing the
creative industries environment.
The third conference—Creativity Is Endless Resources: Creative Industries International ­Summit—
was held after the second national project in 2002. As the name suggests, the conference focused
on the new creative industries programme for policy planners and the implementation of new

453
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

creative enterprises. The list of international experts, which included the head of the Creative In-
dustries Division of DCMS, three heads of regional cultural festivals, and Shaw focused more on
effectiveness, for instance, economic benefits deriving from cultural festivals and the new com-
mercial models of creative industries. These British representatives and professionals influenced
the direction of and discourse about creative industries policy in the third conference, and the
British experience was deemed a great success and an effective economic stimulus (Li 2001a,b;
2001 Creative Money: Culture Economy Seminar 2001).
The purpose and agenda did not categorically include cultural workers’ viewpoints, which
were presented in the second conference, and issues relating to the self-employed in creative
industries was only briefly mentioned. The topics were in keeping with the general ambience
of the increase in future wealth (Mcdonald 2002; Mcdowell 2002; Seeney 2002; Shaw 2002;
Tyndall 2002). In particular, the economic effectiveness that may result from creative industries
attracted mostly positive attention. A quotation from the British creative industries mapping
document (Creative Industries Task Force 1998) illustrated that ambiguity is the essence of cre-
ative industries, a point also featured in the opening words of the conference.

Those industries which have their origin in individual creativity, skill and talent and
which have a potential for wealth and job creation through the generation and exploita-
tion of intellectual property.
(2001 Creative Money: Culture Economy Seminar, 2001)

Moreover, the discourse of the conference reflected the state of neoliberalised cultural poli-
cymaking, which involved the use of the resulting policy space to pursue a variety of short-
term economic programmes for cultural policy.
In Table 29.1, we see the change in organisers for each year. Moreover, it is clear that the
British Council acted as the intermediary between the British creative industries discourse,
the experts and independent cultural organisations in Taiwan. It is very interesting to explore
the meaning behind the selection of representative ‘experts of creative industries’. Only one
inter­national expert was invited in the first year of the conference to introduce British cultural
policy and creative industries. Consequently, the British experience of developing creative in-
dustries was theoretically and historically introduced by Bilton (2000, 2001). Further discourse
during the conference reflected the state of new cultural policymaking, with the resulting
­policy space used to pursue a variety of economic short-term programmes for cultural policy.
Advocates of this policy are still at a loss for what to expect from the public. The growing neo-
liberal consensus is also helping to shape the new cultural landscape by focusing on the profit-­
making production of culture. Neoliberal reform for cultural and creative policymaking in
Taiwan has generally failed to promote public interest. The creative economy has heavily in-
fluenced the development of cultural policy discourse. The Taiwanese government embarked
on a major cultural policy shift towards neoliberalism after concluding that its adoption of
‘creative industries’ policy from Britain in 2002 had failed to reform the structure of the media
and cultural industries. As a trajectory of neoliberalisation in Taiwan, public expenditure on
the expansion of the creative industries sector in the last decade illustrates that creative indus-
try policymaking was embodied in a complete neoliberal transformation in the past decade.

Emphasising creative industries policy in the national development project

Before the release of the official creative industries policy in the national development proj-
ect, Challenge 2008 Six-Year National Development Plan (Executive Yuan 2002), creative

454
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

industries seminars that focused on the British experience were held by local cultural organ-
isations, academics and the British Council in Taiwan in 2000 and 2001. The third seminar
took place after the announcement of the creative industries policy and was held by cultural
organisations and the government in 2002. Following the success of the British case and ex-
periences, the official document directly emphasised the economic value of the creative in-
dustries. In addition, the ‘creative industries project’ was one of the most signi­ficant national
plans in Challenge 2008: Six-Year National Development Plan (Executive Yuan 2002). This
project was also the first national project that established the importance of cultural policy.
This section thus introduces the creative industries programme, particularly the securely
anchored principles for the primary development of the programme. This national project
has served as a prominent symbol of the orientation towards an ambitious agenda for the
creative industries.
It can be argued that the new creative industries project was of the highest importance in
a post-Fordist period. Interestingly, while ‘post-Fordism’ was not mentioned as a category
in the first project, it appeared in the background in descriptions of the plight of industrial
development. It was claimed that the Taiwanese economy faced the new prospect of dein-
dustrialisation; in particular, the superiority of large-scale manufacturing disappeared since
neighbouring countries had a greater abundance of cheaper labour than Taiwan (­ Executive
Yuan 2002). Moreover, two main approaches were more specific to Taiwan: (1) high-tech
industries, developed as high-tech original equipment manufacturers (OEMs) in Taiwan
over decades; (2) the launch of a new sustainability strategy for the knowledge economy,
which set out a joint approach to sustainability. The government also indicated that the
‘cultural and creative industries’ had enabled Taiwan to secure substantial additional value
in the ‘knowledge economy’ for the post-Fordist generation. Therefore, it asserted that the
objectives of creative industries policy were to double employment, triple output value, and
create a new leading position for Taiwanese creative industries in the C ­ hinese-speaking
world (Executive Yuan 2002, p. 37). To introduce the new cultural policy, the government
even claimed that ‘culture could be part of the economic policy; however, it has been ig-
nored for a long time’ (p. 37).
The government first coined the term ‘cultural creative industries’ in this national proj-
ect by combining the concepts of cultural industries and creative industries. It attempted to
develop Taiwanese ‘cultural and creative industries’ and had consulted international experts
about possible policies, including related to a global vision and localised practice. The national
project assumed that the flourishing creative industries and this new business model would
facilitate a new form of manufacturing that integrated high-tech, aesthetic design with a high
quality of production (Executive Yuan 2002, p. 43). Several ongoing sub-projects were pre-
sented, including an inter-ministerial group, an industrial general survey, a mapping docu-
ment, annual reports, new environmental facilities (such as a creative industries park), various
training programmes, intellectual property protection, new public subsidies and investment
incentive policies. The inter-ministerial group consisted of representatives from four gov-
ernment departments: the Ministry of Economic Affairs, the Council for Cultural Affairs,
the Ministry of Education, and the Council for Economic Planning and Development (Ex-
ecutive Yuan 2002, p. 37; Cultural and Creative Industries Promotion Team, Ministry of
economic affairs 2004, 2005). Further, many domestic and foreign experts, professionals,
and artists were invited to participate in the new group with the aim of implementing the
new policy and drafting the law. There was special interest in concepts and experiences
from Britain, Australia, New Zealand, and Hong Kong. There was an attempted ­localisation
of British creative industries policy within the government’s commercialised cultural

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Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

policy reforms. This was done to encourage businesses to innovate practical solutions and
policies in exchange for new public subsidies.
Over the next few years, new creative parks such as a pop music centre and design cen-
tre were constructed in abandoned city factories as part of the new urban renewal plan. For
example, one of the most ‘successful’ and high-profit cases in the capital city of Taipei was
Huashan1917 Creative Park, which was reconstructed from a former national brewery. In ad-
dition, many new creative businesses and companies were set up during the period. According
to the online search system of the government, the Commerce Industrial Service Portal (Min-
istry of Economic Affairs 2016), the number of ‘cultural and creative’ company registrations
illustrates that a swarm of emerging ‘creative’ businesses were thriving during the decade.
There were 1265 ‘cultural and creative’ enterprises founded after 2002. Forty-five companies
had been set up by 2002.
The project made mention of the ‘knowledge economy’ in the context of the innovative
economy and ‘sustainable development’ and ‘the social function of culture’ in the context
of social justice. The fundamental contradiction of neoliberal ideology was embodied in the
discourse of the knowledge economy, which focused on increasing employment after the
decline of traditional manufacturing in Taiwan. Cultural policy, however, was not consid-
ered a policy tool for this sort of economic development. It was promised through a more
results-oriented and efficient administration, such as the privatisation of national industries,
instead of propping up the gradual decline of the manufacturing industry, which had been
moving production overseas. Thus, the project aimed at a modern and innovative approach
to promoting more ‘efficient’ management for industrial development.
Finally, the creative industries project encouraged the education system to set up more
‘creative industries’ departments for providing tailored training in relevant skills for the cre-
ative industries. As the second national project estimated, there was an increase in the num-
ber of people, especially younger people, working in such creative industries. At the same
time, there were problems specifically related to job instability and low wages.
This section has dealt with the origin of creative industries policy development. In the
next section, film industry policy is analysed, particularly the influence of creative industries
policy in failing to revive this industry.

Neoliberal film industry policy in a new creative industries

model (2002–2009)
Two main film industry projects—the Film Industry Promotion Project and the Flagship Film
Industry Development Project—were announced in 2002 and 2009, respectively. These two
film industry plans were sub-projects of the Cultural and Creative Industries Project. The
NDF also supports film industry projects through a public-and-private investment system.
The two film industry policymaking projects became dangerously unbalanced, and the
new mechanism of state subsidies and private investment changed the concept of public sub-
sidy. The Film Industry Promotion Project was part of the first creative industries policy project,
which was announced in 2002 (Executive Yuan 2002). The government claimed that the
enormous efficiencies of the knowledge economy and digital and information techno­logy
would influence a variety of types of digital content and products: ‘We must seize the ini-
tiative on the knowledge economy’ (Executive Yuan 2002, p. 2). It was convinced that the
increasing employment rate in the creative industries, the good reputation of the ‘cultural
and creative’ industries, and the gradually recovering economy would solve the crisis of the
relocation of traditional manufacturing industry. Here the case of British creative industries

456
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

policy seemed to successfully present the idea that future prosperity depended on economic
growth via New Labour’s creative industries policy.
Therefore, the project suggested the Taiwanese film industry should integrate digital
techno­logy and information technology to grasp new business opportunities and a new mar-
ket. This would be the only way to protect Taiwanese culture from being destroyed by other
dominant cultures. The creative industries project was a point where the traditional audio
and video industries, the high-technology industry, the digital software design industry, and
creative talents could all converge. The potentially huge advantage of horizontal and vertical
integration would continue to develop and move forward to the high-tech, high creativity,
and high marketability of the film industry.
This project included three goals, and the total budget was almost £16 million in the first
seven years (Executive Yuan 2002, p. 27). The short-term goal was increasing production,
creating alternative channels for film screenings, and providing advice to the government
on incentives for film investment. Different official departments such as the Industrial De-
velopment Bureau and the Council for Cultural Affairs and Government Information Office
were told to cooperate and amend original film industrial policies, regulations, and laws to
integrate talent, technology, production, marketing, and private investment as the medium-
term goal of the project.
The Flagship Film Industry Development Project was the second project and was announced in
2009. Following this main project was Creative Taiwan: Cultural and Creative Industries Develop-
ment, which was smaller and had three main objectives (CCA 2009). The first objective was
assisting filmmakers to make good movies via a new market research sector, creative original-
ity awards, and funding high-cost and high-risk film productions, as a means to making the
films critically acclaimed box-­office hits. The second objective was focusing on the Chinese
film market, by which the government aimed to improve indigenous film marketing in both
domestic and foreign markets. In addition, a plan for increasing Taiwanese film audiences was
to be promoted through film education. Finally, the project would encourage international
film productions to make films in Taiwan and improve technical exchange. The film industry
talent and education plan was to be funded by the government (CCA 2009, p. 34).
In Flagship Film Industry Development Project, the government increasingly encouraged Tai-
wanese filmmakers to target the Chinese market. The Cross-Strait Service Trade Agreement
aimed to develop new treaties between the film industries of Taiwan and China. According
to the Chinese policy of deregulation, the Taiwanese government believed that a new co-­
production deal offered Taiwanese filmmakers the chance to grab a piece of China’s boom-
ing but heavily censored movie industry. Thus, the Chinese market became a key project
in 2009. The private enterprises that gained public sources of funding for investing in film-
making also believed that film production should focus on the Chinese market, to recover
investment and even improve profitability. However, such a strategy raised problems for
production in Taiwan. For example, the Hong Kong film industry changed after the Closer
Economic Partnership Arrangement (CEPA) was signed in 2003. Many studies (Kang 2012)
have demonstrated that this arrangement brought more opportunities for producing Chinese
movies; however, the production of indigenous Hong Kong films, with local culture, has
dropped sharply in the past decade.
However, neither film industry project solved the problem; in particular, film policy­
making did not develop stable growth in terms of production or at the box office, and film
industry talent training required a long-term plan (see Table 29.2). Many public resources
were aimed at the aspect of effective investment under the creative industries model. Avant-
garde and innovative filmmakers fell by the wayside. It is perfectly understandable that some

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films are not funded by government subsidies if they are not potentially popular commod-
ities. However, this was a secondary concern when political posturing and the neoliberal
creative industries policy discourse attempted to accelerate the potential of film investment
with little success in improving the film industry’s environment.
For example, the amendment to the Film Act, which passed in 2015, extended the re-
duction to taxation rates. In particular, reduced tax rates were available to foreign motion
picture production businesses in Taiwan. The long-term goal of the Film Industry Promotion
Project was to develop both the global film market and international cooperation. As for
policy coherence in the development of the Taiwanese film industry, policy discourse forms
a common language that underlines the ideology of neoliberalism, where the government
has shown a consistent commitment to developing a vibrant private investment market in
Taiwan. The conception of tax relief originally encouraged private enterprises to invest in
film production, especially to reduce their investment risk. Decreasing indigenous film pro-
duction (and the box-office slump) was not realised by increasing private investment. Film
production in Taiwan has faced challenges since the 1990s, with high-profile projects such
as Cape No. 7 (海角七號) biting the dust.
While Taiwan’s filmmaking has ostensibly blossomed in recent years, global film dis-
tribution corporations still dominate most of the film market in Taiwan. The unbalanced
distribution between indigenous films and foreign films has influenced Taiwanese film pro-
duction and audiences for a long time (e.g., the Taipei film box office from 2006 to 2011)
(see Table 29.3).
The wide disparity in box office numbers between indigenous and foreign films illus-
trates the dilemma of the Taiwanese film industry. Foreign films, especially those from
­Hollywood, accounted for almost 90% of box-office revenue from 2006 to 2011. According
to reports (Ministry of Culture 2013c,d, 2014), Taiwanese film production has been in-
creasing since the government promoted creative industry policy in 2002. Both film indus-
try projects claim that the Taiwanese film industry bucked the trend during the economic

Table 29.2  Two film industry projects in creative industries model

Date 2002–2008 2009–2013

Title of the Plan Film Industry Promotion Project Flagship Film Industry Project
(comes from) Cultural and Creative Industries Six Flagship Plans
Sub program Development Plan
(comes from) Challenge 2008: Six-Year National Creative Taiwan: Cultural and
Main Project Development Plan Creative Industries Development
Main targets • Short-term goal (2004–2007): • Plan 1: Make movies that have
increasing production and great acclaim and are big box-
box-office growth (10%) office hits
• Medium-term goal (2008–2011): • Plan 2: Successful marketing and
box-office growth (10%–20%) promotion in the Chinese film
and international cooperation market
• Long-term goal (2012–2014): • Plan 3: Develop an industrial base
box-office growth (20%–40%) and emerging talent
and more international cooperation

Source: Combined by the author from Film Industry Promotion Project and Flagship Film Industry Development Project
(CEPD 2008; CCA 2009).

458
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

Table 29.3  Domestic market shares of Taiwanese cinema in Taiwan (cumulative total of Taipei City box
office) from 2006 to 2011

Hong Kong
Taiwanese cinema and Chinese film Foreign films Total

2006 Quantity 19 30 277 326

Percentage 1.62% 3.70% 94.68% 100%
box office
2007 Quantity 22 19 309 350
Percentage 7.38% 1.94% 90.68% 100%
box office
2008 Quantity 29 29 320 378
Percentage 12.09% 6.98% 80.93% 100%
box office
2009 Quantity 31 32 316 379
Percentage 2.13% 2.26% 95.61% 100%
box office
2010 Quantity 38 38 352 428
Percentage 7.31% 5.33% 87.36% 100%
box office
2011 Quantity 36 38 406 480
Percentage 18.65% 2.63% 78.71% 100%
box office

Source: The Trend of Film and Television Industries Report (Ministry of Culture 2013e, p. 10).

downturn with a year of steady growth in revenue and attendance. However, the slogan ‘The
Taiwanese film industry is booming now’ is not practical, particularly in terms of successful
creative industries policy. The film industry projects were able to attract additional private
investment via the NDF. The government believes that through this mechanism private
investment can stimulate more domestic film production and innovation, which will enable
Taiwan to retain what it has built, create what is yet to be built, and specifically, attract pri-
vate capital investment to augment any public contribution. Private investment flows in, but
the diversification of film production is limited. Furthermore, the relationship between the
government (NDF), private capital (investors), and creative labourers (filmmakers) changed
via the new investment and subsidy system.

Emerging utilitarian agents and marginalised agents

in the new subsidy system
Since 1986, before Taiwanese film industry policy was changed to a creative industries
model, it was part of an open market that emphasised the free trade of foreign films,
parti­c ularly by movie distributors from Hollywood. It can be said that the production
line of indi­g enous films gradually decayed during this period. Although the Government
Information Office (GIO) has pushed a film subsidy grant policy since 1989, the film
market has been monopolised by Hollywood movie distributors and local motion picture
projections for a long time. The film subsidy grant mechanism has assisted several Tai-
wanese filmmakers in making films, some of which were global film festivals winners,
but it cannot support an entire film industry. Many Taiwanese filmmakers are ridiculed,

459
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

and are said to be like manual labourers with makeshift equipment, provisional settings
and non-existent production lines. Before the creative industries project, a small part
of the public allowance system was used to support individual cultural workers such as
filmmakers, artists, and local cultural organisations. However, the cultural budget in
the public sector is always very low, including the film subsidy grant mechanism. These
public subsidies support cultural affairs and individuals directly without the intermediary
of investment consulting firms.
Since 2003, the NDF has become an important public resource supporting the Strength-
ening Investment in Cultural and Creative Industries Project. Initially, the purpose of the NDF
was to strengthen the implementation of industrial policies, particularly in high-risk in-
dustries, such as the petrochemical, semiconductor, and biotech sectors, which could be-
come highly effective, core sources of meaning and strategic importance. An additional
aim of the NDF was to foster an environment that encourages entrepreneurship, indus-
trial upgrading, industry innovation and research, and the development and creation of
Taiwanese brands. The Plan for the Executive Yuan Deve­lopment Fund to Invest in Digital
Content, Software and Cultural Creative Industries was drafted, while the Challenge 2008:
Six-Year National Development Plan (Executive Yuan 2002) supported the creative industries
project. Consequently, the Plan to Invest in the ­D igital Content, Software and Cultural Creative
Industries (2005) was implemented following the principles of the 2005 Plan to Strengthen
Promotion of Digital Content Industry Development (NDF 2007, 2008).
New cultural and creative enterprises and domestic investment consulting firms were
the main targets of investment and subsidy. The NDF, which initially cultivated tra-
ditional and high-tech industries, vigorously promoted the creative industries project
through financial support. The creative industries project was officially recognised as a
key national deve­lopment programme, while cultural policy has been approached as an
economic tool since 2002. Public investment underwent neoliberalisation during the
second period (see ­Table 29.4). Under this trend, the NDF increased funding, approving
and allocating NT$10 billion for the Executive Yuan National Development Fund Implemen-
tation Programme for Strengthening Investment in Cultural and Creative Industries. In addition,
a new public–private partnership involving the state, investment consulting companies,
and creative professionals such as filmmakers and artists was established (NDF 2011,
2012, 2013).

Table 29.4  Transition of the public subsidy and investment system

Period Title Form

Before creative industries For example, Film subsidy grants Limited subsidies and small
projects, there were several Art Subsidy grants from the public sector
cultural subsidy policy
2002–2008 Cultural & Creative Industries Retained the original grant
Stage 1 (DPP government) Development Project (from the system, but increased the
Challenge 2008: Six-Year National public budget for investment
Development Plan) in the digital content industry
and creative industries
2009–2013 Creative Taiwan: Cultural and More investment via NDF was
Stage 2 (KMT government) Creative Industries Development authorised

460
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

The Strengthening Investment in Cultural and Creative Industries Project seems to have
broken the vicious circle of the marginalised status of the domestic film industry. In parti­
cular, the NDF’s investment and loan projects were expected to increase film production.
In addition, private investors were allowed to apply through the NDF to support creative
industries. This investment option was especially attractive to professional investment con-
sulting companies that could reduce their investment risk, provide effective financial man-
agement and safeguard profitability. It seemed a reasonable proposition that the investment
consulting companies could provide professional management services for the effective ap-
plication of public funds and private investments in the film industry. However, the pursuit
of high return on investment (ROI) has not proven able to drive development of the Tai-
wanese film industry. Currently, filmmakers must not only navigate government bureau-
cracy but also negotiate with the professional investment-consulting firms when applying
for subsidies and investment in film production. The criteria for funding approval may value
box-office numbers and ROI above film content.
The Strengthening Investment in Cultural and Creative Industries project is the most
recent, representative neoliberal policy. As mentioned, it allocated NT$10 billion to
investment-consulting firms such as management consulting companies to invest in various
cultural creative industries approved by the government. Twelve management-­consulting
companies qualified for this funding, but only five were established after establishment of
the project. However, after the first stage of implementation, this policy failed to achieve
its expected goals. The government distributed only NT$8.13 billion of the planned
NT$40 ­billion in the first stage. In addition, contracts with four venture companies were
terminated because they failed to accomplish key performance indicators required by the
Ministry of Culture. The ministry then developed the second stage of the project and
planned to distribute NT$20  ­billion to domestic and international companies, including
non-cultural creative companies, to assist in the development of cultural industries. For
indicative cultural-­creative businesses, the government increased the investment ratio from
1:1 to 3:1 ( Jiang 2015).
As the former Minister of Culture Lung In-Tai clearly stated, the NDF plays the role of an
investor, not a subsidiser. This statement accurately describes the state’s role in transferring
funds in the film industry. For investments, loss or profit must be taken into consideration
in each case, so the public sector applies corporate managerial standards to creative com-
panies. These public–private cooperative ventures face constant criticism, especially due to
excessive expectations. For example, Ripples of Desire (2012) received investment from the
NDF, TC Cultural Fund (文創1號), and Chinese capitalists. The production costs totalled
NT$150 million, blockbuster standards in the Taiwanese film industry, but the film was a
box-office failure, earning approximately NT$3.5 million. Even in Chinese markets, it made
only RMB2.14 million in the first ten days of screening. All sectors of society criticised this
failure. The press reported that this film seemed to benefit the Chinese holder of the distri-
bution rights, but the TC Cultural Fund and NDF carried a higher proportion of produc-
tion costs than the Chinese distributor. The Ministry of Culture explained that it sold the
copyright to the Chinese distributor, so it could make profits regardless of box-office losses
or gains (Ministry of Culture 2013c).
Putting aside this controversial claim, this statement clearly illustrates the profit orienta-
tion of the creative industries project. As long as this investment system operates, earnings
will be the most important criterion for judging creative projects. This policy does not
lift constraints on companies, and its influence extends beyond the narrowly defined film
industry. This design of the system indirectly contributes to many pressures on filmmakers

461
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

who worry about box-office returns. In addition, companies tend to support only the most
successful and conservative projects to avoid losing government investment. Companies
working through the NDF do not favour new and alternative filmmakers. Funding is usu-
ally directed at the production costs of potential blockbusters to stimulate economic devel-
opment, attract more investment capital, and create the appearance of major achievements.
This system has only widened the gap between filmmakers rather than offering significant
aid to the whole film industry.
The new film industry subsidy system and investment policy, one of the main projects of
creative industries policy, was expected to change the structure of the Taiwanese film indus-
try. Creative industries policy and new public investment from the NDF was focused on not
only investing in the creative industries but also spurring investment consulting firms to ‘ex-
pand the synergy to promote the encouragement of emerging industries through investments’
(NDF 2014, p. 18). While it can be said that the new partnership between the state and private
investment consulting firms is a process of cultural and creative industries policy outsourcing
for a more ‘efficient public-and-private cooperation’, it is actually a classic neoliberal eco-
nomic model. The investment consulting enterprises were encouraged to invest in emerging
creative industries such as films and digital content production for a certain percentage of
public investment where the public sector offers incentives and reduces risk. The government
claimed that the profit motive has provided an incentive for the private sector to create a
flourishing indigenous film industry, without putting pressure on taxpayers. However, the
pursuit of profit and economic value now ranks far too highly as a corporate objective, and
diversification and cultural value rank too low. This new subsidy and investment mechanism
has changed the relationship of the state (cultural sector), filmmakers (creative workers), the
investment consulting firms, and the new creative business entrepreneurs. The main contra-
diction today is that the subsidy and investment system indirectly encourages these agents to
compete for public sources of funding rather than create culture.
The subsidy system progressively changed when the government embraced creative indus-
tries policy in 2002. Before the creative industries project, artists and filmmakers had access to
several limited cultural subsidies, which were not sufficient to support and build the domestic
Taiwanese film industry and market. In particular, the film subsidy was granted only to individ-
ual filmmakers for a single production and did not cover all production costs, forcing filmmak-
ers to seek loans or private sponsorship. Sometimes, the box office decided whether filmmakers
would receive more subsidies (see Figure 29.1). As mentioned, local theatres and Hollywood
film distributors had monopolised the domestic film market for the previous 30 years.
Importantly, cultural and communication policy was another target of neoliberal influ-
ence. Cultural and communication policy underlines the popularity of public discourse on
business sponsorship and artists’ individual responsibility to secure funding. The new term
‘creative industries’ came to represent the neoliberal trend and the retreat from democrati-
sation of the arts. Throughout the process of neoliberalisation, the relationship of the state,
cultural policies, artists (cultural workers) in cultural industries, and the public (audiences)
underwent a dynamic process of change.
Under the creative industries model, the new subsidy system revealed the imbalance
among the public sector, private investment and cultural workers (see Figure 29.2). Profes-
sional investment advisor management was required in the process for ‘effective investment’,
and cooperation between the government and private enterprises formed a new funding
model for ‘improving the common good of the industry’. The new measures severely re-
stricted diversification and affected the film industry.

462
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

Applying for subsidies

Cultural workers
such as local cultural
organisations, The public sector
artists, and independent
filmmakers

Supporting public service of

culture and art

Figure 29.1  Model of public subsidy system before creative industries policy

Still applying for subsidies

Cultural workers
such as local cultural The public
organisations, sector
artists, independent
The allowance was reduced
filmmakers

Proposals expected to create more

commercial value

Privatization of public
Creative firms and
funds and services
venture capital were
commissioned to
utilise public fund
investment to
‘evaluate’ these
cultural workers
effectively.

Figure 29.2  Model of public subsidy system after creative industries policy

Conclusion
This chapter studied the initial acceptance of British trajectories and the creative industry
policies that were popular in cultural policymaking over a 10-year period in Taiwan. It
then explored the impact of this acceptance, as public policy positioned the Taiwanese film
industry at the core of creative industries development. Further, it demonstrated the urgent
need to reassess creative industries policy, which represents a significant ‘investment’ by the
government. For a long time, such investment has meant outsourcing to a few private capital
players under a neoliberal model.

463
Hui-Ju Tsai and Yu-Peng Lin

Many studies have pointed out that market-oriented cultural policies would injure the
public value of culture, as well as common culture. In this case, the creative industries became
the main focus of cultural policy, while at the same time they marginalised the core meaning
of cultural policy. However, policy on creative industries should represent only a component
of the cultural policies in Taiwan, and the perspective of public cultural policy provides a new
opportunity to reorient the over-commercialised creative industries project. The recommen-
dation is that the long-term development of arts and cultures and public service should be
the core of the creative industries, as opposed to the quest for short-term profit in the film,
TV and pop music industries. Training and media technology innovation, which plays a role
in the integration of all resources relating to media content, will allow profit from policy to
benefit the public rather than remaining in the hands of a few private capital players.
From the perspective of public cultural policy, film policy—under the framework of
creative industries policy – should emphasise long-term development rather than short-term
targets. Although the film industry entails the injection of private capital, this does not sug-
gest that the public sector should act as a facilitator in pursuing the maximisation of profits.
Hsiao-Hsien Hou, who won Best Director for The Assassin at the 68th Cannes Film Festival,
made the following comment: ‘Film which has both commercial and cultural traits should
be supported via the governmental legislation. France defines that film is culture and Taiwan
should do so.’ In the creative industries model, film is more like a cultural commodity in
relation to policymaking (Newsinger 2015).
In fact, the public sector should secure the existing system to directly assist filmmakers
rather than only investment–consulting companies. For film industries, the most urgent issue
the public sector can regulate is securing equitable distribution for each film, thereby avoiding
imbalanced competition among Hollywood, chain distributions, and independent distributors.
For example, a 2014 Taiwanese film, Elena, exhibited brilliant box-office performance during
its run but had to withdraw from the market because no movie theatres were willing to provide
this film with longer theatrical runs. Hollywood and strong local distributors dominate the
film market channels in Taiwan. Therefore, this situation may be related to the idea of screen
quotas, following the logic of ‘cultural exception’ from the late 1980s—although it is true that
screen quotas have never been implemented, despite being mentioned several times.
The cultural exception could be an important conception against the head of the Mo-
tion Picture Association of America in Hollywood: Jack Valenti particularly despised Eu-
ropean film directors for pleading with their governments to exclude cinema. South Korea
is another role model, as it has had screen quotas in place since 1994. Initially, these quotas
strictly mandated that Korean cinema had to be displayed at each movie theatre for 146 days
each year; however, this was reduced to 73 days in 2007. During this period, Korean cin-
ema gradually cultivated its niches and gained competitive power. Therefore, on one hand,
screen quotas represent a new plan for the public cultural policy; on the other hand, they can
replace neoliberal thinking in creative industries. This long-term-oriented cultural policy
will be conducive to a more complete and robust industry.

Notes
1 Taiwan has been one of the most important international markets for Hollywood films for decades.
Taiwan dropped film-import restrictions as it joined the World Trade Organisation (WTO) in
2001, and today, foreign movies take 97% of box office revenues ( Jaffe 2011).
2 These three conferences are named: ‘2000 New Government, New Cultural Policy Keynote Speech & Sym-
posium’, ‘2001 Creative Money: Culture Economy Seminar’ and ‘2002 Creative Industries International Summit’.

464
 Neoliberalised development of cultural policies in Taiwan

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 30
Uneasy alliances
Popular music and cultural
policy in the ‘music city’

Catherine Strong, Shane Homan,

Seamus O’Hanlon and John Tebbutt

Introduction
Administrators and policy makers in a number of cities worldwide (for example, Austin,
Berlin and Liverpool) are increasingly seeking to utilise local music to promote their cities’
cultures and increase tourism and trade. Designation as a ‘music city’, ‘sonic city’ or indeed
as a formally recognised UNESCO ‘City of Music’ is seen as a means of harnessing local
music cultures for the purposes of city branding and economic development. The concept
of the ‘music city’ clearly has utility for governments and policy makers; however, a critical
understanding of its parameters and usage has yet to be developed. In this chapter, we draw
on a range of disciplinary traditions to examine the concept of the ‘music city’ with a view
to understanding how cultural policy is changing in relation to popular music and how in
turn the process of formally recognising music as a driver of cultural policy may be changing
the relationships of governments, those working in the music industry, musicians, and the
wider community.
In concentrating on Melbourne, Australia, as a useful contemporary music city case study
we will assess the role of popular music in the city’s dual status as music and cultural capital
of Australia. The chapter will address how localised cultural and media industries intersect
with state and federal strategies and discourses of popular culture and heritage. Beyond local
music economies, Melbourne has become part of global music city circuits, in terms of both
promotional discourse and policy intervention. For example, in November 2015, the City of
Melbourne Council hosted We Can Get Together: Melbourne Music Symposium with national
and international academic, industry and government workers to discuss global music city
policy issues. Melbourne leads global debates in noise complaint mechanisms for live ven-
ues.1 Coupled with the recent Victorian state government2 funding package for popular mu-
sic, the city represents an intriguing case study where future industrial growth is dependent
upon the reconciliation of stubborn local problems (especially urban planning issues) and the
ability to more forcefully enter into global branding and trade networks.
After giving an overview of the development and use of the concept of the ‘music city’,
we concentrate on three aspects of popular music in Melbourne: government policy, media

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(in the specific form of radio), and heritage, as a way of illustrating how Melbourne has staked
its claims as a music city. We will demonstrate how this claim has developed in a haphazard
and uneven way, with government policies never clearly mapping out a path in this direc-
tion. Indeed, even at the current moment when policies are clearly in support of promoting
­Melbourne as a music city there are contradictions in, and unintended consequences of,
­policy decisions that work against the city securing its position in this regard. In presenting
this case study, we contribute to international debates about the role of the neoliberal city and
state in protecting or supporting popular music making. We also interrogate the role of the
broader community in the creation of the music city and question the extent to which the
competing imperatives of the two are compatible. In discussing ‘popular music’, we are refer-
ring to music that traces its development back to the rock and roll of the 1950s, in terms of
its musical structure, embeddedness in mass production processes (although not always mass
produced) and cultural signifiers, particularly in relation to youth culture (see Regev 2013).

Framing the music city

As the most sophisticated configuration of human existence, the city enjoys obvious advan-
tages, primarily density (of peoples, structures and networks). Particularly since the 1700s,
the experience of city life has been layered with governmental, social and corporate deve­
lopments that attest to modernity, incorporating an increasingly global interdependence in
finance, trade, transport, communication and other systems of the ‘modern’ city. While the
continuing implications of half the global population residing in cities cannot be discussed
in depth in this chapter, it is clear that cities are in fierce competition with each other in
ways that proceed well beyond specific economic impacts and incorporate concerns about
the symbolic and cultural. This is evident, for example, in the various ways in which ad-
ministrators seek to produce distinctive brands for their cities for national and international
consumption (see, for example, Dinard 2015), which are then harnessed to attract workers,
artists or tourists.
It has been argued that the contemporary city will anchor “increasingly global and mobile
culture, with locative dynamics that secure culture’s real-time, life embodiment” (Hartley
et al. 2013, p. 44). This marks a distinct turn from previous understandings of the relationships
between arts, culture and the city. The first tranche of work on this topic in media, cultural/
urban studies examined how cities can exploit a mixture of arts and culture in order to posi-
tion themselves as global leaders (e.g. Landry 1990; Landry and Bianchini 1995; Hall 1998).
In this way, in specific historical periods, cities such as Berlin, London and Vienna defined
themselves through distinctive mixtures of design, art, music or literature, which in turn
added impetus to their existing strengths in cultural and other trade networks. This allowed
us to conceive of the ‘literature city’, the ‘information city’, or the ‘film city’ (Hall 1998),
where “flexible specialisation” (Scott 2006, p. 3) enabled regional and global advantage.
The second tranche of work took up the challenge of exploring the implications of this
from cultural geography, economic geography, cultural studies and urban planning perspec-
tives (e.g. Kong 2000). Much of this work has focused on the particular roles of culture and
creativity in the new urban economy; the geo-spatial patterns of creative work (networks
and clusters); the unique geography and infrastructure of successful cities; and the proper
role for government (Scott 2006). It also paralleled a shift in urban planning studies, where a
focus on ‘quality of life’ and the construction of the ‘right’ infrastructure to attract the cre-
ative workforce (Florida 2002) were emphasised as cities competed to build effective brands.

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Ignoring many of the dubious claims in modelling and in relation to outcomes, ‘creative’ or
‘cultural’ city discourses have been adopted by local and national governments to an aston-
ishing extent. This raises questions about the role of the state in promoting creativity and
in establishing governance platforms that enhance cultural production and consumption, as
well as about how individual cities – and cultural industries – literally find their place within
larger national, regional and global networks.
Popular music is associated with a useful set of cultural industries and activities through
which we can examine how artistic creativity operates in contemporary cities and whether
music as creative practice offers anything more to city administrators than an instrument
of employment and/or urban regeneration. The concept of the ‘music city’ has entered the
cabinet rooms of all tiers of government in the last two decades. This represents more than
an offshoot of creative industries discourse. Music has become a prominent vehicle for stak-
ing claims about how culture can construct unique civic, industrial and individual identi-
ties, evident in the histories (and current touristic myth-making) of cities such as Detroit,
­Liverpool, London, Nashville, New York, Manchester and Berlin. Some of these older music
cities, foundational sites for particular genres and subcultures, remain “global music cities”
(Watson 2008) yet are being challenged by others seeking their own industrial niche. For ex-
ample, Seville, Glasgow, Bogota, Gent, Bologna, Brazzaville, Hamamatsu, Mannheim and
Hannover have all been designated as ‘Cities of Music’ by UNESCO as part of its ‘creative
city’ networks.
What does the music city mean within local and international contexts? Key UNESCO
criteria include the visible promotion of festivals, music education, genres and the promi­
nence and prevalence of the cities’ music industries (UNESCO 2014). A recent report –
which described itself as “a universal ‘roadmap’ to create and develop Music Cities anywhere
in the world” – from the International Federation of Phonographic Industries (IFPI) and
Music Canada argues that “a Music City, by its simplest definition, is a place with a grow-
ing music economy” (IFPI/Music Canada 2015, np). This includes “[a]rtists and musicians;
a thriving music scene; access to spaces and places; a receptive and engaged audience; and
record labels and other music-related businesses” (along with state support, infrastructure
and education programs) (ibid. p. 13). Part reassurance about the need for music in healthy
creative cities and part primer for emerging music cities, the Mastering of a Music City report
makes recommendations for fostering a city’s music strengths that include “music-friendly
and musician-friendly policies; a Music Office or Officer; a Music Advisory Board; engaging
the broader music community to get their buy-in and support; access to spaces and places;
and audience development” (IFPI/Music Canada 2015, pp. 13–15). In making these sug-
gestions, it is implied that governmental support will be repaid in various ways, including
through an increase in employment, tourism, urban regeneration and technological innova-
tion, as well as other less tangible benefits.
Unsurprisingly, industry calls to (re)direct governmental resources to music tend to gloss
over the more complex implications and consequences. First, the discourse is often one of
inevitability –that constructing the music city is a natural outcome of organic structures and
the ‘already there’. Yet rarely are competing cultural claims (why not the film city, or the
literature city?) made or tested, while the benefits claimed for local and national economies
remain a very inexact science. Second, including music in urban planning in the name of
‘vibrancy’ can produce very mixed outcomes. The mix of planning, zoning and heritage
discourses has always been controversial in terms of live music venues (e.g. Chevigny 1993).
The original Florida (2002) thesis (the creative class reinvigorating ‘lapsed’ cities in both
lifestyle and economic terms) in some cases has worked too well. Gentrification in urban

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CBD areas is now a common global problem for live music venues facing closure from
noise complaints and rising land rent; and for musicians unable to afford to live near their
live performance spaces. In this outcome, we see the positioning of the artist as “shiny
prophet (evidence of new populations of middle class consumerism) or villain (evidence
of new populations of middle class consumerism!)” (Homan 2016, np). Indeed, Florida has
slightly revised his original thesis to acknowledge that “the benefits of highly skilled regions
accrue mainly to knowledge, professional and creative workers”; the non-creative and non-­
professional classes are particularly affected by rising land and housing costs due to the more
intensive clustering of talent within cities (Florida 2013).
Third, the global preoccupation with licensing, noise complaint mechanisms and land
use planning attests to the fact that often a more correct label for music cities is ‘live music
cities’. Austin (the self-proclaimed ‘live music capital of the world’) remains the best example
in terms of leveraging their collection of music bars, honky tonks and nightclubs as global
markers of difference, reinforced by their annual South by SouthWest music industry gath-
ering. However, a few cities are developing other specialisations, with Mannheim, Montreal
and Groningen exploiting strong music education networks and high youth populations
(de Rook and Nasra 2015; Rauch 2015). Berlin has also highlighted the role of music ‘tech
start-ups’ within its Smart City Berlin initiatives (Zimmer 2015).
Fourth, even as music city policies are increasingly globalised, driven by the growing
number of music city conferences, policy summits and inter-city visits by administrative
leaders, local contingencies must still be taken into account. For example, the Chinese and
Shanghai governments are determined to construct the city as an emerging music capital;
yet the music capital’s substantial advantages in education and high art performance venues
are more than offset by highly restrictive state control of recording production and media
exposure for local musicians. Finally, the music city is an interesting means by which to dis-
sect cultural funding discourses. Its rise has proven to be an effective way for popular music
industries to gain governmental attention and largesse within local and national budgets
where classical music retains considerable privileges and funding. Continually mindful of
the competing demands upon their annual budgets, state and city governments are often re-
ceptive to regulatory reform, but not to increasing financial allocations. These global trends
all inform the way Melbourne has been framed as a music city, and we will now turn to a
more in-depth consideration of the local conditions.

The historical context: deindustrialisation, urban crisis

and the ‘cultural turn’ in Melbourne
As with many of the international cities that have sought to leverage their cultural and
musical assets for economic advantage, in Melbourne the turn to culture as economic ‘sav-
iour’ was a product of crisis rather than a grassroots evolutionary movement. In line with
other would-be ‘music cities’ such as Liverpool, Manchester and Detroit, the end of the
­Fordist era of manufacturing production was not kind to Melbourne (O’Hanlon 2009). As
in those other cities, Melbourne’s postwar prosperity was based on manufacturing, especially
of low-value added consumer goods. But in the face of reductions in tariff protection and the
emergence of the new manufacturing economies of Asia and elsewhere, these industries –
mostly inner city based – went into severe decline in the 1970s and 1980s. Concurrently,
Melbourne’s other major economic strength as a national business and financial centre came
under strain as Sydney emerged as Australia’s major gateway and regional financial centre.
The relocation of a number of media and cultural organisations to Sydney in the 1980s saw

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Melbourne struggle for a defining role in the nascent post-industrial global era. The world-
wide recessions of the early 1980s and again in the early 1990s were felt particularly hard in
Melbourne, especially the inner area, which had suffered significant job losses and popula-
tion declines from the mid-1970s onwards (O’Hanlon 2009).
Again in line with international trends, local and state government responses to these cri-
ses involved both a commitment to free market, neo-liberal economic restructuring. Along
with a withdrawal of financial support for declining manufacturing industries, there was,
contradictorily, a mostly publicly funded policy of transforming the economic and cultural
profile of the inner city through major programs of cultural and morphological change
(O’Hanlon 2010). In Melbourne, first a social democratic government in the 1980s and
then a more radical free market regime in the early 1990s oversaw major cultural projects
designed to enhance the city’s vitality and tourist appeal, including the construction of a
new museum, a new concert hall and recital centre, new and refurbished art galleries, and
the redevelopment of the State Library as a key locus of the city’s and state’s literary heritage.
The library now hosts the Wheeler Centre, which since 2008 has been the headquarters
of the city’s UNESCO ‘City of Literature’ office. The early 2000s also saw the opening of
­Federation Square, a government-funded, architecturally striking arts, leisure and cultural
hub adjacent to the city’s main railway station (O’Hanlon 2012).
These same governments sought to revitalise the inner city’s economy and ‘vibe’ by
committing resources to the cultivation of an arts and creative industries agenda through the
support of major official and more grassroots cultural activities and events. At a state level,
official support involved among other things the inauguration of an annual writers’ festival
and sponsorship of an annual ‘international festival of the arts’. At a grassroots level, funding
was made available for a range of community festivals, mostly in local ‘ethnic’ shopping strips
and neighbourhoods, mainly in the inner city (O’Hanlon 2009). The grassroots cultural
policy also recognised and provided funding to more ‘street-based’ endeavours, including
Melbourne’s then-emerging national strength in stand-up comedy. The major outcome of
this was the inauguration of an annual Comedy Festival in 1987 – now the third largest an-
nual comedy festival in the world. Perhaps most importantly for the purposes of this chapter,
various governments – although mostly at that stage at the municipal level – recognised and
sought to capitalise on the importance of rock and pop music to the creative and night time
economy of local streets and neighbourhoods. A series of street festivals celebrating local
music scenes was inaugurated in a number of declining inner city areas.
The St Kilda Festival was once such early initiative, inaugurated by the local municipal
council in 1980 in recognition of the musical and cultural vitality of a suburb that was home
to musicians and a series of important local and national live music venues including the
Crystal Ballroom, the Esplanade and Prince of Wales hotels, and the glamorous but fading
3000-seat Art Deco-era Palais Theatre (Upton 2001; Aizen 2004). In the three decades
since, the St Kilda Festival has become one of the largest street gatherings in Australia,
a week-long carnival that culminates in ‘Festival Sunday’, where more than 400,000 people
regularly gather to watch bands and DJs perform on numerous public stages and multiple
other venues around the neighbourhood (St Kilda Festival). Similarly, council-sponsored
local festivals, such as the Darebin Music Feast, have become common across inner subur-
ban and wider metropolitan areas, as we shall see below. As a consequence, gentrification
and rising property values have priced musicians and other artists out of their old haunts in
­inner-city neighbourhoods such as St Kilda (Shaw 2013).
More recently, both conservative (the Liberal Party in Australian parlance) and social
democratic (the Labor Party) state governments, as well as the formally politically unaligned

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City of Melbourne municipal council have sought to recognise and harness the music indus-
try for economic (and political) purposes. The City of Melbourne’s Music Strategy 2014–17
was, for instance, developed in recognition that “Melbourne is a city where music matters”
and where “music makes a huge contribution to the social, cultural and economic fabric of
the city” (City of Melbourne 2014, p. 6). The strategy thus seeks to harness the city’s music
cultures and concomitant economic impact in order to “promote Melbourne’s strengths as a
music destination” that can “take its rightful place alongside some of the great music cities of
the world including Austin, Berlin, Nashville and Toronto” (City of Melbourne 2014, p. 6).
In the state of Victoria, a long-term Labor government developed a policy called ­‘Victoria
Rocks’ in 2007, which provided support and grants for emerging and more established mu-
sicians ‘to break into the industry to further their careers’ (Creative Victoria 2007). The
same policy sponsored the launch of the annual Melbourne Music Festival and the free
‘Victoria Rocks’ concert in October 2010, which was designed to showcase artists who had
received funding through the program. The festival was held, however, in the lead-up to a
state election campaign where the contrasts between these initiatives and the effect of other
government policies on live music were becoming obvious. Melbourne’s live music cultures
appeared threatened as venues struggled to keep operating in the face of new liquor licensing
and crowd control measures introduced by the state government in 2009. Those concerns
were most vividly shown when 10,000–20,000 people attended a protest rally in the city
centre in February 2010 in response to the imminent closure of a long-standing venue, The
Tote, in inner urban Collingwood (Donovan 2010). SLAM (Save Live Australian Music),
a lobby group that organised the rally along with Fair Go 4 Live Music (organised by venue
owner Jon Perring), became an important driver of policy change. This has particularly been
the case in relation to the introduction of ‘agent of change’ regulations by the state parlia-
ment. These regulations work to reduce the impact of noise complaints on venues by putting
the onus on new developments to ensure their residents will not be affected by noise, rather
than requiring pre-existing venues to change their practices or install expensive soundproof-
ing. The fact that the government felt a need to respond to the concerns of musicians and
fans is perhaps indicative of a growing political recognition of the importance of music to
the culture and economy of Melbourne, especially for its inner region where constituents are
increasingly voting for the more left-wing Greens political party rather than Labor.
Having lost the 2010 election, in the lead-up to the 2014 poll Victoria’s then Labor
­Opposition Leader (now Premier) Daniel Andrews sought to present himself as a champion
of Melbourne’s music scenes by reintroducing the ‘Victoria Rocks’ program that had been
defunded by the Liberal Party government. More specifically, in recognition of Melbourne’s
place as the ‘music capital of Australia’ Andrews promised to create a ‘Music Market’ as a
‘one-stop-music hub for recording and distribution, open to artists, venues, managers and
industry development organizations” (ALP Victoria 2014). The Music Market was also to
be “the headquarters of a new Victorian Music Development Office, providing leadership
on investment, grants, exports and music business development” (ALP Victoria 2014). More
substantially, and perhaps harking back to older policies of combining grassroots funding for
artists with a commitment to a spatial outcome, the Music Market was to provide “space for
performances, skills development and recording assistance, and facilities for industry peak
bodies, not-for-profit industry organisations and support the values of contemporary music”.
And perhaps most importantly it was to house a proposed Australian Rock and Roll Hall of
Fame (ALP Victoria 2014). Most of these proposals were announced in mid-2015 as part of
what has now become known as ‘Music Works’, a “$12.2 million investment in Victoria’s
contemporary music sector” (Creative Victoria 2015).

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In Melbourne, as in other post-industrial cities internationally, the success of such

g­ overnment-sponsored cultural initiatives has been a dual-edged sword. Aside from the
question of whether popular music should ever allow itself to become hostage to mainstream
politics and politicians, there is also the question of whether there is a place for such music in
the new, more wealthy and gentrified inner city of the post-industrial era. In Melbourne as
elsewhere urban renewal and cultural industry policies have seen once-declining areas that
were home to various waves of immigrants, working class people and students, or in the case
of Central Business District (CBD), virtually resident-free, become increasingly economi-
cally prosperous and culturally vibrant – and very expensive. One result of this rapid uplift
in land and residential value has been a major influx of new and wealthy residents; they move
especially into thousands of new and highly visible apartment complexes that have been built
inside of or instead of defunct former factories (O’Hanlon 2016). A result of this develop-
ment is in the displacement of the creative communities that played a part in making these
areas attractive (Shaw 2009). Additionally, as cultural planner Kate Shaw has extensively
documented, many of these new developments are adjacent to existing live music venues,
some decades old. As she notes, gentrification means formerly under-utilised spaces “are
under pressure from the raft of issues … that affect gentrifying cities the world over”, such
as noise complaints or simply being located on increasingly valuable (and developable) land
(Shaw 2013, p. 337). As will be seen again below in relation to music heritage, this highlights
the contrast between Melbourne as a music city where culture is valued and Melbourne as
part of a neoliberal, free market economy where the benefits that musicians bring to a com-
munity are not generally rewarded financially.

Community radio and the music city

While the previous section looked at the political aspects of how music policy relating to
Melbourne has developed over time, including how it has been shaped by global economic
trends, such top-down accounts can fail to take into account specific local forms of music
making and dissemination. In Melbourne’s case, we suggest community radio has been a
crucial marker of the city’s musical vitality and will use this as a way to unpack some of
the specificities of Melbourne’s music scene, thus adding depth to our analysis. Music of
course is a critical global cultural product that has emerged with media technologies and
the electronic packaging of entertainment. Given the almost symbiotic link between music
and radio, it is surprising that this medium has often been overlooked when infrastructure
is studied regarding the formation of music cultures in local areas. The 2015 IFPI/Music
­Canada Mastering of a Music City report found that “[s]trong community radio supporting
local independent music” was often mentioned with regard to elements that support a music
city’s success; however, it was not ranked as ‘essential’ or ‘important’ (p. 17).
There are several reasons media and specifically radio are not factors in music city ana­
lysis. First, contemporary commercial radio has generally forgone badging content as ‘lo-
cal’ in the search for larger audiences driven by demographic data. National markets can
mean that radio interests are antithetical to city-based cultural industries. Further, music as
a global industry prioritises ‘band brand manufacturing’ rather than growing a solid fan base
through local audiences. Finally, the study of radio has always suffered from the suspicion
that it is nothing more than a technical distribution method that has no role in the affective
aggregation that underpins a fan base in music. More recently the introduction of a range
of digital formats for music distribution – from on-demand access to ‘celestial jukeboxes’ to
personalised Internet radio where a listener ‘seeds’ a service by providing a single artist or

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genre to develop a customisable online music stream – led many to foretell the imminent
death of radio, particularly local radio. In not giving media serious consideration, however,
many of these analyses were unable to address alternative forms of cultural contributions that
sit outside the mainstream circulation of music. In doing so they contribute to legitimising
particular forms of music as relevant to music city cultures only if they are commercially
successful. With this, policies that address success in terms of playlists and audience numbers
tend to support industrial forms of music distribution and contribute to the tensions between
music cultures and corporate outcomes.
If death is a characteristic of radio, then the medium is the pre-eminent zombie media:
always on the verge of extinction but never finally buried. While networked, commercial,
formatted audio broadcasts may well have nothing ‘live’ about them, radio also provides the
limit case of music for the development of paradigmatic city-based music scenes. Nashville
was initially placed on the music map by its radio program Grand Ole Opry. In the early days
of radio in the United States music that came to be known as ‘country’ was broadcast across
the nation by the Nashville-based radio program. It was originally one of many programs
based on American ‘barn dance’ formats, but Grand Ole Opry had the benefit of a powerful
transmitter that provided a clear signal to listeners. The popularity of the program helped
propel ‘country music’ into a nation-wide genre and facilitated the development of ­Nashville
as an important music ‘scene’ (Florida 2002). Now Nashville ranks as one of the most suc-
cessful operations in ‘branding’ a city through music (IFPI/Music Canada 2015, p. 86).
In Australia, the radio industry’s role in promoting culture has been recognised in federal
policy. The potential for national popular culture markets to be flooded by products from
overseas, initially Europe and Britain and then from the 1950s America in particular, has
motivated policy-makers to support Australian cultural production. Australia has legislated
for locally composed music in radio broadcasts since the 1940s. The 1970s saw, as we noted
earlier, pop music secure an increased importance for the recapitalisation of Australian ur-
ban cultural economies. This was reflected in cultural policies that led to the introduction
of a performance quota for local music compositions that contributed to what the regulator
described as an “efflorescence in Australian popular music” (ABT 1986, p. 9; Wilson 2013,
pp. 102–103). Still, the larger cities of Sydney and Melbourne were the key to a successful
local music industry even while significant music scenes were developing in other Australian
cities (see Stafford 2004; Brabazon 2005).
The 1970s saw a rapid expansion in Australian radio. A reformist federal Labor govern-
ment, elected in 1972, opened up the FM band to radio broadcasting for the first time and
introduced a range of ‘experimental’ broadcasters including limited commercial stations in
Sydney and Melbourne, specialist youth and multicultural broadcasters and not-for-profit
public (later community) broadcasters. While a number of these experiments faltered (nota-
bly the limited commercial stations), others, such as the community broadcasting movement,
grew, or in the case of the youth and multicultural broadcasters, were integrated into the
government-funded public broadcasting system. The introduction of FM competitors to
the commercial sector led to a significant shake out in the industry with a number of long-
standing stations closing within 12 months of the new FM music broadcasters coming to
air. While community broadcasters and the government-funded youth station drew on the
burgeoning suburban and inner city live music scenes to engage new listeners and develop
important relationships with urban subcultures, commercial broadcasters began to withdraw
from the field.
By the early 1980s Melbourne community stations had achieved a significant grassroots
base and strong links with the city’s music scenes, in part because the government-funded

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youth station, 2JJ (Double J), only broadcast in Sydney. Whereas Melbourne community
stations such as 3RRR and later 3PBS relied on subscribers and listener support for both
capital and volunteer labour, Double J was able to secure salaried staff and access to public
broadcasting equipment and technicians. It became the focus for a dynamic youth culture
in Sydney while metropolitan-wide community stations focused on fine music and educa-
tion. Meanwhile in Melbourne, without a government-funded youth broadcaster in the city
the economically precarious community stations developed an extensive volunteer-based
gift economy (including music give-aways and performance tickets) to support their oper-
ations. By the time Double J developed a national network in 1989 (as FM station triple j),
RRR in Melbourne was so well established it held its own in audience share (Phillips 2006,
pp. ­214–17). Competition and consolidation in the commercial radio industry saw that sector
move away from ‘new music’ (at this time largely punk, new wave and emerging hip-hop
artists) into safer Gold and Adult Contemporary formats. Straitened economic times in the
1980s led to the commercial radio industry lobbying against the Australian music quota,
which was eventually rolled into a self-regulatory system.
While commercial broadcasters can be crucial to the long-term sustainability of spe-
cific artists, commercial cultures, with their aversion to risk, often find it difficult to link
with local, independent music cultures that do not necessarily rely on mainstream success.
Melbourne community radio presents a special case for a music media that has a signi­ficant
integration of artists, radio presenters, labels, promoters and programs. The city has one of
the longest-standing continuous community sectors, with 2016 marking 40 years of licensed
broadcasting. 3RRR was one of the first stations licensed and while ostensibly under an
educational licence, the broadcasts adopted contemporary music and “quickly became iden-
tified with the punk/new wave sound” (Phillips 2006, p. 16). Soon after the first commu-
nity ­licences were awarded the community-based Progressive Broadcasting Society (PBS)
formed to broadcast “specialist, quality and unrepresented music” (Middlemast 2004). After
gaining a licence in 1979, the cooperative that managed the station moved to a venue in St
Kilda, the Prince of Wales Hotel, where they broadcast live concerts of local and touring
bands for six years before moving to a cooperative-owned building in 1985. Along with
3CR, which began as a commercial broadcasting experiment in the early 1970s but was
maintained as a federation of community organisations, and ‘fine music’ broadcaster 3MBS
(also licensed in 1976), these community stations form an ecology of media that supports
local cultural events and music broadcasts.
The commitment to new music in the case of 3RRR and under-represented music at
3PBS has in particular allowed these stations to develop loyal listeners, who provide a core
subscriber base for ongoing financial support and volunteer labour. The stations developed
close relationships with music promoters and venues, with RRR becoming an important
Melbourne-based media partner for touring bands in the 1980 and 1990s. City music busi-
nesses and cultural institutions became important sponsors attracted by the station’s youth
base (Phillips 2006, p. 102). A number of local city-based musicians became program pre-
senters on both of these stations. PBS attracted aficionados of various musical styles who
tuned in to their specialist programs. Moreover, its arrangement with the Prince of Wales
Hotel gave it access to a 300-seat theatre from which it broadcast live music under the ti-
tle of PBS Radio Theatre. The cooperative formed an Outside Broadcast (OB) group that
drew in technicians, sound engineers and music mixers who became crucial to the ongoing
commitment to live music at the station (Paine 1989). The longevity of both stations demon-
strates the value for music of media that incorporate active audience participation into their
programming strategies. In this way, community radio, working within a ‘gift economy’ at

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the margins of mainstream cultural enterprises, was able to graft onto and reflect local music
cultures of the city. The strength of RRR enhances Melbourne’s claims to be a music city,
and despite the station’s independence from government structures it can still be deployed
as part of arguments for the city’s music city status. In this way, grassroots and community
activity can align with policy objectives. However, as will be demonstrated in the following
section, this is not always the case.

Laying claim to music heritage

One important way in which music comes to be seen as central to the identity of a place is
through the way it can create a connection to the past. The idea that a city is a ‘music city’
will be strengthened through demonstrations that music is not only important to the city now,
but has been for a long time and is central to how the identity of the city has been shaped (see
Bennett 2010; Roberts 2014). Indeed, one of the recommendations made in the first report
commissioned by the Melbourne City Council (MCC) when developing their music strategy
highlighted “improv[ing] information relating to music heritage and tourism for city residents”
as a key factor in supporting music (Homan and Newton 2010). This connection of heritage
and tourism reflects the way music heritage is increasingly being used as a tourist drawcard
around the world, as official processes replace or complement the fan-driven pilgrimages that
had been taking place for decades. Unlike somewhere like L ­ iverpool, where the music heritage
of the city has been a main driver behind its designation as a ‘music city’ and key to many of
its tourism successes, in Melbourne, on the local and state levels, this aspect of the music city
agenda has been developing only slowly. However, there are ways in which Melbourne is
moving towards the greater incorporation of popular music into heritage discourses, mainly
due so far to the activities of members of the community rather than because of official actions.
The most notable development has been a move towards naming public places, particularly
laneways, after (usually) deceased Australian musicians. To date there have been four such
namings. AC/DC Lane in the CBD, dedicated in 2004, was the first of these and as such was
the most controversial, with a long process and some community opposition leading up to
its establishment (Frost 2008). Paul Hester Walk followed soon after in 2005. Hester was the
drummer from Crowded House who committed suicide in that year, and the walkway named
after him is near where he lived in the suburb of Elwood (under the auspices of Port Phillip
Council). More recently, in 2015, Chrissy Amphlett (1959–2013), singer from the band The
Divinyls, was commemorated with Amphlett Lane in the Melbourne CBD, and Rowland
S. Howard Lane, situated in the seaside suburb of St. Kilda, was named after the late Birthday
Party guitarist (1959–2009) (for an extended discussion of these namings, see Strong 2015).
Given that street names are for the most part reserved for significant historical figures, this
trend (also observed in other western cities) gives a clear indication of the growing importance
of popular music in constructing the identity of a city or nation. Melbourne’s laneways are
also seen as being a unique aspect of the city’s landscape, promoted as tourist destinations in
ways that tie specific local music histories that also reinforce the centrality of music to the city.
The processes leading up to the naming of these lanes generated much publicity and
eventually attracted political interest. In the 2014 Victorian state election campaign, Labor
candidate Martin Foley became involved with the Rowland S. Howard Lane initiative. This
was in the context of support for music being a key policy area for both major parties in this
election (see Music Victoria 2014). The victory of the Labor Party saw considerable funding
provided for other measures relating to music heritage. This included $400,000 for a project
called ‘Rocking the Laneways’ that was about furthering the connection between music and

477
Catherine Strong et al.

public spaces not only in Melbourne but throughout Victoria. A further $1.3 million was
earmarked for an Australian hall of fame (as mentioned above).
These limited moves towards celebrating Melbourne’s popular music history put it some-
what behind, for example, Brisbane, which already has a music ‘Walk of Fame’ in its music
precinct near the CBD, as well as much more prominent public spaces named after musicians
such as the Go-Between Bridge and Bee Gees Way. The latter is perhaps an exemplar of
how public spaces can go beyond simply being named after musicians, in that it incorporates
a permanent display about the career of the band, as well as bronze statues of the musicians.
Currently the Melbourne lanes have little in the way of drawcards in the laneways beyond
the name itself. The question of the utilisation of the laneways, and particularly in ways that
strengthens the music/Melbourne nexus they are designed to create, was not previously
considered and is only now being researched further (see Strong et al., 2016).
Furthermore, it is noteworthy that until the Labor Party commitments, the heritage
activities relating to popular music have been driven by the community, rather than being
initiated by councils or state governments. All of the laneway namings have come about
as a result of campaigning by fans or family members and friends of the musicians. This
reflects the fact that until recently only fans were preserving popular music’s past and are
still working in huge numbers as unofficial archivers and curators (Baker and Huber 2013).
Given the nature of popular music, it is considered vitally important that audiences and fans
be taken seriously and be consulted (Leonard 2010). However, the fact that there has been no
consideration of process in relation to the construction of heritage sites in Melbourne means
there is a possibility that heritage-related activities are left in the hands of a small group of
active members of the Melbourne music community, people who have particularly high
levels of cultural capital in the city or who are adept at drawing attention to their causes.
The campaigns for AC/DC Lane and Amphlett Lane, for example, were driven by people
with strong connections to the media and to key figures in Melbourne’s music scenes. This
raises questions about how to ensure that, with the new schemes, community and audience
input continues and in a way that incorporates as many different voices as possible. When
music heritage is used as part of a story about a ‘music city’, there can be a tendency to em-
phasise certain types of music that suit an official narrative (see Cohen and Roberts 2014).
The community-driven nature of the street namings may place Melbourne in a position to
continue on this inclusive path, but more questions still need to be asked about how decisions
are being made about music and heritage, and who makes them.
Such decisions need to be made in a context where heritage making is happening inde-
pendently of official processes and where at times the idea of Melbourne as a music city can
be deployed as a way of challenging decisions made by people in positions of power. The
championing of music by the various councils and state government has also been used as a
way of opposing decisions they make and drawing attention to ways in which governments
are working against, rather than for, popular music-making. One example of this is the
threatened demolition of the Palace Theatre, a mid-sized venue in the CBD. In 2012, it was
sold to a property development company who planned to replace the building with a high-
rise luxury hotel. This proposal met with vehement community opposition, and a ‘Save the
Palace’ group was established to try to save the venue. This group has deployed a number of
strategies, from vigils and demonstrations through to administrative appeals. A key defence
has emphasised the heritage aspects of the building itself rather than its purpose as a venue.
However, the group has also focused on the disjunction between the rhetoric of the ‘music
city’ and the closure of key venues such as the Palace. In arguments put forward by Palace
supporters at Melbourne City Council meetings where the fate of the venue was debated, the

478
 Uneasy alliances

damage that the loss of the venue would do to Melbourne’s international reputation as an im-
portant music hub was raised often, as was the apparent contrast between the Council’s stated
support for music and their willingness to let venues like this close. Although the final fate of
the Palace has yet to be decided, this case shows how a commitment to building M ­ elbourne’s
image as a ‘music city’ can be utilised – in conjunction with ideas about heritage – by com-
munity members with a stake in the local music scene to put pressure on governments to
actually follow through on their statements about supporting music.

Conclusion
There are many important factors in considering what makes a music city, how it develops
and how it is maintained. This chapter has only had space to consider how Melbourne was
consciously developed as a cultural hub in the post-industrial era and how radio and heritage
have been located within discourse around the concept of the ‘music city’ that has developed
in the last decade or so. While limited in scope, these case studies are a way of demonstrating
the role policy has played in framing Melbourne as a music city, but also how music-making
at the grassroots and community levels in the city often exists separately from, and sometimes
in opposition to, its positioning as an economic and branding good. As such, while current
policy-makers at local and state levels clearly recognise the value of popular music in making
the city economically competitive and culturally distinctive in a global marketplace, the inter-
sections between policy and the development of a music city are far from clear-cut. While the
infrastructure developments designed to reinvigorate Melbourne in the 1980s laid the ground-
work for a focus on culture in the city, the way that an economically thriving city can be
counter-productive to cultural activity, as demonstrated through the problems associated with
the gentrification of the inner city, is still being grappled with by policy-makers. ­Melbourne’s
music city status is bolstered by the presence of stations like RRR, which, although originally
created in response to government initiatives, have long been self-­sustaining. The way that
cities can benefit from the activities undertaken in communities and the extent to which those
benefits are enjoyed by those who create them is a question that has rarely been considered
to date (the position of musicians needs to be considered in this regard also). Popular music
heritage is something that can be used by or against policy-makers and where the difference
between the rhetoric and the reality of a music city can become apparent.
As Melbourne seeks to consolidate its position as a global music city in the late 2010s,
and as popular music is increasingly on the radar of its policy-makers, we are presented with
a unique opportunity to gain a greater understanding of how policy interacts with culture.
While more partnerships are being forged between governments and those representing the
music sector, it cannot be taken for granted that such outcomes will work to the advantage
of music makers and audiences in the city. More research is required to understand how such
alliances shape music-making in the city and the extent to which the community and mu-
sicians feel their voices are being fully heard in an environment where music is increasingly
framed as an economic good rather than as a fundamental aspect of social life. Incorporating
more information about how different aspects of Melbourne’s music scene have helped to
shape its identity as a music city – for example, venues, important bands, other types of me-
dia such as street press and so forth – will provide greater depth to our understanding and
knowledge of the relationship of policy, actual music-making practices and the global image
of the city. Similar detailed case studies of the experiences and practices of other music cities
in different social and cultural contexts globally have clear potential for future research col-
laborations among scholars of the contemporary city.

479
Catherine Strong et al.

Notes
1 Cities such as Edinburgh are examining Melbourne’s recent Agent of Change noise law for possible
local implementation (City of Edinburgh 2015, p. 13).
2 Australia has three levels of government: federal, state and local.

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 Part VII
The nation state and
cultural policy
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 31
Cultural policy in India
An oxymoron?

Yudhishthir Raj Isar

Introduction
In India, cultural policy is not an academic discipline or congeries of disciplines. This is
­surprising, for the country’s 1.25 billion inhabitants enjoy a flourishing and variegated cul-
tural life. Their government(s) – the federal or ‘central’ government as well as those of the
Indian Union’s 29 States and 7 Union Territories – ostensibly subsidise the arts and heritage.
Identity politics has always existed in India and has become increasingly vehement today,
but the tensions play out in connection with religion, caste and class rather than ethni­
city. Yet there is little scholarly exploration of these issues; analytical speculation of the sort
long practiced in Western Europe (and increasingly nowadays in other regions, notably East
and Southeast Asia), is practically non-existent. Nor has cultural policy in India become a
­favoured terrain of foreign researchers, as it has in East Asia.
Hence it is next to impossible in the Indian case to address one of the main overarching
themes of this volume, namely issues that emerge from the ways in which cultural policy is
dealt with by different academic disciplines. In India, there is no such relationship. Hence
producing an informed analysis is not an easy task for an external observer, although the
research on the Indian practice of international cultural relations carried out by the present
author in 2013 has provided him with a small head start.1 Infinitely more useful in filling the
knowledge gap, however, was a substantive Country Profile: India published in 2013 – albeit
not as the outcome of indigenous agency but as part of the WorldCP-International Database of
­Cultural Policies.2 Were it not for this 188-page study, the short overview below of what dif-
ferent layers of government (as well as Indian non-state actors) envision and enact as cultural
policy would have been impressionistic and impossible to verify.3
Despite the lack of an explicit strategy, the federal and state governments provide p­ atronage
and funding for selected arts and heritage activities that conform to an established high cul-
ture canon. This may be seen as a largely implicit cultural policy (Ahearne, 2009), of which
many aspects are ripe for deeper analysis than can be provided here. In view of the compar-
ative purposes of this volume, this chapter explores two Indian specificities: (i) the largely
instrumental terms in which governmental patronage is critiqued by the Indian intelligentsia
and (ii) the absence of the Western European ‘creative economy’ discourse that has become
so hegemonic elsewhere, notably in East and Southeast Asia.
485
Yudhishthir Raj Isar

That the ends and purposes of state patronage have remained largely unquestioned reflects
the consensual, ‘settled’ idea of how the elite envision ‘Indian culture’, at least so far. There
has been scant consideration of cultural policy understood as ‘the clash of ideas, institu-
tional struggles and power relations in the production and circulation of symbolic meanings’
­(McGuigan, 1996, p. 1), in other words as the ‘politics of culture’. In India today, while such
clashes of ideas have become frequent, they are not seen within a category recognised as ‘cul-
tural policy’. As it is elsewhere, the terrain of contested meanings is bound up with ideas of
the nation and its cultural self hood. Rather more than elsewhere, however, there is a strong
conflation between the ‘arts and heritage’ and ‘ways of life’ understandings of culture  –
which is hardly surprising, given that Hinduism is a diverse collection of orthopraxis rather
than just a system of belief and observance. Out of this conflation, a good deal of journalistic
and scholarly commentary has emerged.
This has occurred as the majoritarian vision of an essentially Hindu India (although
15 ­percent of the population is Muslim and there are 28 million Christians, as well as Sikhs,
Jains and Parsees) is being championed by Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) governments at the
‘Centre’ (i.e. the national government) and in many states. This stance seeks to displace the
secularist, generally Leftist, yet liberal pluralism that has been the reigning ideology of the in-
tellectual and cultural elite. The BJP’s idea of India on the other hand is monist, in ways that
stem from a ‘semitization’ of Hinduism – the reduction of plural Hindu belief systems to a sin-
gle corpus (Thapar, 1993). This accompanies the belief system usually described as ‘Hindu na-
tionalism’. The term ‘Hindu chauvinism’ for such a view of ‘true’ Indian-ness purely in terms
of Hindu religious values or Hindutva (or ‘Hindu-ness’, a term coined by one of the movement’s
founders) would be more appropriate, however, given the plural make-up of the country’s
population (Guha, 2014). In this context, the chapter takes up two issues that are salient today:
(i) the challenges to the freedom of expression, notably freedom of artistic expression, posed by
non-state actors driven by Hindutva ideology and (ii) the manner in which the ruling party is
placing its loyalists in leading positions in the arts and heritage sector (and of course beyond).
Before doing so, however, it would be opportune to explore the origins of the Indian upper
caste urban elite’s terms of engagement with a certain idea of the ‘national culture’ – an expli­
citly ‘high culture’ canon, accompanied by token gestures towards ‘folk cultures’.

Culture: a special and reserved domain

The political theorist Partha Chatterjee argued many years ago that anti-colonialist nation-
alists in India produced their own domain of sovereignty within colonial society well before
beginning their political struggle with the imperial power. While the material domain was
that of the colonizer’s sovereignty, the nineteenth-century nationalists staked a claim to
the cultural in the broad sense of the term, including arts and heritage to be sure, but more
prominently the spiritual sphere, represented by religion, institutions such as caste, family
practice, the un-westernized peasantry, etc. Throughout the twentieth century and still to-
day, Indian culture – that is, essentially Hindu culture – has been self-consciously articulated
and invented as the privileged expression of this inner domain, often through processes of
revival and reconstruction. While the outer, or material, world of public and political life,
business, science and technology was dominated by the colonizing West, the Bengali middle
class Hindus of the nineteenth century drew strength from a cultural world, a ‘distinctive,
and superior spiritual culture’ (Chatterjee, 1993, p. 121) that could not be so annexed. These
middle-class elites first imagined the nation into being via this spiritual dimension and then
readied it for political contest.

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 Cultural policy in India

The strength of subsequent Indian nationalism, Gandhi’s in particular, was largely based
on this process, while also drawing freely on western political and cultural ideas. Witness his
often-quoted affirmations (1921, p. 170):

I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want
the cultures of all lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to
be blown off my feet by any. I refuse to live in other people’s houses as an interloper, a
beggar or a slave.

This refusal, reaffirmed in the 1950s by the leaders of independent India, was accompanied
by deep attachment to the flourishing of a particular construct of Indian-ness, as a way of life
that also subsumed the arts and heritage. As Rajadhyaksha et al. put it (2013, p. 7),

so pervasive is the representation of culture as national legacy, as both sanskriti (being

cultured) and as parampara (tradition), that no corresponding practice or corresponding
policy statement involving the Arts could exist without in some form incorporating
(or at least adequately accounting for) prevailing definitions of sanskriti. This imbalance
has been incarnated into the very substance of all prevalent arts & culture policy ever
since this period and well into the present.

From the early twentieth century, during colonial rule, a range of arts institutions such as
Tagore’s Shantiniketan or Rukmini Devi’s Kalakshetra, had paved the way for the subsequent
adoption by the elites of independent India of a broadly modernist arts agenda in the service
of Indian nationalism. As we shall see further on, this nationalist location of culture was
and is broader than the arts and heritage. Yet the performance scholar Anita Cherian (one
of very few academics whose work informs our topic), in her exploration of the fashioning
of a national theatre in post-independence India, has noted how the arts and heritage ‘were
perceived to be a critical site reinforcing the idea of the nation’ (Cherian, 2009, p. 33). The
folding of them into the frameworks of development was an affirmation ‘of the seemingly
contradictory desire for both an authentic Indian aesthetic and a planned progression to-
wards a post-colonial modernity’. Cherian has suggested therefore:

that the braided histories of colonialism, nationalism, Independence and post-colonial

state-formation are the conditions of possibility for a context wherein modernity is rep-
resented and performed through the institutions of the State, its acts of planning and, its
multifarious forms of governance. Yet, the State’s performances of modernity are based
on an understanding of culture as both the locus of the traditional and, as the imagined
foundation of a social solidarity that makes the modern State possible.
(pp. 33–34)

Cherian also tracked the evolving rhetoric of culture understood as arts and heritage in
­India’s Five Year Plans: in the First, identity was evoked to work and produce for the nation;
the Second made provisions for institutionalisation; the Third opened up the discourse of
retrieval and protection, ‘its staging as a sign of the past’ and as the site of the traditional
(p. 37). As regards the performing arts, ‘the idea of the classical allows the nation-state to
acquire the aura of the sacred’. The state has constituted a classical canon by nationalising
dance forms such as Bharata Natyam, Kathakali, Kathak and Manipuri, ‘making these forms
iconic of its cultural antiquity’ (pp. 48–49) – a process that has played out as well in the

487
Yudhishthir Raj Isar

federal states whose populations are entirely or largely made up of distinct ethnic groups. She
pointed out, however, that also at stake was the ‘revitalizing’ of the folk arts, which added
a dimension to the rhetoric of “unity in diversity”, ‘by drawing the marginalised, “folk”
and/or tribal peoples into the nation’s representational framework’, completing an aesthetic
paradigm founded on the recovery of ‘elements thought to embody the traditional and the
authentically Indian’ (p. 51).

The arts and heritage: the engagement of

the state and civil society
The absence of cultural policy as a theme of public debate is apparent from the lack of pub-
lications on the topic, apart from a 44-year-old monograph entitled Some Aspects of C ­ ultural
Policy in India written for UNESCO’s ‘Studies and documents on cultural policies’ series
by Kapila Vatsyayan, an accomplished Indian art historian and cultural bureaucrat. The
UNESCO effort was far more an exercise in national representation than in objective analy-
sis, however.4 Vatsyayan’s long, lyrical and conceptually dense introduction explores the ex-
ceptionality of Indian culture and civilization.5 The tone is characteristic of the upper-caste
Hindu elite vision mentioned earlier (another striking example is provided in Singh, 2009).
While the structure of cultural institutions and mechanisms described in the monograph has
not changed (although it has been considerably enriched) many other developments have
taken place in the last few decades. These have been expertly reviewed in the Country Profile:
India referred to above. The Indian film scholar Ashish Rajadhyaksha was the lead author
of this profile; he was based at the time at the Centre for the Study of Culture and Society
in Bangalore, which between 1998 and 2014 was the sole Indian entity wholly dedicated to
cultural policy research but has since significantly reduced the scope of its activities.6 Another
publication, encouragingly entitled Towards a Cultural Policy, was published in 1975 as the
proceedings of a seminar held at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study in 1972 at which
an interdisciplinary group of scholars was asked to ‘take stock of the cultural situation in the
country’, analyse emerging trends and try to ‘evolve the broad outlines of a cultural policy for
the country’ (Saberwal, 1975, p. v). The volume disappoints, however, for it contributes little
to our understanding. Most of the participants dealt with broad ‘ways of life’ issues such as
inequality, language policy, social exclusion and the like in orthodox Marxist terms that ap-
pear simplistic and dated today. Besides, these issues are discussed far better by ­Rajadhyaksha
et al. A notable exception was the contribution of the sociologist Rajni Kothari, which con-
cluded with a plea for autonomy and dignity for the country’s creative people but affirmed
that while ‘there is great need for the involvement of intellectuals and creative people in the
general process of policy-making in economic, social and other matters, by the same token
there is no room for a “cultural policy”. For culture is not a matter of policy – except the
policy of leaving it alone’ (Kothari, 1975, pp. 30–31). This manner of throwing the baby out
with the bathwater still characterises elite Indian thinking – it is of course also redolent of
earlier attitudes in the UK and still current in the US: the arts are no business of government.
Particularly ours, the Indian argument would go, which is inept, corrupt and managed by
ignorant bureaucrats incapable of understanding or nurturing the ineffable. End of story. …
A case in point was the judgement of a 2008 national level committee set up by the ministry
of culture that in India’s plural society any clearly enunciated policy would be exclusionary.7
Nevertheless, given the high degree of cultural self-awareness among the ruling elite,
the central government (‘the Centre’) put in place between the early 1950s and the 1960s
a range of institutions under the aegis of the Ministry of Culture to provide patronage and

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disburse funds. This configuration is duplicated at State level and in some cities. The central
Ministry of Culture’s mandate is for the protection and promotion of ‘cultural diversity and
heritage’ seen as ‘important pillars of inclusive national development’.8 The mandate em-
phasises the right of all sections of Indian society to conserve their language and culture as
the rich heritage of its composite culture. Its efforts mainly involve establishing museums,
libraries and arts institutions and protecting ancient monuments and archaeological sites.
The Ministry has numerous organisations under its jurisdiction, some of which had been
created long before by the British colonial government. The ‘Subordinate Offices’ include
the Anthropological Survey of India, the Central Reference Library, the National Gallery
of Modern Art, the National Museum and the National Research Laboratory for Conser-
vation of Cultural Property. The ‘Attached Offices’ include the Archaeological Survey of
India (created in 1961), the Central Secretariat Library and the National Archives of India.
‘Autonomous Bodies’ include various Museums, Libraries, Akademis, Zonal Cultural Centres
and Buddhist Institutions.
Through the 1950s and into the 1960s, the government of India founded institutions that
provided the ‘dominant paradigms for the “arts and culture” field as a whole’ (Rajadhyaksha
et al., 2013, p. 5; Isar, 2014). These were, in New Delhi, the Indian Council for Cultural
Relations (1950); the Sangeet Natak Akademi or academy of the performing arts (1953); the
National Museum, the Sahitya Akademi or academy of letters, the National Gallery of Mod-
ern Art and the Lalit Kala Akademi or academy of fine arts (all set up in 1954, following an
initiative of India’s first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, and its first Education Minister,
Maulana Azad) and the National School of Drama (1959). Then came the Film Institute of
India (1959) in Pune and the National Institute of Design (1961) in Ahmedabad. Mirroring
the central Akademis that are the apex arts bodies in New Delhi are state equivalents in the
fields of literature, music and dance, sculpture, visual arts, folk arts, etc.
As in other countries, other ministries fund different dimensions of cultural life – and the
slogan of ‘joined up’ policy making is as hard to apply here as it is elsewhere. The Ministry
of Education deals with arts education and technical education relating to crafts, while the
Ministry of Human Resource and Development deals with 153 educational and cultural
institutions including notably the Indian Council for Historic Research (ICHR), the Indian
Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR) and the National Council for Educational Re-
search and Training (NCERT). The Ministry of Commerce and Industry runs the National
Institute of Design (NID), and the Ministry of External Affairs oversees the Indian Council
for Cultural Relations (ICCR). In addition, the Ministry of Tourism, the Ministry of Tribal
Affairs, the Ministry of Minority Affairs and the Ministry of Youth Affairs & Sports deal
with cultural issues. The country’s 29 states and 7 Union Territories either have a department
of culture or a department for culture, focusing understandably on local languages, ‘folk cul-
tures’ and contemporary arts. As Rajadhyaksha et al. observe, all this does not constitute ‘a
coherent or unitary cultural policy. Instead, the policy has covered a range of complex, and
often mutually contradictory, definitions. … These do not necessarily add up to a coherent
“arm’s length” policy, or even necessarily to a “federal” policy, but can sometimes resemble
aspects of both’ (p. 12).
It is no surprise, therefore, that only a tiny proportion of public funds goes to the arts
and culture. In the central government’s budget for 2016–2017, for example, the culture
ministry’s budget, which has gone up by 17.2 percent, comes to but 0.3 percent of total
government outlay. Over 30 percent of the budget is allocated to the Archaeological Sur-
vey of India (ASI), the custodian of a limited number of protected monuments and sites
around the country.9 The ASI’s principles of conservation and management are considered

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to be completely outdated by heritage professionals, notably members of INTACH (see be-

low), while its functioning is as inefficient as that of all the other state-run cultural bodies.
­Rajadhyaksha et al. cite the ‘tensions arising from the fact that the understanding of cultural
heritage management is largely state-led with little or no…policy or legal provisions that
help assert the rights of local communities in the management of heritage’ (p. 66). In 1984,
an Indian National Trust for Art and Cultural Heritage (INTACH) was created under the
aegis of the Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi as a non-profit membership organisation that
would act as a counterweight. It has functioned in this capacity ever since with considerable
official backing as well as active civil society participation.
In the judgement of the cross-section of representative civil society, stakeholders inter-
viewed for the EU project mentioned above, the Indian State has done little more than dis-
pense patronage to a small circle of practitioners favoured by the bureaucracy (Isar, 2014). In
the view of some, the ‘nationalistic model of patronage has created a plethora of inefficient
institutions unable to adapt their vision, strategies, and activities to the major changes that
have taken place in Indian society since the economic liberalisation of the 1990s or address
the cultural needs of new generations of stakeholders. In the 1970s already, the rural-urban
divide, for example, prompted the theatre director Habib Tanvir to state that:

while the occasional dark areas in our rural cultural traditions can be overcome easily, to
my mind the influence of the ultra-modern obscurantism of the urban elite is far more
pernicious. To fight it we have to nurture our rural art forms. These would gain from
exposure to the urban cultural milieu but, more important, the latter needs the revit-
alising influence of rural art forms. Their mutual interaction will give us the synthesis
we need.
(Tanvir, 1974, p. 144)

The country’s high economic growth rate in recent years and growing urban affluence have
in no ways increased governmental spending; in some instances outlays on culture have even
declined. The rapid growth of an urban and globalized so-called ‘middle class’ (the term is
a misnomer, since it refers to an extremely privileged class in socio-economic terms that
by no means occupies the middle range of income distribution) has heightened demand for
cultural provision. This demand is being met increasingly by civil society and private initia-
tives, making the arts and heritage scene today far denser and more diverse than previously.
Grant-giving private foundations are rare, however, although a few operating foundations
have been created by and for wealthy benefactors, particularly in the visual arts. The best
known of the independent foundations and the only one whose scale of operations is finan-
cially significant is the India Foundation for the Arts (IFA), which disbursed almost 2 million
dollars in 2010–2011 in a range of arts disciplines (Rajadhyaksha et al., 2013). Others include
the Sanskriti Foundation, founded in 1979 by a philanthropic former businessman, with its
programme of international residencies for artists, and the Raza Foundation, set up in 2005
by the eminent painter Syed Haider Raza (which also provides grants).
By and large, the Indian corporate world conforms to the international norm of supporting
the arts as an essentially promotional strategy. It therefore prioritises the visible, influential, safe
and respectable, drawing on advertising budgets for ad hoc, one-off commitments to cultural
presentations and products. As observed by a former head of the India Foundation for the Arts,

even when the goals of corporate patronage and product promotion are aligned, sup-
port tends to go out to art that needs it the least … the arts are defined for corporate

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leaders and marketing executives by the elite social circles in which they move. As
long as product promotion remains their principal justification for supporting the arts,
business houses will continue to give no attention to creative processes, constraints and
innovation.10

Although recent legislation includes the arts and culture as a recognised category of ‘Corpo-
rate Social Responsibility’, it does not appear that arts and culture projects and programmes
have been favoured recipients.
The interactions of Indian cultural operators with counterparts in the rest of the world
have grown organically in recent years, despite many difficulties of funding, infrastructure
and organisation. A noteworthy aspect of these interactions is the way in which the ­European
national cultural institutes operating in India such as the British Council, the Institut francais
and the Goethe-Institut, have stepped in to encourage issues and/or engage in practice that
neither the Indian government nor the private sector interest would support, e.g. new, ex-
perimental or hybrid forms.11 This foreign intervention, in other words, compensates for
official indifference to these dimensions. A key role has been played by myriad cultural sector
‘movers and shakers’, individuals as well as non-governmental organisations, many of them
operating in smaller cities and towns, but generally with little or no municipal support.12
Their efforts have made for better cultural provision and vivified relations with partners in
other countries. Despite this vibrancy, the sector is fragmented and very precarious finan-
cially. It lacks professionalism, apart from a few exceptions that prove the rule. It is against
this backdrop that cultural entrepreneurship has developed apace in both the not-for-profit
and for-profit cultural sectors. The contemporary visual arts are thriving commercially, with
many galleries in the major cities catering to the demands of an expanding new stratum of
extremely affluent Indian patrons, as shall be taken up in more detail further on.
As is often the case elsewhere, media and communications policy is not generally seen
as ‘cultural policy’ by Indian commentators. The governance of the media comes under the
Ministry of Information and Broadcasting; matters concerning satellite communications
and linked technologies under the Ministry of Science and Technology. The Country Profile:
India foregrounds recent civil society resistance (sometimes successful) to IP legislation and/
or regulation that could have had negative implications for copyright holders and/or free-
dom of expression. Also contested were governmental intentions to pre-screen user content
of networking sites such as Yahoo, Facebook and Google, embodied in an IT Act of 2000,
when a BJP-led coalition was in power. These measures were seen as ‘draconian’; efforts to
block passage of the new raft of regulations did not succeed, however.

Instrumental rather than deontological critique

Deontological issues such as access and participation, or choosing between democratization
and democracy in the cultural realm, are rarely evoked in the grumblings of the I­ ndian in-
telligentsia, some of whose more vocal members have stated categorically, echoing Kothari’s
judgement cited earlier, that there should be no official cultural policy because politicians
and bureaucrats are too inept. In January 2014, the Ministry of Culture constituted a
‘High-Powered Committee’ (HPC) to examine the functioning of the cultural organisa-
tions operating under the aegis of the Ministry, to imagine pathways for synergies amongst
them and to review their ‘management problems, lack of clarity of vision and policies, un-
clear distribution of authority powers and responsibility, transparency, elitism, coordination
and strategy’ (Government of India, 2014, p. 5). In accordance with the customary Indian

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pattern, the group was made up of a recently retired senior civil servant, one serving bureau-
crat (as secretary) and five members from the arts community. Strangely enough, no doubt
in view of pending general elections (these swept the ruling alliance out of power in May
2014) the HPC was given only three months in which to submit its report. It appears to have
thought deeply and in novel ways about the performance of these apex state-supported cultural
bodies, in other words the means. It also appears to have consulted relatively widely with
independent cultural actors (albeit all drawn from the same elite circles as the commissioners
themselves). Yet nowhere in its report is there any reflection on ends, rhetorical references to
‘vision’ notwithstanding. The report’s Preamble closes with the following acerbically critical
paragraph:

The representatives of Government often believe that theirs is the power and right
to receive obeisance. On the other hand, our ambassadors of culture are sometimes
so uncultured in their ways; some of them do not know the difference between self-­
actualisation and self-aggrandisement … [T]hey must realize that they are answerable to
the public, to the ordinary citizen; they are responsible for the honest utilization of the
taxpayer’s money. How does one then find a balance, in practical ways, between benign
patronage and excessive control, between creativity and accountability, between a stolid
bureaucracy and cultural freedom?
(Government of India, 2014, p. 3)

The Report also notes that similar committees had been mandated in 1964, 1972 and 1990
but that no ‘significant changes in the bureaucratic systems and the style of functioning of
our institutions’ had resulted (Government of India, 2014, p. 6). While the stress is on the
absence of positive change, what is more significant is that such change is envisaged only in
‘nuts and bolts’ terms, related to ‘basic issues of structure and processes’ (p. 8). This is clearly a
pattern in Indian thinking about arts policy. Thus the Country Profile: India identifies the key
issues public debate as: the search for different models of arts funding, involving the creation
of a series of ‘zonal cultural centres’ for the arts in order to surmount regional divides and
the creation of a National Culture Fund, a trust that is a new avenue enabling institutions
and individuals to partner with government to support arts projects. Related to this thrust is
‘the perception that governmental interference often did more harm than good; and that the
government should only make such infrastructure available to independent and credible not-
for-profit agencies who would be better able to run it if left to themselves’ (­ Rajadhyaksha
et al., 2013, p. 137).
Policy and practice in the small state of Goa, home to just 1.3 million people, which
belonged to the Portuguese overseas empire until 1961, appears to be an exception to this
picture, however. The Country Profile: India does not examine state patronage of the sector
in the country’s federal states apart from making passing reference to the Akademis and
other mechanisms of the southern state of Karnataka. Having spent the last few months in
Goa, however, the author has observed a rather different picture there. A clear policy has
been enunciated in State Cultural Policy 2007, which boldly asserts the intention to ‘launch
an experiment in Cultural Democracy in Goa’ (Government of Goa, 2007, p. 1). Invok-
ing Article 27 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the document also sets out
principles that would be familiar in Western Europe, such as the promotion of individual
creativity, equality of access to cultural life, freedom of expression, cultural renewal and
quality, ‘to make it possible for culture to be a dynamic, independent and challenging force’
(p. 1). It identifies the following key ‘thrust areas’: preservation; dissemination; research;

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training, education and animation; empowerment and gender justice and even advocates
an ‘inter-sectoral approach’ as regards cultural administration. The following sectors are to
benefit from grants, job creation and the provision of facilities: folklore; dance and music;
drama and theatre; languages and literature; arts and crafts; architecture and sculpture; fairs,
festivals and markets; food and beverages; costumes, dress and fashion; journalism, television
and radio; cultural industry, photography, films and popular media; IT and culture; event
organisation; cultural heritage, tourism and museology; paintings and cultural education.

The crafts sector: more ‘culture’ than ‘art’

The country’s vast handicrafts sector has been an arena of intensive policy making over the
years, initially framed in developmentalist terms, i.e. incomes and livelihoods, under the
country’s Five Year Plan process that began in 1951. The sector comes under the ­M inistry of
Textiles, which runs the Export Promotion Council for Handicrafts (EPCH), the H ­ andicrafts
and Handlooms Export Corporation (HHEC), the National Institute of Fashion Technology
(NIFT) and the National Handicrafts and Handlooms Museum. The Ministry of Micro,
Small and Medium Enterprises runs the Khadi and Village Industries Commission. The
condition of the artisan has been central in the nationalist location of culture (­ Rajadhyaksha
et al., 2013). The nineteenth-century ruin of the Indian handicrafts sector (notably the spin-
ning industry) at the hands of British colonial exploitation is a key theme in Indian economic
history; it has moulded policy in this sector. Thus, the elaborate programmes that were de-
veloped in connection with an early ‘development’ vision may well be unique. Craftspeople
were seen as a repository of ‘true’ Indian culture; they were integral to the nationalist project
of identifying and protecting a ‘national heritage’, yet their economic importance gave their
uplift great visibility, ‘informing the most ambitious and difficult aspect of national deve­
lopment: the agenda of agrarian reform’ (Rajadhyaksha et al., 2013, p. 8). At the same time,
support to the artisan presented a real synergy with the nationalist goals of industrialisation
and an emphasis on the development of science and technology.

Culture in the development project

Rajadhyaksha et al. lay great stock by the fact that the role of culture was foregrounded in
India’s first three ‘Five Year Plans’, during what they call the ‘period of development’ as re-
gards the state’s engagement with the cultural domain. Indeed language in those Plans pre-
figured the ‘culture and development’ discourses that were to emerge internationally only in
the 1970s. By the Third Plan (1961–1966), a more specific claim was articulated for cultural
values as resources for planning under a synthesis of tradition and modernity. Similar objec-
tives were laid out for ‘village industries’, the reorganisation of village economies, the links
between cottage industry with large-scale industrial production and research and marketing.
The documents also stress helping the economically disadvantaged and the tribal people of
India, who ‘needed to be enabled to develop along the lines of their own genius, with gen-
uine respect and support for their own traditional arts and culture and without pressure or
imposition from outside’ (Third Five Year Plan, cited on p. 19). In fact, however, while gov-
ernmental support to the crafts has always been highly organised, subsidies to craftspeople
have never been as great as is commonly believed (Dhamija, 2008). There has always been a
considerable gap between Plan ambitions and their execution. The Plans have been largely
discursive gestures, built into the nation’s narrative strategies in Bhabha’s sense (1994), both
pedagogical and performative, long on rhetoric but short on implementation.

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Yudhishthir Raj Isar

These authors also conclude that ‘the role of the State in cultural terms today has credibil-
ity mainly in its ability to support those who cannot receive support otherwise: i.e. the truly
disadvantaged: the poor, the economically marginalised…’ (p. 24), yet curiously they fail to
point out that in reality governmental provision does no such thing. There is a direct link
here with the social and cultural capital, in Bourdieu’s sense, accumulated by the Indian elite
and the distance it has established vis à vis the peasantry and the lower castes, seen as ignorant
and backward. The ‘newly formed institutions explicitly acknowledged the reality of castes
as part of the “given cultural material” with which the nation was constructed’ (Schech and
Haggis, 2000, pp. 134–135) and embodied Indian national culture as the culture of the new
so-called ‘middle class’. Hence Chatterjee’s assertion that:

the story of national emancipation is also a story of betrayal. Necessarily so. Because it
could only confer freedom by imposing at the same time a whole set of new controls,
it could only define a cultural identity for the nation by excluding many from its fold,
and it could only grant the dignity of citizenship to some because the others always
needed to be represented; they could not be allowed to speak for themselves.
(Chatterjee, 1992, p. 214)

Indeed, many groups in India are excluded from the processes of inventing the national cul-
ture. While they cannot identify with this project, there are few signs yet of their frontally
challenging it (Bhabha, 1994). Particularly as regards the aboriginal or ‘tribal’ people of
India, formally known as the ‘Scheduled Tribes’ and officially included among the ‘back-
ward classes’, the paternalistic upper-caste vision has re-appropriated a good deal from prior
colonialist attitudes. Thus the Backward Classes Commission recommended in 1955 that
‘we offer certain concessions and help to the Scheduled Tribes in their effort to come up to
the general standard. While the state should help tribal people to modernize, it should also
recognise that they have ‘certain good things to offer to us – such as folk-dances, folk-songs
and many customs’ (cited by Schech and Haggis, 2000, p. 126). Yet there has been scant sup-
port for the ‘welfare of the weak’, notably in the light of development. Witness this recent
comment on the ways in which environmental depletion and economic development have
together disrupted the lifeworlds of the traditionally self-employed, notably craftspeople:

Particularly badly hit are nomadic groups, their migratory routes disrupted, their lifestyles
and cultures marginalized, misunderstood or denigrated, and their own younger gener-
ations turning away under myriad influences. The Anthropological S­ urvey of I­ ndia es-
timated that there were at least 276 non-pastoral nomadic occupations ­( hunter-gatherers
and trappers, fishers, craftspersons, entertainers and story-tellers, healers, spiritual and
religious performers or practitioners, traders and so on). Most of these are threatened,
some already extinct or dying, and the people displaced from these livelihoods are ­either
getting absorbed into the insecure, undignified, low-paid and exploitative sector of un-
organized labour, or left simply unemployed.
(Shrivastava and Kothari, n.d., p. 10)

No ‘creative economy’ discourse

The success of the ‘global script’ of the ‘creative industries’ in East and Southeast Asia is now
widely acknowledged (see in particular Kong et al., 2006; Kong, 2010). In India, a different
picture has emerged (UNESCO-UNDP, 2013).13 A commercially triumphant private media

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and entertainment industry serves a huge consumer market (as in China). The television
market in India is the third largest in the world; other segments include a major print publish-
ing and newspaper sector, television and radio, not forgetting a film industry that produces
over 800 films annually, not just in Hindi, the language of Bollywood, but also in Bengali,
Tamil, Telugu, Punjabi and Malayalam. PricewaterhouseCoopers brought out a series of
annual reports, published initially in cooperation with the Federation of Indian Chambers of
Commerce and Industry (FICCI), that have mapped this vast sector, mainly for the benefit
of prospective private investors, both Indian and foreign. A 2006 report, entitled The Indian
Entertainment and Media Industry. Unravelling the Potential, recognised the (limited) measures
taken to liberalize foreign investment and resolve regulatory bottlenecks in certain segments
of the industry. It held that ‘with concerted efforts by industry players on deterrents such as
piracy and other challenges, the E&M (entertainment and media) industry has the potential
to evolve into a star performer of the Indian economy’ (PricewaterhouseCoopers, 2006, p. 5).
In like manner, Ernst & Young’s 2012 Film Industry in India. New Horizons (produced in co-
operation with the Los Angeles India Film Council) reviewed the flourishing of the broader
media and entertainment industry, its potential for growth and for collaborations between
Bollywood and Hollywood. None of these stakeholders use the creative economy termino­
logy at all, nor does the government, which acts mainly as a facilitator by gradually introduc-
ing regulatory and fiscal reforms to encourage growth and enhance investment and export.
In 2005, UNESCO organised with much fanfare a regional symposium in Jodhpur,
­Rajasthan, expressly designed to promote the development of ‘creative economy’ policy.
While there appears to have been some positive follow-up elsewhere in the Asia-Pacific
region, in India itself the lessons of the symposium did not ‘take’. Although the following
year the Planning Commission did use classic British creative industries formulations in
several of its documents, these references applied to the traditional arts and crafts sector that
provides livelihoods to well over 10 million people – in other words the arguments were
couched in craft-intensive rather than technology-intensive terms (Srinivas et al., 2009). The
Commission’s executive head wrote that ‘a dynamic global business using creativity, tradi-
tional knowledge and intellectual property to produce products and services with social and
cultural meaning, points to the next Big Idea’ in the development-planning context, but his
real emphasis was on livelihoods in the crafts sector, one that is ‘self-organized and not un-­
organized’ and whose importance lay in its ‘critical human resource component’. Further-
more, he argued, this resource needs recognition and ‘ground level support, similar to that
given for IT and other empowered initiatives – not handouts’ (Ahluwalia, 2006, p. 3). The
task would be to turn cultural industries (traditional arts and crafts) into creative industries
with the help of the ‘design and media industry’ and thus ‘create original inroads into the
global market’ and produce ‘distinctively Indian products and services… our own original
contribution that can hold its own against the best the world has to offer’. As part of this pro-
cess, the star designer Rajeev Sethi, named Vice-Chairperson of the Planning Commission’s
Task Force on Cultural and Creative Industries, proposed a shimmering scenario for the
employment of vast numbers of currently unemployed/underemployed people, especially in
rural areas. But practically nothing has come of these ideas.14
On the other hand, a contemporary visual art market flourishes. New Delhi’s India Art
Fair is a private initiative, organised under the aegis of the auction house Sotheby’s since
2008; its 5th edition in 2013 presented the work of 104 galleries from 24 countries, including
many in Europe. Till that year, it was estimated to have attracted over 300,000 visitors, from
India, other Asian countries and the rest of the world. More recent figures are not available,
but reports concur that its footfall and notoriety have increased significantly. Late 2012 also

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saw the launch of the country’s first art biennial, the ‘Kochi-Muziris Biennale 2012’, whose
two highly successful editions have been financed through a mix of public and private-sector
support.15 Aware of the potential of this field, the Federation of Indian Chambers of Com-
merce and Industry (FICCI) established a Committee on Art and Business of Art composed
of artists, gallery owners, auctioneers, art historians, tax experts and policy makers so as to
‘add momentum of the growth of the visual art sector in India… [and] to engage Indian cor-
porates in bringing about holistic development in arts.’ Its 2010 report, entitled Art ­Industry
in India: Policy Recommendations assessed Indian legislation and taxation for the visual arts.
In 2012, FICCI also published Art and Corporate India, whose principal focus was again the
visual arts.
Other initiatives could be cited in other domains that would be labelled ‘creative indus-
try’ in most other settings. For example, the DSC Jaipur Literature Festival produced by
Teamwork, the leader among several private entertainment companies now operating in the
country.16 There is a growing number of private cultural businesses, notably in publishing
and the book trade. The Oxford Book Store chain (with more than 30 stores across the
country) has co-publishing and translation agreements with publishing houses in Europe;
it has also created the Apeejay Kolkata Literary Festival, which introduces Indian readers to
contemporary writing, both European and Indian.
‘Creative economy’ is not a term of choice used in relation to any of these initiatives. The
‘creative’ has not become the talismanic notion it has become elsewhere. Why is this so? The
answer is no doubt to be found in a number of factors. Most importantly, perhaps, the Indian
film industry – now known as Bollywood – developed largely as a commercially viable busi-
ness, as did other pursuits such as book publishing. Somewhat as is the case in the USA, it is
taken for granted in India that mass-produced cultural goods and services are commercially
produced and do not require direct state support. Nor, being less noble than the high culture
forms that embody tradition and identity, do they warrant it. A concrete contributing factor
has been the scale of informality, in terms of both the number of enterprises and jobs; the
informal economy has been estimated to contribute as much as half of total GDP and infor-
mal employment an even higher proportion of total employment. Hence, there has been no
deliberate positioning of the cultural sector in ‘creative industry’ terms that was introduced
in the UK in the late 1990s and adopted elsewhere (Isar, 2012). In the view of the present
author, this is not itself a bad thing, given the tedious tendentiousness of so much of the
reigning ‘creative industry’ or ‘creative economy’ discourses.

Threats to cultural freedom

We turn now to cultural politics. Threats against artistic freedom – and against freedom of
expression in general – now occupy centre stage in public debate. While the threats concern
arts policy, the societal anxieties and insecurities driving them have far broader purchase.
Their principal agents are non-state actors: Hindu and Muslim fundamentalist movements
who are introducing novel forms of ‘cultural policing’, i.e. ‘all attempts at imposing ways
of thinking and behaving on behalf of value systems pertaining to religion or morality that
resort to symbolic or physical violence, blackmailing or any other form of constraint’ (Gayer
et al., 2010, p. 148).
Writers, painters and filmmakers are increasingly attacked for ‘blasphemy and outraging
religion’ in their work or for tackling issues such as homosexuality and widow remarriage.
This alarming trend was initiated by the Bajrang Dal, the armed wing of the Hindu right-
wing Rashtriya Sevak Samaj (RSS), which has taken the latter from a policy of example to

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one of constraint.17 Founded in 1925, the RSS has assigned itself the principal task of defend-
ing the Hindu community against Muslim threats, real or imagined. Hence its paramilitary
overtones, which, however, went together for many years with a quietist attitude: the RSS
hoped to spread its message through example, not constraint. Things changed in the 1990s
with the rise of the Bajrang Dal. Artists, particularly when they were Muslim, were its
first targets.
The emblematic case has been that of the celebrated painter M.F. Husain. In 1996, BD
militants attacked a show of his works in Ahmedabad (Gujarat), destroying canvases and wall
hangings in retaliation for a 1976 depiction of the goddess Saraswati – she was too scantily
clad in their eyes. Two years later they ransacked the painter’s Bombay apartment in protest
against his canvas, ‘Sita Rescued’, that depicted the famous scene in the Ramayana epic
where Sita is freed from the demon Ravana – again because she was scantily dressed. An
exhibition of reproductions of Husain’s works and photographs, organised to protest the art-
ist’s exclusion from the India Art Summit in August 2008, was vandalized by another right-
wing group. As the mere presence of Husain’s work in the public sphere seemed to invite a
violent reaction from these quarters, he went into self-imposed exile soon afterwards and
died abroad in 2011. The intolerance has extended to Hindu artists whose work is thought
to ‘hurt Hindu sentiments’ as well as to obscure amateurs operating in purely local settings.
In the year 2000, Indian/Canadian director Deepa Mehta was shooting her film Water
on the fraught lives of Hindu widows in Benares in the 1930s, condemned to celibacy, beg-
ging and prostitution. The screenplay envisaged an ‘illicit’ relationship between a ­Brahmin
widow and an untouchable and the rape of another. A BJP dignitary declared that the film
insulted ‘ancient Indian culture and traditions’ and threatened ‘more violent protest’ if ­Mehta
tried to shoot in India.18 She proceeded to do so nevertheless, after having secured all the
necessary authorizations, but the set built on the banks of the Ganges was ransacked by
­Bajrang Dal militants and she was prevented by force from shooting elsewhere.
Some artists have even made the poignant decision to end their public lives because of
attacks on their work. In January 2015, a well-known Tamil language writer announced on
Facebook: ‘Perumal Murugan, the writer, is dead. As he is no God, he is not going to resur-
rect himself. He has no faith in rebirth. As an ordinary teacher, he will live as P. Murugan.
Leave him alone’ (cited in Vari, 2015). His decision was prompted by virulent protests by
Hindu and local caste-based groups against his novel, Madhorubhagan, which, they com-
plained, denigrated Hindu deities and women. The protestors were mainly troubled by its
critique of the caste system, particularly the inhumane treatment of the untouchables by
caste Hindus. The same modus operandi is in force among Muslim fundamentalists, it must
be said, although Indian Islamists have no coherent organisation like the RSS network. But
this has not prevented them from launching recurrent campaigns against ‘deviant’ artists.19
‘For a country that takes great pride in its democracy and history of free speech, the present
situation is troubling, ‘says Nilanjana Roy, a columnist and literary critic. ‘Especially in the
creative sphere, the last two decades have been progressively intolerant’ (cited in Vari, 2015).
Beyond the arts, fringe groups such as the Sri Rama Sena (army of Rama) in Karnataka, not
all of which are formally associated with the RSS, have launched violent attacks on minori-
ties and women.
Life on university campuses has also been affected, in large part through the exertions
of the Akhil Bharatiya Vidyarthi Parishad (ABVP—Indian Students’ Association), the coun-
try’s largest student union in terms of membership, founded by the RSS in 1948, whose
primary aim initially was to combat communist influence, but has now taken on the cause
of ­Hindutva as well. Confrontations between ABVP militants and student leaders on the

497
Yudhishthir Raj Isar

Left have led recently to two high-profile dramas: the January 2016 suicide of Dalit student
­Rohith ­Vemula at Hyderabad University and the February 2016 arrest on charges of sedi-
tion for ‘anti-national’ statements of Kanhaiya Kumar, President of the Jawaharlal Nehru
­University Students’ Union (and a leader of the All India Student Federation, the student
wing of the Communist Party of India).

Towards counter-hegemony in the apex institutions?

Today, the question arises of whether and in what way BJP governments will begin polic-
ing cultural institutions directly. Will they applying Gramscian principles and strategies of
hegemony? In 2013, the authors of the Country Profile: India noted the government’s loss of
credibility in the arts but detected attempts to overcome the crisis of credibility in the then
Congress Party-led coalition’s support for autonomous initiatives such as arm’s length bod-
ies, new cultural foundations, etc. Today, however, the very idea of autonomy is contested.
­A lready in 1990, however, the Haksar Committee had found autonomy to be either nulli-
fied or rendered toothless by governmental interference that starved institutions of funds or
delayed appointments. But content was by and large spared (the secularist and left of centre
doxa was never challenged, it must be said).
Things changed when the BJP was in power earlier, between 1998 and 2004. The pol-
icy of the then minister for human resources and development, Murli Manohar Joshi, was
entirely in tune with Hindutva leanings: he appointed personalities who had been close to
the movement to key positions in the Indian Council of Historical Research (ICHR), the
Indian Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR), as well as the National Council for
­Educational Research and Training (NCERT) and entrusted them with the task of design-
ing a new school curriculum. For one of Joshi’s priorities was to create new textbooks  –
­including those dealing with Indian history – rewritten in line with Hindu chauvinist
ideology ­( Jaffrelot, 2015).
These efforts went only so far. But today, they appear to have been revived and given
even broader scope and depth. ‘We will cleanse every area of public discourse that has been
westernised and where Indian culture and civilisation need to be restored—be it the history
we read, our cultural heritage or our institutes that have been polluted over years’, the cur-
rent Minister of State for Culture is quoted as saying.20 This ambition goes well beyond the
pattern that is familiar, not just in India, of new ruling parties placing their friends and fol-
lowers in high places in a spirit of cronyism rather than of ideological command. In 2015, for
example, students at the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) were on strike for 139
days, protesting the appointment of an undistinguished series-B actor, Gajendra ­Chauhan,
whom they saw as grossly unqualified, as the chairman of the institution. He was the BJP
national convener for culture, responsible for promoting ‘the party’s ideology through cul-
tural activities’, as he put it in an interview with The Indian Express (cited in Bhattacharya,
2015). Equally troubling was the selection of other unqualified people to the FTII’s govern-
ing council.
Conversely, in The New York Review of Books, the economist and Nobel laureate
­A martya Sen described how the government had pressured him to step down as chan-
cellor of the newly formed Nalanda University – most likely because of his criticism of
Prime Minister Modi before the elections (Sen, 2015). Sen also listed the ways in which
the government had interfered in the management of other academic institutions – the
Tata Institute of Fundamental Research, IIT Delhi, IIT Bombay and the National Book

498
 Cultural policy in India

Trust. It had proposed a bill that would give it direct control of the 13 Indian Institutes
of Management. ‘The caliber of two recent appointments is also alarmingly questionable:
Lokesh Chandra, the newly selected head of the Indian Council of Cultural Relations, has
said Modi is an incarnation of God, and Yellapragada Sudershan Rao, the new head of the
Indian Council of Historical Research, has praised the caste system’ (Bhattacharya, 2015,
accessed 20 April 2016).
In April, 2016, the Minister of Culture dissolved the board of the prestigious Indira
Gandhi National Centre for the Arts in New Delhi (admittedly a grossly underperforming
white elephant created by earlier Congress governments), removing several members before
the end of their tenure and installing some of his own candidates. He appointed as president
a veteran Hindi language journalist who had been the organising secretary of the ABVP
during the 1974 Bihar movement led by Jayaprakash Narayan against governmental misrule
and corruption. As the government places its loyalists at the head of the cultural institutions,
and the process has continued with a variety of other recent appointments, those in the
­secularist/pluralist camp wonder how soon its pursuit of the larger agenda, which is a trans-
formation of the very idea of Indian civilization, will be put in place.

Conclusions
This account has sought to reveal, in broad brushstrokes, how state patronage for the arts
and heritage has been conceived in India and how it has unfolded, the institutions it has cre-
ated for this purpose, as well the themes and registers it has privileged and ignored. All this
is in the absence of any meaningful concern with expanding the capacities of the cultural
sector or promoting cultural expression in a spirit of cultural democracy and inclusiveness.
The patronage has been guided by and has in turn reinforced a sense of how Indian high
culture can and should embody a certain national idea. Although it has been defined secu-
larist and pluralist terms so far, this has nevertheless been an essentially elitist articulation,
whose exclusionary nature has been largely unchallenged. Equally unquestioned have been
its aims: critique focuses purely on the efficiency – or rather, the inefficiency – of the state-­
sponsored institutions. Today, non-state cultural sector actors are partially compensating for
these inadequacies.
Recent years, however, have seen the secularist and pluralist idea of India challenged by
the current ruling party and by civil society groups that support Hindutva ideology, often by
means of symbolic and physical violence, notably on behalf of a version of Indian identity
based exclusively on Hindu references. Cultural policing has become commonplace and the
current administration clearly seeks to control the ‘commanding heights’ of the political
economy of the culture sector, in a positively Gramscian deployment of power viewed as
domination plus intellectual and moral leadership. But this kind of religion-based majoritar-
ian thinking in a society where pluralism is a core value and a diversity of diversities is taken
for granted by the majority will be difficult to impose across the board. It is likely, therefore,
that as far as conceptions of India’s ‘cultural identity’ is concerned, the coming years will
see increasingly acute clashes of ideas, institutional struggles and contests for power, in other
words an increasingly fractious politics of culture.

Acknowledgements
The author is grateful for constructive comments formulated by Galia Saouma and S.V. Srinivas.

499
Yudhishthir Raj Isar

Notes
1 Preparatory Action Culture in EU External Relations. http://cultureinexternalrelations.eu/.
2 Modelled on the Compendium of Cultural Policies and Trends in Europe, the profiles cover some 80 cat-
egories and indicators organised under 9 main chapters. For the full structure, see: www.worldcp.
org/profiles-structure.php.
3 www.worldcp.org/profiles-download.php.
4 The 51 monographs were descriptive rather than analytical; at the time, however, they nevertheless
provided the only information available to scholars.
5 The opening paragraph captures the complexity of the Indian cultural scene very adeptly:
…it is essential to keep constantly in view the complex, intricate and multilayered, multidi-
mensional cultural fabric of the country, both in time and space. Such a framework would
be necessary for the study of any civilization but is imperative in a situation of incredible
cultural continuity which has survived through 5,000 years of history marked by periods
of unrest, invasions, wars, political subjugation, economic underdevelopment and one which
has conditioned, guided and governed the value-system of a whole people, today numbering
531 ­m illion, spread over an area of 3,276,141 square kilometres comprising a bewildering mul-
tiplicity of races, castes, ethnic groups, sub-cultures and religious sects.
(Vatsyayan, 1972, p. 9)
6 The CSCS website is still active: http://cscs.res.in/. The author had speculated that CSCS down-
sized in 2014 mainly for lack of funding, reflecting the limited interest in cultural policy as a field,
but a founding member of the Centre, S.V. Srinivas, has explained in an oral communication that
while funding was indeed always difficult, the Centre was more severely challenged by India’s
changing higher education environment, including the creation of private universities and the
increased activity of government-sponsored research centres, which made it difficult for the CSCS
to sustain its research and teaching.
7 See: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/Panel-members-against-one-cultural-policy/­
articleshow/3089531.cms (Accessed 10 May 2016).
8 As stated in the Citizen’s/Client’s Charter for Government of India (Ministry of Culture). http://
indiaculture.nic.in/sites/default/f iles/citizen%20charter/mculture%20citizens%20charter.pdf
(Accessed 20 April 2016).
9 Source: http://economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/news-by-industry/et-cetera/union-budget-
2012-13-culture-ministry-gets-rs-67-crore/articleshow/12292630.cms.
10 Anmol Vellani, ‘The Case for Independent Arts Philanthropy, website of the India Foundation for
the Arts. www.indiaifa.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=20&Itemid=17
(Accessed 10 March 2012).
11 The approaches of the European cultural institutes contrast with those of countries such as China,
Japan or South Korea, whose cultural centres focus on promoting their own cultural forms and
agents.
12 In the Indian polity, municipalities are not empowered to function as autonomous cultural policy
making or implementing entities.
13 This section borrows from my analysis in UNESCO/UNDP, 2013.
14 Some forward movement might emerge, however, from a workshop on ‘Art and cinema industries in
India: Norms, workers and territories’, that was organised in May 2016 by Christine ­Iturbide, a re-
searcher working with the French Centre for Social Sciences and Humanities (CSH) in New Delhi,
on the basis of her earlier as well as ongoing research on the cultural industries in India.
15 www.kochimuzirisbiennale.org.
16 http://teamworkproductions.in/.
17 The word bajrang, meaning ‘strong’, is associated with the monkey god, Hanuman – sometimes also
referred to as Bajrang Bali – who is generally depicted brandishing a club.
18 Quoted in The Hindu, 5 February 2000.
19 The first major episode of this recent history was the Rushdie affair: before taking on a transna-
tional dimension in the wake of Ayatollah Khomeini’s fatwa, the campaign against The Satanic
Verses was actually launched in India.
20 Cited on www.firstpost.com/politics/culture-minister-mahesh-sharmas-strikes-again-bible-­
quran-not-central-to-soul-of-india-2438340.html (Accessed 18 April 2016).

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 32
From Cultural Revolution
to cultural engineering
Cultural policy in post-Revolutionary Iran

Ali Akbar Tajmazinani

Introduction
With the victory of an Islamic Revolution in 1979 in Iran, the cultural landscape of
the country experienced a dramatic transformation both at the grassroots level and the
formal structural levels. The most notable policy development with direct impact for
cultural policy in this phase was the issuance of Ayatollah Khomeini’s mandate to un-
dertake a ‘Cultural Revolution’ in various aspects of society. The ‘Supreme Council of
Cultural Revolution’ was established and activated. A complete revision in the educa-
tional system and other public spheres was one of the main features. The Council has
remained as the main policymaking authority until now and has directly formulated
policies, while influencing other policies adopted by various administrative and legisla-
tive institutions.
This chapter reviews policy documents adopted by various administrative and legislative
bodies to map the evolution of Iran’s cultural policy scene in the past four decades. It begins
with a brief introduction of the country, followed by a section on cultural policy orientations
in the pre-Revolution era to contextualize cultural policy in Revolutionary Iran. The chap-
ter continues by elaborating the processes and features of Cultural Revolution and its impact
on policymaking after the Revolution. It then deals with the most recent policy develop-
ment, which has been the adoption of a ‘Cultural Engineering’ approach by the Council
through which it seeks to ensure that all economic, social and political policies, programs
and measures undertaken by various parts of the administrative bodies are in line with cul-
tural orientations approved by the system. It will be argued that the new approach is mainly
a change of rhetoric, which seeks to materialize the original goals of the Revolution within
the new atmosphere, not a substantive shift of policy for which one could find grounds to
envisage a notable success.
The chapter concludes with some theoretical and practical analysis of cultural policy in
Iran and tries to locate the system within the main typology of cultural policy systems in the
world. While having its unique features, the existing cultural policy model seems close to
the engineer model (though with some main differences) as well as having some similarities
with the nurturer model.

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Ali Akbar Tajmazinani

Iran: and overview of the context

Known mainly through the western media representation focusing largely on politi-
cal issues, Iran is less familiar to the outside world, especially those in the west, from a
­socio-cultural perspective. This is partly because of a series of significant political events
taking place in recent decades revolving around Iran. The overthrow of the pro-western
king (Shah) of Iran and the establishment of a theocratic state (the Islamic Republic of Iran)
in 1979 was the first in this series of events that heralded nearly four decades of considerable
political upheavals in the region as well as at the international level. The capturing of the
U.S. embassy in Tehran by university students and people who had strong anti-American
sentiments was the second on the list; having roots mainly in vast interventions by the
U.S. in Iran’s domestic affairs (including the 1953 coup against the popular Prime Minister
Mohammad Mosaddeq) the feelings peaked when the Shah entered the U.S. after fleeing
the country in 1979.
The longest political crisis began when Saddam Hussein invaded Iran in 1980 in order
to seize the opportunity of post-Revolutionary chaos to establish his position as the stron-
gest regime in the region. The war, which lasted for eight years, was marked by strong
support for Saddam by western powers (such as the U.S., the United Kingdom, France and
­Germany), eastern powers (mainly the former Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of
China) as well as Arab countries (including Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Kuwait) who consid-
ered Revolutionary Iran as a common threat to their interests (for various reasons). Iran’s
continuance of its nuclear energy plans (which is considered as a potential threat by western
powers due to possibility of obtaining nuclear weapons) has provided western media with
enough opportunities in recent years to maintain the same line of negative representations
of the country.
It is beyond the scope of this study to discuss or challenge those representations. However,
it is useful to have a brief introduction about some of the main features of the Iranian society
for a better understanding of the socio-political context of its cultural policy. The first point
with relevance to cultural policy is the contrast of pre- and post-Islamic history and heritage
of the country that has inspired two contrasting lines of cultural policy in modern Iran be-
fore and after the Islamic Revolution.
Officially known as the ‘Islamic Republic of Iran’, the country was called Persia at the
international level until 1935 (although it was referred to as Iran at the domestic level from
ancient times). The current name is derived from the word ‘Aryan’, which means the ‘land
of Aryans’ (noble people). Aryan refers to the Indo-European race; members inhabited this
part of the world in ancient times and they are believed by some scholars to be the ancestors
of the European peoples (Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2005a). Iran is home to one of the
oldest civilisations in the world. Recorded history began with the Elamites c 3000 BC.
The Medes flourished from c 728 BC but were overthrown (550 BC) by the Persians. Cyrus
the Great (558–529 BC) is the most famous emperor during this era who appears in the Bible
as the liberator of the Jews held captive in Babylon (Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2005b)
and who is believed to have issued the ‘first human rights charter’ in the world (ICS, 2016a),
the original version of which is kept in the British Museum.
Islam came to Iran in the 7th century when the Sāsānian dynasty (AD 224–651) was
defeated by Muslim Arabs. However, the majority of Iranian Muslims were from the
Sunni sect until the Safavid dynasty (1502–1736) established a dominant Shi’ite state.
The last dynasty, which ruled Iran before the Islamic Revolution in 1979, was the Pahlavi
dynasty (1926–1979). Its founder, Reza Shah, overthrew the Qājār dynasty (1794–1925)

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 From Cultural Revolution to cultural engineering

through a coup backed by the British Empire. He and his successor (his son, Mohammad
Reza Shah) were known as pro-western, autocratic and anti-religious rulers and provided
the ground for a vast and influential presence of western powers in the country, especially
the United Kingdom (U.K.) and later the United States (Encyclopædia Britannica Inc.,
2005b,c).
These orientations and their cultural, political, social and economic implications evoked
dissatisfaction among various sectors of the society (left wing parties, religious leaders,
­nationalist movements, academic forums and the grass roots) and led to the victory of the
­Islamic Revolution in 1979. The Revolution had as its main slogans ‘independence, freedom,
Islamic Republic’ and ‘no to West, no to East, [yes to] Islamic Republic’. The establishment
of the Islamic Republic of Iran under Ayatollah Khomeini, who passed away in 1989 and was
replaced through the selection of Ayatollah Khamenei as Supreme Leader (1989-present) by
the Assembly of Leadership Experts, began a new era in the history of the country, which
brought about a series of serious changes to various aspects of the Iranian society, notably in
the field of culture and cultural policy.
The second notable issue relates to demographic characteristics. With a population
of 75,149,669, Iran enjoys a diverse society both in terms of language and ethnicity with
­languages being linked to ethnic groups. The main ethnic groups with their own unique
languages are Fars or Persians 60% (including Persian sub-groups such as the Mazandara-
nis, Tats, and Gilakis), Azeris or Turks 20%, Kurds 7%, Lors 3%, Arabs 2%, Baloochis 2%,
­Turkmens 2%, Turkic tribal groups (e.g. Qashqai) 2%, and non-Persian, non-Turkic groups
(e.g. Armenians, Assyrians and Georgians) 2% (Library of Congress, 2008). Unlike ethnicity
and language, Iranian society is not a diverse one in terms of religion. Based on 2011 na-
tional census, more than 99.4% of the population are Muslim and the rest consists mainly of
­Christians, Jews and Zoroastrians (SCI, 2012).
A third issue related to the nature of cultural policy in Iran is its state-dominated economy.
The majority of large-scale industries including the oil industry, broadcasting, telecommu-
nication, banking, automobile manufacturing, insurance, roads and railroads, shipping and
energy are under state ownership and control. Privatisation and economic adjustment has
been a constant and often contradictory policy paradigm since the end of the Iraq-Iran war
with subsequent governments following various approaches to this issue. The most recent
development is the reinterpretation of Article 44 of the Constitution in a way that allows
for the private sector to play a more active role (80% of the state assets should be privatised).
Last, the nature of the political system in Iran influences cultural policy to a great extent.
Based on the 1979 Constitution1 and its amendment in 1989, the political system of Iran is
‘Islamic Republic’ with Shi’a Islam being the official religion while officially recognising the
other Islamic sect (Sunni) and other main religions, namely, Christianity, Zoroastrianism,
and Judaism. The Supreme Leader (who must be a prominent religious figure) is the high-
est state authority and is elected by the Assembly of Leadership Experts (elected by direct
public votes).
The President is the head of executive branch and the highest state authority after the
Supreme Leader. He is elected by universal suffrage (for four years with a possibility of being
elected for a second term) and is responsible for the implementation of the Constitution.
Apart from the cabinet, he is also head of the Supreme Council of Cultural Revolution
(explained below). The national Parliament (Majles) is composed of 290 members elected
by people (at municipality levels) for four years and is the main legislative entity, although
it has a so-called rival in the field of cultural legislation (Supreme Council of Cultural
Revolution).

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Ali Akbar Tajmazinani

Cultural policy in the pre-Revolution era

To have a clear understanding of the motives and drivers of cultural policy after the Islamic
Revolution and especially the necessity of a ‘Cultural Revolution’ from the perspective
of its agents, there is a need to illustrate the cultural policy scene of pre-revolution era. It
could be argued that integrated attempts towards modern cultural policy began with the
establishment of Pahlavi dynasty as part of the overall modernisation agenda of the country.
The period spans from 1925 until 1979 and includes the ruling of Reza Shah (1925–1944)
and his son Mohammad Reza Shah (1944–1979). The dynasty was founded four years after a
British-assisted coup (in 1921) when Reza shah overthrew Ahmad Shah Qajar, the last king
or Shah of the Qajar dynasty.
Four main orientations could be identified in the cultural policy of Pahlavi era, namely
ancientisation/archaism, westernisation, secularisation, and assimilation. Although these
four elements are interrelated and overlapping, distinct features and policies could be traced
for each component:

(A) Ancientisation/Archaism
The Pahlavi dynasty had a strong emphasis in its cultural policy on symbols and ele-
ments of ancient or pre-Islamic era legacy. Although this tendency began with Iranian
intellectuals during Qajar dynasty (Ashna, 2009), it was only under Reza Shah that
formal cultural practices were guided by this principle.
By ancientisation we mean authentication of a contemporary national identity by
reference to Iranian ancient symbols and practices. First, Reza Shah labelled his dynasty
‘Pahlavi’, which refers to an ancient Iranian language. Second, the strengthening of
archaeology, to discover and preserve the remains of ancient Iranian civilisation, was
put on the agenda of cultural policy. Several archaeologist teams were invited from
countries such as Germany, the United States of America and France to work alongside
Iranian archaeologists and the Museum of Ancient Iran (currently National Museum of
Iran) was established. Third, the national calendar was changed from Hijri Qamari (an
Islamic lunar calendar beginning in AD 622, during which the emigration or Hijrah of
Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina to establish an Islamic state occurred) to a
Persian Imperial Calendar (a solar calendar beginning with the birth of the Persian Em-
pire founder, Cyrus the Great, in 559 BC). Fourth, a series of festivals was held in 1971
on the occasion of the 2,500th anniversary of the founding of the Iranian monarchy by
Cyrus the Great (referred to as “The 2,500 Year Celebration of the Persian Empire”).
Fifth, the international name of the country was changed from Persia to Iran to denote
the nobility of Aryan or Indo-European race. Sixth, epic poems and epic poets were
highly promoted especially Ferdowsi and his book Shahnameh (Book of Kings), which
contains the longest epic poem of the Iran and Persian-speaking world and is charac-
terised by pure Persian language, free from imported words from other languages espe-
cially the Arabic language (Fazeli, 2006; Ashna, 2009; Ohadi and Hajirajabali, 2016).
(B) Westernisation
Intentions of the Pahlavi dynasty for rapid modernisation based on western expe-
rience, values and principles led it to adopt several measures including in the field of
culture. Although some of these cultural measures were basic in their nature, others
were imitations of the most superficial aspects of western culture. Establishment of
a modern schooling system throughout the country based on the western model,

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including mixed schools of girls and boys, was among the most notable measures.
While these schools aimed to raise children who are loyal to the royal family and their
homeland and serve the process of nation-state building, the curricular  and  extra­
curricular content and activities clearly pursued the goal of westernisation and pro-
moting the idea of western civilisation’s superiority, towards which the country
should ultimately move.
The establishment and expansion of universities, based on western models, was
also a prominent measure in this era, although some institutions such as Darolfonoon
were set up several years before (in 1851), inspired by western higher education
institutions. Tehran University was established in 1934, and the number of univer-
sities raised from four universities (with 14,500 students) in 1953 to 16 universities
(with 154,315 students) in 1977 (Abrahamian, 1980). Alongside adopting educa-
tional methods and contents ­(especially in humanities and social sciences), there were
strong and extensive relationships between Iranian universities and their western
counterparts.
Forced promotion of western-style dressing for women and men was another measure
taken by Reza Shah. Unification of Iranian’s Dressing Law was first adopted in 1929
for men and was followed by the banning of Hijab for women in 1935. It was believed
that traditional dressing was a barrier for modernisation and participation of women in
social life and that unification of dressing in line with western styles was a prerequisite
for modernisation. Although forced application of the dressing codes was not followed
by his successor Mohammad Reza Shah, western style dressing was still promoted and
encouraged by all elements of the cultural apparatus including schools, universities and
mass media.
A fourth aspect of this policy was the vast promotion of western style art in all fields
especially cinema, theatre and music. ‘Shiraz/Persepolis Festival of Arts’ was the main
annual event held at an international level for 11 years (from 1967 to 1977) in the city of
Shiraz and Persepolis, although this festival also included Iranian classic arts.
Of notable importance with regard to the diffusion of western thought was the wide-
spread translation of western literature in all fields. Comparing the list of compiled
books in Farsi and those translated into Farsi, Ashna (2009) concludes the second group
has dramatically outweighed the first category.
(C) Secularisation
Reza Shah used religious gestures as a tool to attract support from the clergy and
the public during his first steps of serious political life, including throughout the
initial years of his rule as king. However, he soon came into conflict with religious
leaders and their followers by pursuing his modernisation agenda. In fact, all policies
outlined under ancientisation and westernisation were considered by religious oppo-
sition to be part of a broad de-Islamisation and secularisation agenda. Ancientisation
policies were focusing on pre-Islamic history and elements and icons to marginalise
Islamic symbols and thoughts. Westernisation policies were also used to modernise
various aspects of social life based on western lifestyles and were strong drivers of
change towards secularisation given the central position of secularism in contempo-
rary western culture.
In addition to those policies, more direct measures were aimed at excluding reli-
gion and religious manifestations from the public sphere. Forbidding or limiting some
religious rituals exercised in public spaces, supporting secular intellectuals including

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through promotion of their ideas and products and controlling, limiting or oppressing
religious figures who were opposing the secularisation agenda are more notable among
these measures (Fazeli, 2006; Navakhti Moghadam and Anvarian Asl, 2010; Devos and
Werner, 2014; Ohadi and Hajirajabali, 2016).
(D) Assimilation
As outlined above, the Iranian population consists of several ethnic groups with a
rich diversity of languages and cultural heritages. The process of nation-state building
in the Pahlavi era, especially under Reza Shah, included a cultural assimilation agenda
as an integral part of modernisation. It was believed that a strong centralised state was
needed to preserve the national integrity and solidarity, which in turn required the
construction and promotion of a unified national identity (Ramezanzadeh, 1997: 246;
Salehi Amiri, 2009, 285–288). Construction of this new identity took place through a
plethora of measures inter aila:
• Promotion of Persian (Farsi) language as the official language including through for-
mal education system for all ethnic groups, while trying to purify it from non-Persian
elements, particularly Arabic and Turkish words, especially through the establish-
ment of the Persian Academy (Ashna, 2009).
• An emphasis on the Aryan Race and trying to promote it as the superior race that
should be preserved and purified (Fazeli, 2006; Navakhti Moghadam and Anvarian
Asl, 2010).
• Trying to weaken local and ethnic cultural diversities including through the pro-
motion of unified codes of dressing, oppression of ethnic movements, stabilising
the residence of migrating tribes and nomads (including their forced displacement
to Persian-speaking areas) and changing the local non-Persian names of places and
tribes (Salehi Amiri, 2009; Vaez Shahrestani, 2009).

The Islamic Revolution and its Cultural Revolution agenda

Iran witnessed dramatic political upheavals in the last years of the 1970s, which ended up in
the Islamic Revolution of 1979. Although groups from different schools of thought were en-
gaged in fighting the Pahlavi regime for various reasons, the religious movement under the
leadership of Ayatollah Khomeini was successful and came to dominate the socio-­political
movement. This was mainly due to the popularity of Islamic values and slogans among the
majority of highly traditional and religious population of the country, as well as the abil-
ity of religious leaders to communicate effectively with the masses and to utilise religious
teachings, symbols and institutions (thousands of mosques, Hussainia,2 religious schools or
Hawzah,3 religious charities, etc. that were present in every neighbourhood of the country)
in their struggle against the regime.
The main lines of socio-cultural oppositions of the religious movement were directed
at the cultural policies pursued by the Pahlavi regime. Actually, all four main policy ori-
entations discussed above were considered to be in contradiction with the religious iden-
tity of the Iranian population and the authority of religious leaders associated with it.
Highlighting the Ancient and pre-Islamic history during the Pahlavi era was a sign, for
the religious opposition, that Pahlavi cultural policy tried to denote the inferiority of the
Islamic legacy by its portrayal as the main cause for the backwardness of the country. It was
also employed in legitimising the monarchy and the superior status of the monarch against
other sources of authority. The secularisation agenda was in sharp contrast with claims of

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religious leaders regarding the capacity and mission of Islam to provide solutions for social,
political and economic questions and the needs of human beings in every time and place
during the history and throughout the world; something that was only in their competence
and capacity of the religious to materialise. Westernisation promoted a lifestyle and set of
ideas that seriously challenged the virtue of Islamic morality, whilst codes of conduct and
assimilation policies were mainly aimed to facilitate a model of rapid modernisation based
on western values.
It was in this context that the Revolutionary forces tried to radically transform the cul-
tural scene of the country after it was changed in the political arena. National Iranian Radio
and Television (NIRT) underwent a radical change to align with the Revolution and purify
itself from non-Islamic elements, including those products that promoted the western life-
style. Its name was changed to Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB) and it r­ emained
under state control with the monopoly of domestic radio and television services in the coun-
try. Cinema, theatre and music witnessed the same shift in content and went under strict
scrutiny by the government, first through the Ministry of Culture and Higher Education
and then through the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance (MCIG). It was also the case
for the publishing industry (newspapers, magazines, books, etc.) to experience state moni-
toring and control mainly through the MCIG.
Reforming the public culture was also on the top of the agenda of the Revolution.
­Islamic clothing (Hijab) became mandatory for women first in state-owned and controlled
places and then in all public spaces. All kinds of trades and interactions related to al-
cohol production and consumption, gambling and prostitution were banned. In fact, all
aspects of life in the public sphere were supposed to be in accordance with the Islamic
cultural norms.
The most remarkable development was in the field of higher education. As was men-
tioned above, universities were developed in Iran based on western models in their form and
content and were in contrast to traditional religious schools. After the Revolution, universi-
ties were the main platform for student branches of various political groups (including leftist
parties and forces) to promote their ideas that were not in conformity with the dominant
Islamic ideology. In 1980, Ayatollah Khomeini issued a mandate for a ‘Cultural Revolution’,
which was mainly aimed at a radical revision in higher education. The main measures un-
dertaken in this period were:

• Purging non-conformist lectures and students from universities (especially leftist forces),
• Purifying the contents of books and attempting to revise them or compile new texts
in accordance with Islamic teachings (especially in the field of humanities and social
sciences),
• Establishing a specific procedure for the selection and admission of lectures and students
(to approve their political and religious eligibility in addition to academic qualifying),
• Attempting to unify (or at least make close) university education with the educational
system in religious schools,
• Restricting and regulating aspects of informal student life including clothing codes,
socialising mixed events, etc.
(Sobhe, 1982; Gheissari and Nasr, 2006; Keddie
and Richard, 2006; Encyclopaedia Iranica, 2011)

The Cultural Revolution Headquarters was established in 1980 to pursue this agenda, but it
was replaced with the Supreme Cultural Revolution Council, which holds more power and

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authority than its predecessor. The Council is headed by the President (with its membership
comprising of individual and ex-officio members pertaining to cultural, educational and
religious entities) and is now the main policymaking and monitoring body in the field of
cultural policy in Iran.
Cultural policy has gone through various phases after the Revolution, with each phase
having some distinguishing features (see Table 32.1). It has been mainly influenced by the
dominant political discourse of the time and has been shaped by the socio-economic and
political conditions of the country. However, Seddigh Sarvestani and Zaeri (2010) argue
that two broad discourses could be identified in post-Revolutionary Iran: Traditional-­
Revolutionary Discourse (from 1979 to 1988 and from 2005 to 2013) and Liberal-­
Developmental Discourse (1989 to 2005). Keeping this in mind, one could identify the
three phases of ‘Early post-Revolution’, ‘Imposed War (Holy Defence)’, and ‘Principle-ism’
with the ­Traditional-Revolutionary Discourse and the other three phases (‘Reconstruc-
tion’, ‘Reforms’, and ‘Moderation’) with the Liberal-Developmental Discourse. In fact,
the first two phases were heavily influenced by the Revolutionary spirit, which favoured
the resurgence of Islamic traditions in all aspects of life. This discourse was also dominant
in Ahmadinejad’s period with his prominent emphasis on ‘back to Islamic principles and
values’, which were claimed to be weakened by non-Revolutionary orientations of Raf-
sanjani and Khatami administrations. In response to the hard-line cultural orientations
of the ‘Principle-ism’ phase, which aimed to impose a traditionalist reading of the social

Table 32.1  Main cultural policy developments in post-Revolution era

Titles of the Years and heads

phases of administration Main policy developments

Early 1979–1981 (multiple) Cultural Revolution; launch of mandatory Hijab;

post-Revolution banning and closure of alcohol production and
consumption, gambling, and prostitution places
Imposed War 1981–1988 (Mousavi) Domination of formal and public culture by the
(Holy Defence) war; establishment of Islamic Azad University
(non-governmental but public)
Reconstruction 1989–1997 (Hashemi Structural adjustments and privatisation; Launch
Rafsanjani) of private schools; promotion of consumptionist
culture; expansion of cultural facilities
Reforms 1997–2005 (Khatami) Civil society expansion; strengthening the role
of NGOs in the field of culture; more open
environment for publishers of newspapers,
magazines and books (but tough reaction
from the judicial system); international cultural
cooperation; dialogue among civilisations
Principle-ism 2005–2013 (Ahmadinejad) Cultural Engineering; more emphasis on
religious aspects of culture; expansion of
cultural facilities; more roles for Basij and
mosques in delivering cultural policy
Moderation 2013-present (Rouhani) More roles for NGOs representing members
of culture and art community; more open to
public culture; loosening scrutiny mechanisms
on cultural products; cultural diplomacy

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 From Cultural Revolution to cultural engineering

and cultural life through the new ‘cultural engineering’ agenda, voters elected moderate
Rouhani, who was supported publicly by K ­ hatami and Rafsanjani and promised to follow
a more open cultural policy. As the head of Supreme Council for Cultural Revolution,
Rouhani has decreased the level of activities and interventions of the Council in the overall
design and delivery of cultural policy in favour of more authority for cultural bodies of his
administration; he regularly faces criticisms and confrontations from religious figures as
well as revolutionary entities outside the government. Banning or making disruptions in
cultural activities like some pop music concerts, films, theatres and festivals approved by the
Ministry of Culture (under Rouhani) on behalf of or by the above-mentioned figures and
entities are examples of these confrontations that aim to disappoint voters and supporters
and send a clear message to the public that the government cannot say the final word in the
field of culture.

Cultural policy orientations in post-Revolutionary Iran

A plethora of cultural policy instruments have been adopted after the Islamic Revolution
in Iran, and numerous cultural initiatives have been launched based on these instruments.
Content analysis of these instruments shows a dramatic change in cultural policy orientations
of the country in the past four decades. The main documents and instruments included in
the analysis are: Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran; Five-Year Economic, Social,
and Cultural Development Plans (first to fifth plans); Mega policies adopted by the Expe-
diency Discernment Council of the System and policies adopted by the Supreme Cultural
Revolution Council.
As it is evident from the main categories, as well as from the subcategories and themes
extracted from the documents and instruments mentioned above, there is a sharp de-
viation from the policy orientations in pre-revolution cultural policy. Contrary to the
Pahlavi era, cultural policy is bestowed with the sacred mission of Islamisation in all
fields of social life. The ancient Iranian legacy and culture is marginalised or absent from
these policies, and there is a strong caution about the so-called cultural invasion of the
western world.
There are numerous instruments, institutions/bodies, budget allocations, etc. regarding
each of the subcategories (listed under each main category) in the public administration of
the country that are outside the range of this chapter, but below is a brief list of the main
themes and subthemes:

Promotion and consolidation of religious and ethical doctrine

Given the nature of the political system established following the Islamic Revolution, it is
not surprising that the most frequent theme appearing in all policy instruments revolves
around its religious and ethical doctrine. It is clearly against the secularising agenda of the
Pahlavi era and tries to bring religion into all fields of social life. As an example, promotion
of Quranic culture is practiced through a variety of measures: provision of Quranic courses
(recitation, memorising, meaning and interpretation, etc.) in cultural centres, schools, uni-
versities, neighbourhood houses of municipalities, cultural and arts centres of mosques, pro-
duction of cultural items (films, books, TV series, etc.) with Quranic themes, decoration of
public spaces with Quranic messages, organising Quranic competitions in various disciplines
(recitation, memorising, meaning and commentary, etc.) at various levels by a variety of in-
stitutions including the above-mentioned bodies.

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Ali Akbar Tajmazinani

The main subthemes under the first category are as following:

• Emphasising the centrality of Islamic values and superiority of the monotheist perspective
• Promotion of moral virtues and ethical codes
• Confronting superstition and religious deviance and aberrance
• Promoting and implementing the ‘Enjoining Good and Forbidding Wrong’ principle
• Promotion of prayer and praying culture
• Promotion of Quranic culture
• Organising and enhancement of cultural aspects of religious rituals
• Promotion of chastity and Hijab culture
• Promotion of reasonable thrift, contentment and non-luxury lifestyle

Strengthening of Islamic Revolution values

While the first category of policy orientations seeks to ensure the religious character of the
society, this second category deals with the preservation and strengthening of its Revolu-
tionary characteristics. Again, it is a mandate for all public bodies to promote these values in
their activities through various forms. A prominent element of this category is the ‘diffusion
of Basiji4 Culture’. Established in November 1979 based on a mandate from the founder
of the Islamic Republic, Basij is a paramilitary volunteer force subordinate to the ‘Islamic
Revolutionary Guard’. The full name of the force is Nirou-ye Moqavemat-e Basij (Mobilisa-
tion Resistance Force) or Basij-e Mosta’afin (Mobilisation of the Oppressed) with its main
features and functions being deep loyalty to the supreme leader, providing voluntary public
services, morals policing, engaging in internal security as a law enforcement auxiliary force
and confronting dissident gatherings. The organisation has branches in nearly all mosques,
neighbourhoods, schools, universities, factories, governmental and public bodies, etc. Given
the key role of Basij in post-Revolution history with regard to defending the country as well
as supporting the political system, extensive cultural activities have been commissioned to
it, while other public bodies are also mandated or encouraged to promote Basiji culture.
The main subthemes under the second category are as following:

• Observation and consolidation of Islamic Revolution values

• Paying attention to Revolutionary values in allocation of resources
• Promoting and vitalising thoughts of Imam Khomeini and the Great Leader
• Diffusion of Basiji Culture
• Diffusion of self-sacrifice and martyrdom culture
• Deepening the spirit and insight of knowing and fighting enemies

Conservation and strengthening of Islamic-Iranian culture and identity

Unlike the pre-Revolution era, the Iranian identity (especially if linked with the pre-Islamic
history) does not receive prominent status in cultural policy instruments; it is usually men-
tioned in conjunction with the Islamic identity. It means that only those elements of Iranian
identity and culture are proper to be preserved and promoted that are compatible with Islam
or at least are not contradicting it. Therefore, while, for example, very big cinema films
and TV series dedicated to the introduction of national-Islamic heroes and scholars receive
considerable support, there is almost no publicly funded cultural project dedicated to heroes,

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 From Cultural Revolution to cultural engineering

legendary figures and scholars from the pre-Islamic history of the country. The main sub­
categories related to this theme are:

• Consolidation of national unity

• Strengthening of national identity
• Identification and preservation of cultural heritage
• Promotion of Persian language and literature‌

Consideration of cultural dimensions in other sectors

A main mission of cultural policy instruments is to envisage mechanisms and structures
that ensure that policies, plans and measures in other fields (economy, politics, social) are in
conformity with the Islamic, Revolutionary and Iranian culture. For example, it is believed
that the Islamic-Iranian identity of cities in the country is weakened through the process
of modernisation, and elements of non-Iranian culture are increasingly witnessed in urban
landscapes. Therefore, there are regulations that aim to stop this trend and to promote do-
mestic and indigenous elements of architecture. Other subthemes in this field include the
following:

• Providing grounds for synergy of non-cultural sectors with cultural policies

• Land use based on cultural considerations
• Paying attention to Islamic-Iranian culture in architecture and city-building
• Observation of cultural aspects in privatisation

Respecting cultural diversity and cultural rights

Cultural diversity has received only marginal attention in cultural policy instruments, just
as is the case for cultural rights. It seems that there has been a historical reluctance to ac-
knowledge diversity since it is considered a threat to the presumably unified national-Islamic
identity. Existing references to this category address the following items:

• Supporting cultural and religious diversity

• Supporting and safeguarding legitimate freedoms
• Protecting cultural rights

Active and influential cultural interactions

Another issue addressed in cultural policy documents is the necessity of cultural interactions
with other nations as well as with cultural entities at the international level to have an influ-
ential presence while using the positive aspects of other cultures. However, more emphasis
is on cultural influence on other nations and playing as an inspiring cultural role model for
other Muslim societies. Subthemes include:

• Cultural communication and interaction (with other countries)

• Taking advantage of other cultures
• Cultural presence at the international level

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Ali Akbar Tajmazinani

Confronting cultural invasion

The cultural interaction explained in the previous section is limited by a very serious caution
about the harmful aspects of other cultures, in particular the western culture represented by
American culture (and exported through new mechanisms of cultural colonialism). Con-
sumerism, lack of respect for traditional family forms and religion, sex, violence, drugs and
alcohol, which are promoted in the cultural productions (including in cinema, TV, and
fashion industry) of the west, especially the United States, are regarded as the main threats
to Iranian-Islamic culture. With the end of the Iraq-Iran war and the beginning of the con-
struction era, this theme began to be raised increasingly in the cultural policy instruments.
Related subthemes include:

• Confronting cultural cringe (towards other cultures)

• Confronting grounds for cultural invasion
• Active promotion of alternative cultural models

Encouraging cultural participation and culture of participation

Participation is a key theme in nearly all policy instruments both as means and as an end.
While a mission of cultural policy is to extend citizens’ participation in cultural activities,
it  also should pave the way for a cultural participatory ethics in all aspects of social life.
However, as will be discussed in the final section of this chapter, this is more related to
­democratisation of culture than devolving the control over cultural policy to the public
through cultural democracy. Subthemes in this field include the following:

• Emphasising the right to participation

• Providing grounds for participation
• Strengthening and encouraging cultural participation
• Promoting a spirit of participation
• Encouraging the sense of responsibility

Enhancement of citizenship ethics and culture

Nurturing citizens who are aware of and dedicatedly practicing and observing their com-
mitments in various aspects of social life is seen as a main item on the agenda of cultural
policy. Therefore, various sorts of cultural productions and cultural activities are deemed to
follow this agenda. Related subthemes include:

• Enhancement of work ethics and responsibility

• Expanding the culture of valuing work and production
• Strengthening a culture of law-abiding and discipline
• Strengthening a culture of environment protection

Consolidation of family institution and the status

of women in society
The traditional family occupies a pivotal position as a sacred institution in the ideology of
the Iranian political system. Therefore, in theory no cultural item should be produced or

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 From Cultural Revolution to cultural engineering

distri­buted that weakens this position. Even women’s employment, which is usually regarded
to be on the agenda of social and economic policies, has received special attention and dedi­
cated policy instruments by the SCCR to ensure that they are compatible with the roles of
women in the family. The main subthemes under this category are the following:

• Protecting the sacredness of the family institution

• Strengthening the family institution
• Policies regarding women’s employment
• Socio-cultural policies regarding women’s involvement in sports

Optimising the extent and way of state intervention in culture

Besides the above-mentioned categories that deal with the content and orientation of cul-
tural policy, two other themes are related to the administrative aspects of cultural policy.
With extensive state intervention in culture after the Revolution, a need was felt in the sec-
ond and third decades to optimise this intervention by limiting it to the policymaking level
and devolving executive functions to non-governmental public and private entities. Inspired
by the post-war structural adjustment approach, this rhetoric has not been realised while the
language of policy instruments in this regard is still very state-oriented. Subthemes in this
field include the following:

• Necessity of government responsibility and accountability in the field of culture

• Centralisation of policymaking and decentralisation of implementation
• Supporting and enhancement of public/state media
• Developing the cultural economics
• Supporting public cultural activities
• Regulation of relations and interactions among stakeholders of the cultural sector
• Promotion of creativity and innovation

Establishment of an integrated system of strategic

cultural management in the country
The Existence of multiple and parallel governmental and semi-governmental cultural in-
stitutions is a major issue in the design and delivery of cultural policy in Iran. Therefore,
there is a need for an integrated system of cultural management under the supervision of
SCCR. Various instruments have addressed the need for this including through the follow-
ing subthemes:

• Taking advantage of cultural facilities of non-cultural bodies

• Systematic monitoring of cultural developments
• Increasing efficiency of cultural bodies
• Strengthening cultural research
• Development of human resources in the cultural sector
• Expansion of ICTs in the cultural sector

The above-mentioned categories and subcategories illustrate the main cultural policy
orientations in Iran from 1979 to 2005 with the main agenda of launching a ‘cultural
revolution’ in the country. However, it was felt after three decades that those policies had

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not been effective in producing the desired outcomes, while they are also not compatible
with (and enough) for the contemporary era. Therefore, a new wave of cultural policy
initiatives was launched under the ‘Cultural Engineering’ rhetoric that will be discussed
below.

Cultural engineering: a new era?

The ‘Cultural Engineering’ concept was raised in 2005 by the Supreme Leader of Iran and
was followed and promoted by various cultural bodies, resulting in the formulation and
adoption of the ‘Cultural Engineering Map’ by the Supreme Council of Cultural Revo-
lution in 2013 (SCCRS, 2013). This new rhetoric raised many questions and ambiguities
(including in the first ‘Conference on Cultural Engineering’ in 2007) regarding such issues
as: the relationship between the two concepts of ‘cultural engineering’ and ‘engineering of
culture’, the status of religion in cultural engineering, the paradox between the concrete and
highly standardised concept of ‘engineering’ and a completely different concept of ‘culture’,
which may mean an overwhelming intervention by the political power (see e.g. Fouladi,
2009; Moeidfar, 2006). The long-time span from 2005 to 2013 between the time when the
concept was first raised and the time it was adopted as an official instrument may point to
some of these ambiguities.
It seems that the new cultural trends in the Iranian society that were accelerated by the
end of the imposed war against Iran by Saddam Hussein played a key role in the adop-
tion of this new approach. These trends included the gradual weakening of revolutionary
and religious values, attitudes and behaviors after the war, cultural globalisation (Afshari
­Naderi, 2007) and the spread of western values and lifestyles including through new me-
dia, the growth of consumerism and a relatively moderate orientation in cultural policy
during the Khatami administration. These trends combined with the ambition of the
Iranian political system to establish a ‘new Islamic civilization’ (Masjedjameie, undated)
using culture as a strong catalyser of development and progress as grounds for this new
policy approach.
A review of the vision, principles, goals, strategies (13 mega and 104 national strategies)
and measures (302 national measures) outlined in the ‘Cultural Engineering Map’ shows
that this new instrument reflects nearly all the themes of previous cultural instruments
adopted so far, while it addresses some new issues as well. It has a maximalist approach
and covers nearly all areas of social life, even the issue of fertility and population growth
rate. Given the current low population growth rate and an ageing population trend, this
section is more elaborate than other sections, pointing to specific actions to promote a cul-
ture of valuing marriage and childbearing through various economic, social and welfare
incentives.
As expected, the meaning of culture employed in this map is highly related to and over-
shadowed by religion and religious values, attitudes, behavior and symbols. There is a new
emphasis on strengthening the soft power components of the system to confront the ‘soft
war’ against the Revolution, alongside stressing the role of arts and new ICTs in pursuing
the cultural goals of the system.
It could be argued that the main feature of this new instrument is its mandate and en-
deavor to establish an integrated national system of cultural policy under the supervision
of the SCCR, which ensures that all kinds of policymaking (social, political, economic,
cultural) are compatible with Islamic and Revolutionary characteristics. Moreover, there
is an ambitious intention to purify, standardise and enrich the public culture to establish

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a new Islamic civilisation that could emerge as a role model and source of inspiration for
all Muslim societies. It will be argued in the concluding section that it is hard to consider
the adoption of this new approach as a fundamental change of policy and to envisage a
notable success for it.

Concluding remarks
Cultural policy has an interesting history during the past half century and has witnessed
considerable transformations and fluctuations especially due to the victory of the Islamic
Revolution in Iran. However, it is also possible to trace instances of continuity alongside tre-
mendous change. For example, despite very different points of emphasis, there is a similarity
of policy intention between the pre- and post-Revolution periods with regard to the issue
of cultural assimilation. While cultural policy in the Pahlavi era was following measures
to assimilate various sections of the population in line with modern and western lifestyle
(e.g. through forced codes of dressing), cultural policy during the Islamic Republic era has
had the agenda of creating and nurturing a ‘revolutionary and religious citizen’ (including
for example through mandatory Hijab). In fact, a common cultural policy assumption in
both periods is that culture is a unique platform and a manipulable instrument for pursuing
the main goals of the system, be it nation-state building and modernisation or Islamisation
and building a new Islamic civilisation (in line with the notion of ‘imagined communi-
ties’ developed by Anderson, 1991). Therefore, cultural policy in Iran is of an ‘instrumen-
tal’ character (McGuigan, 2004), but ironically with little or no emphasis on economic
instrumentality.
Another line of continuity in cultural policy in Iran (between the pre- and post-­Revolution
periods) could be found in terms of following a democratisation of culture agenda instead
of a cultural democracy paradigm (Evrard, 1997). In both periods there have been measures
to build public cultural facilities, promote access to and use of cultural f­acilities and services
and popularising high culture and cultural knowledge (though with completely different
value orientations), but there has been a lack of serious attention to cultural diversity, full and
effective cultural representation and participation, as well as democratic control of cultural
life. As an example, one can compare the approach of ‘Youth Palaces’ in the pre-Revolution
era with ‘Culture Centres’ in the post-Revolution period. While young people in the former
were exposed to a range of cultural activities in line with the four elements of Pahlavi cul-
tural policy (especially the westernisation agenda), young people in the latter are exposed to
different cultural activities that aim to nurture the ideal young people desired by the Islamic
system (though with gradual loosening of this agenda during the last two decades). However,
the approach and mechanisms are nearly the same and are far from the cultural democracy
paradigm.
Cultural policy in Iran certainly falls under a ‘stating discourse’ in McGuigan’s typology
of cultural policy (2004) in which the state follows a maximalist intervention approach in
culture. Reflecting on the typology of cultural policy models provided by Craik (2007) that
identifies five models of state intervention in the fields of arts and culture (the patron model;
the architect model; the engineer model; the facilitator model; elite nurturer model) it could
be argued that the Iranian model is a mixture of the engineer and nurturer models. It is close
to the engineer model because it prioritises culture as an objective of political ­education al-
lied with the ideological cast of the state. However, there is a difference between the I­ ranian
model and that of the former Eastern Bloc countries because the government does not own all
the artistic means of production and creators are not employees of the government, ­a lthough

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Ali Akbar Tajmazinani

there are mechanisms to control or ‘guide’ them in line with the ­political agenda of the state.
There are also similarities with the nurturer model because the state provides a small number
of elite cultural entities (based on its own criteria) to receive budgets and generous subsidies,
which protect them from having to compete with ‘outsider’ cultural organisations.
As a final remark it is noteworthy that Iranian society has a hybrid identity consisting of
various ancient, Islamic and modern components (Amuzegar, 2014), and the Iranian people
seem to be eager to exercise a bricolage of various components and are not ready to leave
one in favour of the other. This is an issue that is beyond the scope of this chapter and needs
further elaboration in other academic works. Therefore, it appears that strict cultural engi-
neering policies and practices could not meet their full objectives.

Notes
1 The complete text of the Constitution in English containing detailed information about the fol-
lowing bodies, authorities and procedures cited in this section as well as some concise information
about the Iranian political system is accessible, inter alia, at: www.iranchamber.com/government/
government.php.
2 A congregation hall for Shia commemoration ceremonies.
3 A seminary where Shi’a Muslim clerics are trained.
4 Members of Basij Organization are called Basiji.

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 33
K-pop female idols
Culture industry, neoliberal social
policy, and governmentality in Korea

Gooyong Kim

South Korea (hereafter, Korea) rapidly achieved its economic modernization in less than four
decades (1960s–1980s), a phenomenon commonly known as the Miracle on the Han River.
This dynamic development has brought about the recent global popularity of Korean popu-
lar culture such as film, TV dramas, popular music (K-pop), and live performances coined as
Hallyu or the Korean Wave. For Katsiaficas (2012), along with democratic uprisings against
military juntas in the ’70s and the ’80s, Hallyu has become a symbol for Korea’s competent
advancement to a more civil and sophisticated country. Historically, owing to the devastated
economic, social, and political conditions after the Japanese colonial occupation and the
Korean War, the state’s cultural policies have been instrumental in helping realize the gov-
ernment’s political, economic, social, and/ or ideological agendas (Yim 2002). For example,
President Park Chung-hee, who seized power through a mili­t ary coup in 1961, made full
use of Confucian cultural policies that emphasized obedience, diligence, loyalty, frugality,
and cooperation in order to implement export-oriented, ­labor-intensive industrialization,
which provided the illicit political elite with a rationale for ­developmental-dictatorship in the
poverty-trodden country.
Just as Park Chung-Hee led the Miracle by advancing its distinctly masculine,
­exploitative modernization project through mobilizing young, docile female workers in the
­labor-intensive manufacture industry from the ’60s to the ’70s, Park Geun-Hye, the daugh-
ter of dictator-President Park Chung-Hee and the country’s ex-President, who was im-
peached for multiple criminal charges in December 2016, declared her intention to recreate
it through Hallyu during her inaugural speech in February 2013. In this respect, regarding
national development as a result of an active “incorporation of the actively residual [social,
cultural, political, and economic traditions] – by reinterpretation, dilution, projection, dis-
criminating inclusion and exclusion” (Williams 1977, p. 123), the author strives to critically
examine the proliferation of K-pop within a continuum bet­ween Korea’s residual legacy of
developmentalism and post-IMF neoliberal state policies. Reconsidering the social, cultural
and political, and economic backgrounds, the chapter provides an alternative approach to a
recent, global popularity of K-pop, and in turn, criticizes the current, dominant academic
literature, which does not pay due attention to those structural issues.

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 K-pop female idols

In this chapter, the author pays critical attention as to how Korean cultural industries
became capable of producing marketable and profitable entertainment content in the con-
text of the country’s neoliberalization. It aims to investigate how the industry, which was
comparatively under-developed, has achieved the state of art in its aesthetic, technological,
and business features in a short period of time since the mid-1990s and competed against
other already advanced foreign products and services in a jungle-like neoliberal market.
To this end, the author argues the Korean government’s neoliberal social policy assisted its
culture industry to produce high-quality culture commodities, which in turn played an
important role in helping Hallyu become successful. By examining the political economy
of K-pop’s success, the author reconsiders a continuity of Korea’s developmentalism that
largely relies on u­ nder-paid female workers as a docile, disposable labor force in K-pop’s
dominant modality of neoliberal, service-oriented market rationality. However, there is an
important caveat to be discerned to correctly understand the neoliberal characteristics of
the K-pop industry. K-pop idols “voluntarily” become prey of the K-pop industry’s ram-
pant profiteering, which capitalizes on their competitive spirits, perseverance, and physical
strength in their dream of being financially successful and socially famous in the neoliberal
show business, while under Park’s developmental-dictatorship, female workers had to en-
dure exploitative, inhumane working conditions to support themselves and their families
as a matter of survival on sweatshop factory floors in the ’60s and the ’70s. In this regard,
as a popular mode of governmentality, the idols as manufactured cultural commodities by
the industry – highly visible, adored, and respected by the public – have an effective, hege-
monic agency that normalizes and perpetuates neoliberal subjectivation and subjectification
in one’s every­d ay life, while the “industrial warriors” who largely paved the way for the
Miracle were despised as “Kong-suni,” or “Kong-dori”1 and have still not received due rec-
ognition for their contribution to national development. In sum, this chapter sheds critical
light on K-pop idols’ political, economic, cultural, and social impact and implications for
post-IMF Korean society in a nexus between the state’s politico-ideological necessity and
the market’s economic imperatives.
In this political economy of development, the chapter argues the country’s young,
docile, disposable female bodies have continuously been manipulated and exploited in the
name of national modernization and growth under different agendas and slogans through-
out contemporary Korean history. Thus, it maintains that K-pop idols have been closely
associated with the Korean government’s neoliberal development policies, examining
Girls’ Generation (hereafter, SNSD) as the most successful K-pop female idol group. For
this purpose, the author reviews Foucault’s (2008) notion of governmentality as a means
to analyze how, by their popularity and ubiquity, the idols have played an ideological
state apparatus (Althusser 1971), which normalizes and perpetuates the neoliberal value
system, and in turn, interpellates individuals to be neoliberal subjects. As such, the author
examines how K-pop helps implement the government of others (subjectification: “how
one is objectified as a subject through the exercise of power/ knowledge”), normalization
of a neoliberal value system, and the government of one’s self (subjectivation as a “relation
of the person to him/herself ”) (Rosenberg and Milchman 2010, p. 66). In this respect,
like Binkley (2006), this chapter argues that the recent popularity of K-pop is a micro-­
mechanism for individuals to naturalize neoliberal governmentality and become active,
voluntary agents of neoliberalism. By doing so, it contributes to reconsidering a lingering
legacy of state-developmentalism, the nature of development, and socio-economic roles
in post-IMF Korea.

521
Gooyong Kim

Political economy of K-pop: national development

in neoliberal Korea
Considering that music is a product of larger structural conditions (Negus 1999), it is im-
portant to acknowledge that K-pop was incepted when Korea was in the middle of state-led
aggressive globalization campaign (including hastily attaining membership of the OECD
in 1996). As a response to the large socio-economic imperatives mandated by the state and
emulating short-lived American idols, such as New Kids on the Block, the industry has
mimicked ­European or American music and used English lyrics in an unnecessary excess. As
an allegory of Korean economy that relies on export for its economic, political, and social
development and maintenance, K-pop is mainly produced and/or played by Koreans for
the purpose of product exportation in the context of the 1997 Asian financial crisis and the
Korean economy’s subsequent IMF bail-out (Oh and Park 2012; G. Park 2013b). From this
perspective, K-pop’s global popularity coincided with the government’s aggressive neolib-
eral efforts to expand its economic territories by ratifying multiple Free Trade Agreements
(FTA), especially with the US, in the mid-2000s.
In this regard, among Hallyu items like movies and dramas, K-pop is the most strategic
cultural commodity, incepted through rigorous market research and experiments (Shin
and Kim 2013). K-pop’s main features consist of addictive, fast, and dynamic beats and
sounds, garnished with a perfectly synchronized, mesmerizing choreography by attrac-
tive, physique male idols or appealing, delicate, and sexy female idols (C. Kim 2012).
These signature characters of K-pop, which is aesthetically influenced by Western popu­
lar culture, have been made possible by the K-pop industry’s aggressive replication of
the traditional business strategies used by Korea’s labor-intensive manufacture conglom-
erates that ushered in the Miracle in the ’60s and the ’70s. Likewise, the contemporary
K-pop industry takes advantage of a hegemonic model that produces quickly profitable,
homo­g enized, disposable commodities from a highly concentrated, hierarchal production
system that integrates in-house procedures of artist recruiting, training, image-making,
composing, management, contracting, and album production. As much as Korea’s manu-
facture industry giants achieved their fortune by exploiting cheap, docile, and abundant
workers from the ’60s to ’80s, the K-pop industry capitalizes on the competitive spir-
its, perseverance, and physical strength of young trainees and idols who dream of being
success­f ul and famous.
Thus, as the most salient example of Hallyu’s state of art, K-pop is a neoliberal industry
that reflects how business demands have shifted from sweatshop manual workforce to ser-
vice, immaterial labor since the 90s. Retaining Korea’s traditional culture of Confucian sex-
ism, female idols are employed to meet the growing demand of the service sector economy,
and by doing so, they are effectively reinterpreting the traditional Confucian code of ethics
by opening up a broader range of workplaces for women. While women strictly used to be
confined to the domestic area, with changing economic and industrial needs, they are enti-
tled to pursue professional careers in the public domain such as governmental offices and the
mass media. In this respect, K-pop female idols can better be understood within a continuum
between Korea’s residual legacy of Confucianism and developmentalism. In  other words,
while the idols ostensibly promote female entitlement and empowerment in the public do-
main, they are still subject to dominant power relations of Confucian gender hierarchies,
developmental capitalism, and neoliberalism. In this hegemonic structure, the idols convey
the “political unconscious”, exemplifying what is important, what to think, and how to
govern oneself ( Jameson 1981).

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 K-pop female idols

However, with a rapid rise of Hallyu, there are growing numbers of scholarly endeavors
that investigate how it has been possible from mainly microscopic perspectives, attributing
the success to Korean culture industry’s technical and business innovations. For example,
cultural hybridity allows Asian audiences to relate their sentiment to K-pop’s glossy features
(Ryoo 2009; Shim 2006); a cultural and historical proximity, which shares commonali-
ties such as Confucianism and experiences of Japanese colonial occupations, makes K-pop
palatable to the region’s burgeoning tastes (Cho 2011; Iwabuchi 2001); K-pop’s innovative
production value, such as seamless choreography, catchy songs, fashionable outfits, and spec-
tacular music videos (Park 2013a,b); K-pop industry leaders’ strategic manufacturing and
business planning led to a global success (Shin and Kim 2013); YouTube is a major factor in
K-pop’s global reach ( Jung and Shim 2014; Oh and Lee 2013; Oh and Park 2012). In sum,
the current academic literature is celebratory, merely focusing on microscopic analyses rather
than larger socio-cultural and politico-economic contexts.
While there are a few scholars who have examined a contemporary liberalization of the
media industry ( Jin 2007; Shim 2002), their arguments are not successful in explaining how
governmental interventions have been an integral part of Hallyu. For example, Shim (2008)
believes liberalized global market conditions rather than the state’s promotional policies to
export the cultural commodities caused Hallyu’s international success. Although the author
has no objection to this observation, there is a need for critical attention as to how Korean
cultural industries became capable of producing marketable and profitable entertainment
content, which can compete with state-of-art quality cultural commodities from foreign
countries, in the context of the country’s neoliberalization. In order to better understand
how the Korean entertainment industry has become competitive in its aesthetic, technolog-
ical, and business features in a short period of time, the author examines how the Korean
government’s neoliberal social policy assisted its culture industry in producing high-quality
culture commodities, which in turn played an important role in helping Hallyu become
successful.
Therefore, in order to better examine how seemingly contradictory systems of economic,
political, and social governance, that is state-developmentalism, Confucianism, and neo­
liberalism, coexist and support each other in the K-pop industry, the author theoretically
contends that, in the current Hallyu scholarship, there is a general misconception of neo-
liberalism. In other words, the dominant Hallyu scholarship maintains a myopic view of
neoliberalism as a void role of government through a short-sighted opposition between state
and market, which ignores the variegated, contradictory nature of neoliberal social forma-
tions and aims to debunk it. Since the market is configured within institutional frameworks
and rules as its conditions of possibility (Foucault 2008; Harvey 2005), K-pop has been
conditioned to prosper while the state is in charge of reconstructing its national economy
to accommodate neoliberal challenges for economic development, which is stuck between
technologically advanced economies such as the US and Japan and labor-intensive one like
China. With a different set of roles and expectations, the state is an integral part of the
neoliberal program via a construction of minimal social safety nets, while providing pri-
vate sectors with industrial fundamentals like mandatory education, infrastructure, and legal
frameworks (OECD 2000b; World Bank 2002). In other words, since the market itself is an
effect of the state’s policies and regulations (Yeung 2000), neoliberalism is internally com-
bined with the developmental state to the extent that an emergent combination of neoliber-
alized economic management and authoritarian state, which guarantees a maximum capacity
of the market economy and in turn, provides a political legitimacy for the regime (Harvey
2005; Peck and Tickell 2002). In this respect, since developmental states facilitate internal as

523
Gooyong Kim

well as external competition, free trade, and open export market practices, H ­ arvey (2005)
indicates that “Neoliberalization therefore opens up possibilities for developmental states to
enhance their position in international competition by developing new structures of state
intervention” (p. 72). The Korean government’s strategic support and promotion for infor-
mation and communication technologies (ICTs) and culture industry is a distinctive case in
point. Practically, ICTs are not only a major arsenal for speculative global financial trans-
actions but also a basis for commodification of the cultural. Thus, contrary to its rhetoric,
neoliberalism works best in a strong regulatory state, especially in Korea’s dirigiste mode of
state-led ­capitalist development (OECD 2000a).
Subsequently, while Korea’s culture industry has conflated the cultural and the economic
and further legitimized a systematic commercialization of the previously un-marketed, such
as female affects and sexualities in the name of national economic competitiveness, the state
has associated the economic with the ideological so as to compensate for its weak political
legitimacy since dictator-President Park.

Neoliberalism and governmentality in K-pop idols

As opposed to liberalism’s mission to balance two distinctive spheres of state and market,
public and private, and political and commercial, neoliberalism has blurred the boundaries,
transplanting the market principles into the core functions of the state (Miller and Rose,
2008). With the notion of “homo economicus,” Foucault (2008) maintains that neoliberalism
universalizes economic logic as the general matrix of people’s daily behaviors in every-
thing that human beings endeavor to realize based upon a meticulous calculation of cost for
benefit. In other words, neoliberalism is an implementation of market-oriented techniques
of government in the realm of the state and the personal and in turn constructs neoliberal
subjects who are active, responsible, competitive and self-interested. In this active formation
of subjectivity, a neoliberal agent is an “entrepreneur of himself, being for himself his own
capital, being for himself his own producer, being for himself the source of his own earn-
ings,” in contrast to a classical liberal person of utilitarian exchange based upon his/her needs
(p. 226). Furthermore, Foucault (2008) uses a notion of “human capital” as a neoliberal
regime of truth and life that conditions individuals’ behavioral rules and codes to pursue any
activity, which increases their capacity to achieve their goals, create self-interest, and engage
in competition. Thus, neoliberalism affects itself as a form of biopolitics that (re)produces
neoliberal subjectivity and transforms society into a massive market (Foucault 2008; Hardt
and Negri 1994). Privatization and deregulation are key tenets of neoliberal political strategy
in order to govern individuals through a discursive invention of self-interest, investment and
competition in all social spheres (Hardt and Negri 2001, 2004). Thus, neoliberalism should
be regarded not only as the political economy of marketization in society, but also, more
importantly, as a biopolitical subjectification of individuals (Foucault 1995) in an effort to
internalize particular forms of responsibility produced by market practices (Nealon 2008).
In this respect, neoliberal governmentality simultaneously works through a macro-­
technological manner in state policies and a micro-technological level through individuals
governing themselves by naturalizing neoliberal rationalities as the basis for their conducts
(Binkley 2007; Lemke 2001; Rose et al. 2006). A major benefit of applying the notion
of governmentality to K-pop idols is that it provides a better understanding of them as
an ­extra-juridical institution that helps condition and govern individuals’ thought and be-
havior in a nexus between power relations and subjectification processes. As a synecdoche
or an ethos (Barry et al. 1996) of neoliberal Korea that implies particular mentalities and

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 K-pop female idols

governing manners, which are realized and practiced in individuals’ concrete thoughts, feel-
ing, behaviors, habits and perceptions, the author believes K-pop idols are a form of everyday
pedagogy that tells how people understand, articulate and argue about social values and
practices through specific lexicons of media spectacles. Thus, the recent popularity of K-pop
has played a role in naturalizing neoliberal governmentality. As a result, the next section
examines how K-pop contributes to implementing a form of subjectification on the part of
the government, making those involved in K-pop active, voluntary agents of neo-liberalism.

Female idols as the poster-child of neoliberal,

culture industry
According to statistics on Korea’s biggest music chart site, Melon, between 2005 and 2013,
a total of 244 different K-pop idol groups have come and gone, (130 all-boy, 103 all-girl and
11 co-ed groups) (KpopStarz 2013). In 2013 alone there were 30 new idol groups, and it is
difficult to find solo musicians on the chart, where 7–8 spots out of 10 were dominated by
idols for the last 5 years. Starting with the female musical groups, SNSD and Wonder Girls,
debuting in 2007, the numbers of all-girl idol groups have been growing, with at least 10 new
groups per year (KpopStarz 2013). These figures do not include those not ranked on the chart,
and the number would be even higher if we considered the total number of trainees. In sum,
K-pop idols disclose that contemporary Korean society is conditioned to run on a limited
number of socio-cultural pathways, ruling out anything that is not considered ­profitable or
fashionable.
The contemporary proliferation of K-pop female idols symbolically represents the politi-
cal, economic, social and cultural transformation of post-IMF Korea by a neoliberal replace-
ment of a labor-intensive industry with a service one, which is a feminized sector in order to
capitalize on the gendered-nature of production and consumption (Gonick 2006). The first
K-pop female idol group, SM entertainment’s S.E.S., marked the beginning of the systematic
management of female singers and their imagery in 1997. This came as an effort to shore up
the Korean culture industry and market to overseas audiences, since the local economy was
devastated by the 1997 Asian financial crisis and Korea’s subsequent bail-out by the IMF.
This strategy is similar to the way in which the Korean popular music industry began in
the post-Korean War era when local musicians performed at various clubs for US soldiers as
economic as well as cultural endeavors (Kim and Shin 2010).
Deploying various styles and feminine images from innocent and cute to sexy and ma-
ture, S.E.S. made an earnest effort to break into the Japanese market, but was not favored as
much as in Korea. However, BoA, SM Entertainment’s other female idol, saw success with
her first Japanese album, Listen to My Heart, which was first ranked in Japan’s Oricon Daily
Chart and Oricon Weekly Chart in 2002. By teaming up with a major Japanese music label,
Avex, BoA was successful in marketing and promoting her Japanese albums, such as Listen to
My Heart (1.3 million copies in 2002), Valenti (1.3 million in 2003) and No. 1, (1.4 million
in 2004) (BoA n.d.). This success prompted the Korean Culture and Information Service
(KOCIS 2011), a government agency, to regard K-pop as a strong strategic item for export
businesses accounting for US$ 180 million profit.
As the most sought-after, and globally well-known K-pop group today, SNSD debuted
as a group of nine girls chosen by SM Entertainment in 2007, an event that coincided with
the initiation of the negotiation of the Free Trade Agreement between Korea and the United
States (KOR-US FTA). As a product of years of conditioning during rigorous traineeship
periods of 5 to 7 years, the girls each have her own “talent” and attractive  appearance,

525
Gooyong Kim

whether her face, body or image: With SM Entertainment’s complete direction, everything
from the girls’ outfits, hairstyles, makeup, dance moves, gestures and romantic relationships
are completely planned out to gain the audience’s favor. The phenomenal success of their song,
‘Gee,’ with its addictive, catchy hooks and fast beats decorated by amicable ‘crab dance’ cho-
reography, brought the group to international popularity in January 2009 and subsequently
motivated SM Entertainment to aggressively deploy SNSD to market to overseas audiences.
The song topped all of Korea’s major music charts within two days, and the music video
gathered one million views on YouTube in less than a day. SNSD followed up with more
award-winning, instant hits with catchy, easy-to-follow tunes, rhythms and dance moves.
A distinctive characteristic of K-pop idols is that they are expected to be not just singers,
but celebrities, who act, endorse, model and advertise. Likewise, SNSD’s appearances in
vari­ous media platforms made them media enterprise figures who demonstrate global popu-
larity and appeal by appearing in multiple commercial endorsements in Asia, and their suc-
cess is scrutinized in terms of an effective Korean business model like Samsung and Hyundai.
As a main media promotion strategy, SNSD has appeared on the country’s major variety TV
shows like Infinite Challenge to promote new songs or album releases and to showcase each
member’s personality, character, interest and so on. Individual members also have their own
media practices; for example, Tae-Yeon is a radio music show DJ, Yoon-Ah is a well-known
drama actress and Jessica and Tiffany are musical performers. Furthermore, as a total promo-
tion operation, SNSD has hosted its own variety TV shows, such as Girls Go to School, Right
Now: It’s Girls Generation, Factory Girl, Girls Generation and the Dangerous Boys, and SNSD
behind the Story. There is a double feedback loop between SNSD’s initial media exposure as
performers and the publicity the group amasses from advertisements, which again feeds pos-
itively into their celebrity reputation. In this respect, SNSD has successfully publicized itself
as a singular cultural commodity, (re)defining what it means to be a successful K-pop idol.
SNSD has been deployed in the state’s official events and ceremonies as the nation’s rep-
resentative cultural icon. For example, Korea Tourism Organization (KTO), a governmental
agency to promote Korea’s tourism overseas, hypes SNSD as exemplary of Korea’s popular
culture that sets “global standard for girl idol groups” (KTO n.d, n.p.). In November 2010,
the government hosted the 2010 G20 Seoul Summit, an international forum where 20 major
world economies’ governments and central banks gathered to discuss the global financial sys-
tem and the world economy. SNSD was extensively mobilized as a part of the state’s PR prac-
tices, including being a member of the G20 Star Supporters and Talking to the G20 Leaders
(Chun 2010). More extensively, SNSD assumed numerous endorsement duties for the state,
like Ambassador for Gangnam District Office in 2012, Honorary Ambassadors for 2010–2012
Visit Korea in 2011, Ambassador for Incheon Airport Customs in 2010, ­A mbassador for the
Incheon World Ceramics Festival in 2009, Volunteer Ambassador for the Seoul City Govern-
ment in 2007. In turn, as a token of the state’s recognition, SNSD is the only K-pop group
who received the Prime Minister’s Award at the 2011 Korean Popular Culture and Arts
Awards, organized by the Korea Creative Content Agency (KOCCA), a state government
agency, for its successful overseas publicity and popularity as a means of PR practice for Korea.
Recently, SNSD’s 2012 American debut marked another significant coincidence with
­Korea’s aggressive neoliberalization, that is, Korean President Lee Myung-Bak’s (­2008–2013)
visit to the White House to nudge President Obama to sign the KOR-US FTA. SNSD’s stra-
tegic debut on CBS’s Late Show with David Letterman on January 31 and ABC’s Live! With
Kelly Ripa on February 1 played a significant role in distracting attention from serious issues
with the KOR-US FTA. Claiming that Koreans should be more competitive and aggressive

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in the global marketplace, the mainstream Korean media celebrated that SNSD explored
and “conquered” a new, uncharted marketplace that would bring Korea economic fortunes.
Thus, more than a global cultural commodity, the group became an Althusserian ideological
apparatus to justify and perpetuate the myth of competition as the sole source of interna-
tional success to rebut the danger of the FTA.
Theoretically, Debord’s (1967) society of spectacle captures how K-pop has been an inte-
gral part of Korea’s increasing neoliberalization, characterized with the production and con-
sumption of images, staged media events and consumerism. Via K-pop’s glossy sexualized
spectacles, everyday experiences are mediated and conditioned to the extent that the specta-
cle constitutes social relationships based on and mediated by images, and it is integral to cap-
italist imperatives that cultivate the cultural mechanism of consumption and entertainment.
Textually, equipped with highly crafted spectacles as a manifestation of ideal beauty and
propriety (S. Lee 2012), K-pop is a neoliberal ideology of positive thinking filled with color,
play, camaraderie and love, which forces the audience to focus on a positive, rosy future of
society. In this respect, considering that a capitalist economy is dependent upon a seamless
continuation of consumption, K-pop idols are cultural linchpins that teach and provide cues
to utilizing commodities as a means of self-transformation into someone better. By doing
so, they help mobilize individuals to be a steady force of neoliberal consumerism, while
invoking an asocial fantasy of evading established rules and the romanticism of narcissistic
pleasure as cultural amnesia. K-pop’s relentless repetition of fantasy enforces a feedback loop
upon its audiences that entraps them in the eternal return of always wanting more. Thus,
the overwhelmingly visual nature of K-pop is an example of Wolf ’s (2004) “entertainment
economy,” which transforms Korean soundscape into a subcategory of neoliberal service
economy.
Therefore, K-pop’s spectacular entertainment is a major allegory of neoliberal Korea where
its economy, politics, cultural forms, modes of everyday experiences and social relations are
increasingly re-configured by media spectacles. With fast beats and salient rhythms K-pop is
an episteme of neoliberalism, which overwhelms people not just by its neck-­breaking speed
of transforming society into a miniature of the market but, more importantly, with its sim-
ple ideological pitch that instigates people’s desire to be rich and successful. In other words,
just as neoliberalism has mesmerized people with an unrealistic valorization of market logic,
K-pop has captivated audiences by seamless breath-taking choreography and appealing, sexy
appearances of K-pop performers.

K-pop as neoliberal social policy

As discussed above, neoliberalism is far from a retreat of central governments; rather it is
market-driven state reform in order to guarantee a maximum functionality of market prin-
ciples and a commodification of social life at large (Moran 2003). The neoliberal social policy
seeks to fend off any possible anti-competitive dimensions, by forcing individuals to con-
front and endure socio-economic risks personally, as opposed to Keynesianism that aims to
compensate, nullify, or absorb possible negative effects of economic liberalization. However,
since state policies do not automatically guarantee economic competitiveness in the global
economy, the bio-political aspect of neoliberalism plays an important role in shaping sub-
jects as competitive agents in the international regime of capitalism. Thus, neoliberalization
works not only by political imperatives to restructure the national economic system, but
procures its legitimacy and necessity through civil society’s voluntary, bottom-up support

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Gooyong Kim

for the reforms as indispensable social, economic and even ethical responsibilities (Lim and
Jang 2006).
The commercialization of culture has been a tenet of neoliberal knowledge/­information-
based economy, and a commodification of K-pop came to play an important role in shoring
up Korea’s national economy. Given the fact that the commodification of culture has existed
since the Renaissance (Cowen 1998), what is special in the recent popularity of K-pop comes
from the state’s integral role in intensifying its scope and power in the name of post-IMF
national competitiveness and economic development. Moreover, the state’s neoliberal policy
is characterized by the formal boundary between culture and economics, and art and com-
merce becoming obscure, if not obsolete (Hesmondhalgh and Pratt 2005). Moreover, this
border crossing establishes culture as a mere marketing strategy to promote the state and to
host foreign capital as soft power (Gibson and Kong 2005; Jang and Paik 2012; Lee 2009;
Nye 2009; Nye and Kim 2013). In this respect, K-pop is regarded as a culture technology
(CT) economy for revitalizing Korea’s post-industrial, service-oriented neoliberal economy
along with the four strategic technologies: ICT, bio-technology, nano-technology and en-
vironmental technology (Shin 2009). In this respect, Soo-man Lee, CEO of SM Entertain-
ment is boastful of his CT manual that mandates components

necessary to popularize K-pop artists in different Asian countries … [like] what chord
progressions to use in what country; the precise color of eyeshadow a performer should
wear in a particular country; the exact hand gestures he or she should make; and the
camera angles to be used in the videos.
(Seabrook 2012, n.p.)

In sum, K-pop subsumes culture as a mere instrument for economic profits and strengthen-
ing the country’s international competitiveness ( Jin 2006; Nam 2013). The K-pop industry
has systematically been promoted through the government’s methodological interventions
(Cloonan 1999; Sassen 2001). As a major governmental body, the Ministry of Culture, Sports,
and Tourism (MCST 2011) has taken charge of constructing Hallyu as the nation’s strategic,
new economic growth engine. The MCST has promoted the “Cultural Content Industry
through cooperation among government agencies,” systematically funding media produc-
tion for global audiences, training “creative professionals through planning and marketing,
­project-linked” programs, and educating students with “renowned educational institutes in
other countries” (p. 17). Specifically, based on the Framework Act on Cultural Industry Pro-
motion, the Korea Creative Content Agency (KOCCA) was established on May 7, 2009, in
order to aggressively develop and promote profitable cultural commodities in the global mar-
ket. As a collective of various state institutions and agencies like Korea Broadcasting Institute,
Korea Culture and Content Agency, Korea Game Industry Agency, Cultural Contents ­Center
and Digital Contents Business Group of Korea IT Industry Promotion Agency, KOCCA
commands a comprehensive strategy from developing human resources to supporting a “de-
velopment of specialized culture technologies from design to production, the commercial-
ization of contents, and the promotion of various overseas expansion projects to develop the
content industry into an export industry” (n.d., n.p). The ‘Content Industry Promotion Act’
of 2010 deploys a more assertive administrative support to emphasize monetary benefits of
cultural “content” enterprises like online game development. Furthermore, the government
has provided the industry with financial supports such as tax breaks and loans (Ministry of
Strategy and Finance 2012). Those governmental measures indicate how much K-pop’s recent
success has benefited from a continuity of Korea’s decade-long state developmentalism.

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As was the case during its dynamic industrialization period from the ’60s to the ’80s, the
Korean government has actively treated Hallyu as an export item to keep its national econ-
omy floating. Institutionally, the Hallyu Culture Promotion Organization and the ­Korea
­Foundation for International Culture Exchange (KOFICE) were founded to further facilitate
overseas promotions and exports of Hallyu products in 2012. Practically, the K ­ orean Wave
Index, created by the MCST in 2010, quantifies how Korean culture has been consumed
and favored so that the industry can modify export portfolios and strategies to cater to each
country’s selling points and perspectives. In turn, with theses state initiatives, in 2011, K-pop
achieved a revenue of $3.4 billion, and its exports reached $180 million with 112 ­percent in-
crease compared to 2010 with almost 80 percent annual growth since 2007 (Naidu-­Ghelani
2012). Establishing the Priority Sectors criterion to support new economic growth engine
sectors, the Export-Import Bank of Korea announced that it would provide loans and credit
guarantees worth of US$917 million to help spread K-pop and other ­Hallyu-related products
(Na 2013). For example, a sizeable part of the government’s fund for ‘2013 Popular Music
Production Support Project,’ designed originally to assist independent musicians in pro-
moting diversity, went to several K-pop idols such as Girls’ Day and ­Hyorin of Sistar who
have been manufactured and marketed by major K-pop industry leaders ­(MoneyToday 2014).
KOCCA, the fund administrator, maintains that the decision was necessary in order to fa-
cilitate an overseas promotion of K-pop, since Korea’s economy became heavily dependent
on export after the 1997 IMF crisis (Crotty and Lee 2006). Amongst 17 fund recipients,
seven went to major K-pop management companies, claiming approximately $500,000 from
$888,000 and negating the raison d’etre of the governmental policy.
More than just an export item, K-pop became a comprehensive marketing tool to help
raise overseas market recognition of Korean brands. In order to conflate K-pop’s global
popularity with Korean manufactured goods’ quality, the Korea Trade Promotion Agency
with another governmental agency, the Korea Trade Insurance Corporation, signed a mem-
orandum of understanding to assist small companies with less than an annual export revenue
of $50,000 by giving “free marketing and financial consulting to the companies, as well as
insurance discounts” ( J. Kim 2014, n.p.).
Furthermore, K-pop has been deployed as an item of destination tourism in Korea as a
neoliberal economy strategy. Through private-state partnership with uses of various gov-
ernmental venues, the state government has hosted several international K-pop events like
the annual K-pop World Festival. Though the Festival is planned and organized by multiple
government bodies, such as the MCST, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade, the KO-
FICE and the Presidential Council on Nation Branding, the media publicize it, conglomer-
ates like Samsung fund and engage in PR and the municipal governments recruit tourists for
the event. In this regard, K-pop has been a center of strategic relations among state, society
and market as neoliberal service economy has counted on the culture industry. Thus, em-
phasizing the role of intellectual property and creativity and reducing any cost of production
and logistics, K-pop is a new economic model that procures a faster, higher profit margin
than the traditional manufacturing industry, like automobiles, as a “distinct spatiotemporal
configuration” of post-IMF Korean economy: “The sharper the differentiation between
these two temporalities grows (with dematerialization/digitalization), the more abundant
the business opportunities become” (Sassen 2001, p. 268).
As reviewed earlier, dictator-President Park deemed his administration’s cultural policy
a social intervention to support the state’s industrialization projects. In the same way, con-
fronting the IMF’s structural adjustment programs, President Kim Dae-Jung’s democratic
administration (1998–2003) implemented an industrial model of cultural policy, which

529
Gooyong Kim

highlighted the economic potential and value of culture as an important source of national
wealth. As a benchmark for Park’s industrialization projects, in the ’60s and ’70s, the Kim
administration enforced the “five-year plan for the development of cultural industries [in
1999], the vision 21 for cultural industries [in 2000] and the vision 21 for cultural industries
in a digital society” in 2001 (Yim 2002, p. 41). It is in this context of the Korean govern-
ment’s utilization of cultural policies as a subcategory of political and economic imperatives
that K-pop idols have been produced and consumed in Korea.
In this political economy context, SNSD is a cultural commodity that emerged from a
nexus of Confucian patriarchism, neoliberalism and state developmentalism. Perpetuating a
commodified model of female sexuality constructed by the industry with a “positive” twist,
which is “girl power” or “female sexual empowerment” (Frost 2005; Gill 2008; Gill and
Scharff 2011; McRobbie 2009), K-pop female idols have become a unique socio-cultural
phenomenon that facilitates economic profiteering. In this respect, unfortunately, K-pop has
been turned into an economic stunt by the K-pop industry and the government’s neoliberal
policy as a means to regain national economic competitiveness and confidence. Actually,
K-pop contributes to raising the confidence of Korea’s neoliberal service industries such
as popularizing private dance and singing academies, and supplying tourist-driven shop-
ping malls with fashion items (Mahr 2012). Therefore, with K-pop’s economic success, the
­Korean government is both omnipresent and minimal: universally engaged to naturalize
the neoliberal principles and maximally disengaged by having private talent agencies enact
its policies.
In sum, K-pop should be recognized in Pratt’s (2005) notion of neoliberal social policy:
As a popular form of social inclusion based upon the individual’s desire to be successful
and rich within the existing global economy structure, K-pop contains socially dissatisfied,
alienated, yet musically talented youths, encouraging them to stick with the neoliberal man-
tra of self-endurance, self-discipline and self-development as the key factors for success. By
preaching a possibility of social mobility based on their musical talent rather than conven-
tional means such as studying and hard work, the post-IMF neoliberal society encourages
and mobilizes artistically talented or interested young people. These aspiring young people
then form a large pool of potential talents for the culture industry, which (re)produces a con-
centrated and hierarchal structure of Korea’s previous manufacture industry conglomerates,
thus, channeling young people’s social energy to the competitive market economy and in
turn achieving social-inclusion goals (Scott 2011).

K-pop female idols: regime of truth and life

in neoliberal subjectification
In tandem with the Korean government’s supports, the K-pop industry has implemented its
private, economic goals as a public agenda of national development, exercising ­Foucauldian
biopolitics that (re)produces and proliferates neoliberal subjects. A concept of discipline,
especially docility-utility (Foucault 1995) is permeated in K-pop idols who have been con-
ditioned through years of training, and audiences who internalize and glorify their favorite
K-pop stars. Broadcasting seemingly raw video footages that show how the idols undergo
military boot camp style training procedures plays an important role in normalizing the
brutal conditions of competition, self-development, multi-tasking, and flexibility as a gen-
eral social environment that fans themselves have to overcome. In this respect, as a mundane,
popular mechanism for penetrating a neoliberal self-government of the populace, reality TV
shows, such as Real Wonder Girls, 2NE1 TV and Big Bang TV, provides an experimental

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training ground for the government of the neoliberal enterprising self (Ouellette and Hay
2008).
This process functions as a method of controlling and subordinating the idols’ individual-
ity and characters to the industry’s entrepreneurial goals and principles on the one hand and
permeates and intensifies a neoliberal government of successful self-managers in the fabric
of individuals’ daily lives on the other. For example, in the 7th episode of One Day, a reality
program that covered JYP Entertainment’s 13-member-idol-group project, which begat two
separate groups, 2AM and 2 PM, JYP’s CEO delivered a speech establishing that the K-pop
industry and its training processes are a form of popular pedagogy to anyone who wants to
equip a survival technique as a condition of one’s citizenship in neoliberal society:

it might have been tough [to get to here], but this training is so much easier than the
road you are about to walk on. You guys, as singers, will be heading toward the direc-
tion of world stars. But it will be psychologically and mentally 10 times or 100 times
harder than this. (n.p.)

The nation-wide popularity of K-pop audition TV programs such as Super Star K, K-pop
Star, Great Birth, and Korea’s Got Talent and the surge in applications for the programs in-
dicate how the neoliberal governmentality of competition and success is widespread in
Korea. For example, there were cumulatively over 2 million applicants for Super State K,
Season 4 ­(August 17–November 23, 2012). In this respect, K-pop idols, who are important
role models for fans, are an effective tool for conditioning thoughts and behaviors, producing
­auto-regulated or auto-correcting selves who are free yet fulfil neoliberal ideals of rational
and self-responsible individuals, competitive and flexible workers and self-calculating con-
sumers. Thus, K-pop helps create docile social subjects who endure political and economic
instabilities and risks.
As neoliberalism has marketized what was thought to be non-marketable, such as emo-
tions, care, feelings and sentiments, K-pop female idols are successful in intensively expand-
ing economic profiteering into the previously unexplored or under-explored manipulation
of female sexualities by images of girlish cuteness, innocence and delicate sexuality. As such,
SNSD’s massive fan base includes sam-chon fans. These middle-aged male fans indicate how
the group has deftly exploited Korea’s gendered virtue of aegyo, which is a complex quality
of ideal female coquettishness with decency, humor, submissive sexuality and affective read-
iness for male counterparts. Although aegyo has been practiced by Korean women to serve
male counterparts for ages, it has been confined to private, domestic relationships between
couples. Moreover, there was not a case of systematic mass production, marketing and distri-
bution of aegyo as an affective commodity prior to K-pop female idols like SNSD. Recently,
as its members get older, SNSD has aggressively expanded its collective image from girlish
cuteness to more explicit, eroticized sexiness since their American debut in 2012.
Politically and economically speaking, just as with the 1996 Telecommunication Act, a
neoliberal deregulation of media ownership directly caused the proliferation of aggravating
pornographic media representations on female pop stars in the US (Levande 2008), there is a
skyrocketing intensification of sexually explicit portrayals of K-pop female idols as a cultural
symptom of Korea’s growing neoliberalization. As Korea’s neoliberalization intensifies and
the number of K-pop female idols multiplies, the idols’ escalating competition to grasp audi-
ences’ attention has led to images of women becoming increasingly more suggestive. Differ-
ently put, the mere fact that there is a growing number of K-pop female idols does not mean
that they have successfully achieved and exerted autonomous (sexual) agency; however, they

531
Gooyong Kim

perform a seemingly positive role of the active female (sexual) subject rather than embody
and enact it. In other words, increasing numbers of female idols face a double bind as they
are presented as active subjects while being re-objectified and in turn lead female audiences
to believe they too can commend active (sexual) subjectivity. However, this process does not
change the existing patriarchal gender hierarchy.
As an indicator of the idols’ double gender bind, SNSD’s human capital lies in their
attractive appearances and charming behaviors that beget teenage followers. Considering
that consumers automatically become producers or carriers of the neoliberal ethics of self-­
development and self-competitiveness (Foucault 2008), SNSD’s appealing, sexualized visual
images and lifestyle have conditioned Korean women to imitate or emulate them by pur-
chasing the same or similar commodities. To show how K-pop idols are seamlessly weaved
into other neoliberal industries like fashion and beauty industries, there are numerous online
shops and communities where SNSD’s fashion items are introduced, promoted and sold
globally. Among others, www.style.soshified.com, a subsection of www.soshified.com, the
most popular, authoritative, largest SNSD fan community with well over 200,000 active
members and 176 staff, stands out since it has a monthly average of 1 million visitors and
10 million page views internationally. Claiming to provide a complete list of “what Girls’
Generation wore or what items they were seen with” (n.p.), the online site is an extensive
advertising outlet where virtually all walks of SNSD’s everyday lives are commodified and
promoted, integrating SNSD into the neoliberal consumer economy. Basically, it teaches
audiences what to buy and how to use lifestyle commodities so that they can express pseudo
individualities, and in turn shape their identities as an outcome of stylistic self-fashioning
and improvisation in the neoliberal consumer culture of seductive images and sensations.
What is noteworthy is that there is a tutorial category where users, as self-reliant everyday
experts, post seemingly self-help know-how to follow or emulate the idols’ fashion styles on
“Get This Look,” “Hair Tutorial,” “Make-Up Tutorial,” “Outfit of the Week,” “Reviews”
and so on. By acquiring, customizing and personalizing commodities promoted by SNSD,
the vernacular experts to keep up with a current, trending consumer lifestyle are actively
enacting governmentality in which self-development, self-realization, self-glamorization
and personal well-being are an on-going neoliberal life project. In other words, hosting
a participatory genre of peer tutorials in styling issues, the site encourages fans to exercise
their free, capable agency in neoliberal self-fashioning and self-renovation opportunities and
requirements and in turn, governs them by teaching how to govern themselves as neoliberal,
self-reliant lifestyle subjects.
SNSD’s influences on fans’ life-style choices and self-promotion strategies go beyond
unobtrusive measures to the extent that fans pursue plastic surgery. For example, K-pop
Combo, that is a common, or sometime mandatory, plastic surgery for double eye-lids and a
higher, pointy nose amongst the idols, is an easy, rampant measure for the fans to look cute
and amicable, associated with an ideal aegyo quality (K-pop Surgery 2014). More specifically,
SNSD Plastic Surgery stands for “some of the best and carefully done plastic surgical proce-
dures of the world” by its capability to maintain “natural looks” (SNSD Plastic S­ urgery n.d.,
n.p.). Not to mention numerous non-surgical procedures like a Botox injections, skyrocket-
ing rates of plastic surgery amongst Korean females proves the idols’ biopolitical power that
revolves around a sensual image of an “ideal new feminine subject demanded by neoliberal-
ism” (Francis 2013; Gonick 2006, p. 11).
Considering the first plastic surgery was done on a Korean prostitute who wanted to appeal
to American soldiers in 1961 (Stone 2013), plastic surgery in Korea is socio-­economically in-
strumental in order to get a better job or a raise. Due to bleak job-market prospects coupled

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with the proliferation of K-pop and beauty industries in the daunting post-IMF economy,
an ever increasing number of Koreans accept and are willing to transform their bodies in
a hope of being successful (Chung 2015; Ho 2012; Lim 1993). Though individuals osten-
sibly exercise their ‘free choices,’ personal accountability, and self-empowerment as eth-
ics of neoliberal citizenship, this neoliberal logic of human capital has increasingly made
the population subject into a mere object of profiteering, and furthermore, auto-regulating
and auto-correcting consumers who are confirmative to the status-quo (T. Kim 2003). By
consuming various beauty commodities and services, female audiences, who are the main
engine of neoliberal consumerism, try to change their appearances and images as a means to
accumulate human capital, which ultimately confines them to rapacious commercialism. By
doing so, they become active agents of neoliberal governmentality, which preaches personal
responsibility, self-development and self-enterprise as ethics of ‘good’ citizens who comply
with a pre-determined, gendered pathways and to be obedient consumer-workers in soci-
ety. In this respect, SNSD is a popular, effective form of neoliberal biopolitics that employs
“technologies of subjectivity … to induce self-animation and self-government so citizens
optimize choice, efficiency, and competitiveness” (Ong 2006, p. 5).

Girls’ generation not in their own terms:

from factories to performance stages
Manufactured and marketed by SM Entertainment, SNSD as the most successful K-pop idol
girl group is not an exemplar of girl power since it is an exemplar of how women are objecti-
fied and commodified as a subordinate class (Radin and Sunder 2005). As a neoliberal social
policy that is more concerned with the state’s economic competitiveness and growth than its
deterioration of living standards, K-pop is one of the most successful models of K ­ orea’s diri-
gisme mode of capitalist development through exploiting a cheap, docile, abundant, willing
workforce (Escobar 1995). Thus, it is Korea’s signature neoliberal service economy that pro-
vides the state with global competition as a political legitimation and universalizes govern-
mentality by its conditioning of “the human body [with docility-utility], human body parts
[for sexuality], and human behavior [of competition and enterprise] as commodities” ( J. Lee
2010, p. 12). As an automated embodiment of governmentality, K-pop idols are the most
salient example of alienation, who are adored, celebrated and respected as a role-model of
neoliberal economy.
In the working process of the Miracle on the Han River, the rhetoric of self-­empowerment,
self-responsibility and voluntarism was effectively deployed to legitimize Park Chung-Hee’s
developmental dictatorship (1961–1979). As the nation’s ethos, the socio-cultural rhetoric
ceaselessly and effectively mobilized rural, unwed women to work as an obedient, docile,
cheap, disposable workforce on the sweatshop floors of textile factories. Now, the same ethos
is spectacularly and sensationally deployed in post-IMF neoliberal Korea through the K-pop
industry. Consequently, since “[p]olitics (in the broad sense of relations, assumptions, and
contests pertaining to power) is what links value and exchange in the social life of commod-
ities” (Appadurai 2005, p. 42, emphasis original), it is no coincidence that current President
Park Geun-Hye, daughter of dictator-President Park Chung-Hee, declared that the Second
Miracle on the Han River would be realized through Korea’s popular culture.
In closing, the author suggests some possible research directions for future studies. Based
on this chapter’s arguments on K-pop idols as a popular mode of neoliberal governmentality,
further empirical studies need to specifically delineate how K-pop idols interpellate audi-
ences to become an agent of certain commercial, ideological and possibly political interests.

533
Gooyong Kim

In turn, further ethnographic studies should substantiate how K-pop idols are an effective
tool to (re) shape individuals’ value, behavior and decision-making in their everyday lives.
Moreover, as equally important and popular as female idols, K-pop male idols must be ex-
amined in terms of their different modalities of perpetuating governmentality. By doing so,
further research needs to investigate whether or how they are sexualized like female idols,
if not, then how male idols are commercialized and commodified in Korea’s neoliberal
economy. In sum, extensive empirical, ethnographic research should address varied practical
ramifications of K-pop’s governmentality in neoliberal Korea.

Note
1 Derogatory terms that indicate “factory girl” and “factory boy” respectively. See, Shin, K. 2002.
The Discourse on Women in Korea: Episodes, Continuity, and Change. The Review of Korean
Studies, 5, 7–27.

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 34
‘Regeneration’ in Britain
Measuring the outcomes of cultural
activity in the 21st century

Peter Campbell and Tamsin Cox

Introduction
This chapter offers a case study of practices of evidence-gathering relating to regeneration
and culture in Great Britain. It reviews literature from the last decade to explore the ‘regen-
erative’ outcomes sought from cultural interventions, the types of proposition that underlie
these outcomes, and the types of evidence produced to support these propositions. This
offers an analytical framework that elucidates key aspects of the policy discourse relating
to culture (i.e. what activities are funded and what claims are made for them) and the ap-
proaches to ‘evidencing’ the claims made within that discourse. In doing so, we reflect upon
the nature of this evidence base and upon some of the common methodological challenges
encountered in the production of evidence.

‘British cultural policy’ and ‘regeneration’

In some regards, it is difficult to assess ‘British cultural policy’. First, Britain contains the
major part of three distinct countries, with certain policy domains delegated to national
assemblies, including cultural policy. Britain thus contains a range of national cultural
­policies (Allin 2015, p. 15). Second, substantive ‘cultural policy’ itself can be difficult to
locate ­(Selwood 2015, p. 1) and has remained marginal, being administered by the smallest
of government departments – the ‘Department for Culture, Media and Sport’ (DCMS)
(Gordon et al. 2015, p. 51), with local government budgets shrinking year on year in recent
times. These challenges, though, are not exclusively British. Despite these challenges, what
can clearly be seen across Britain (and also far beyond), is a focus on the outcomes of policy
(cultural or otherwise), with a particular emphasis on economic outcomes, and the production
of evidence with regards to these outcomes (e.g. Gordon et al. 2015, p. 52; Hesmondhalgh
et al. 2015, p. 38; Stevenson 2014, p. 134).
The conceptual linking of cultural activity and an outcome of urban ‘regeneration’ of
some form achieved a particular prominence in Britain from the late 20th century, and so can
be seen as an exemplar of broader international trends. Whilst the apex of both policy dis-
course and practice that refers to this linkage may have been reached (see e.g. Hesmondhalgh

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et al. 2015, p. 139; O’Brien and Matthews 2015), not only do major regeneration funding
streams such as the Single Regeneration Budget, European Regional Development Fund and
Housing Market Renewal Scheme maintain a position for cultural activity (cf. ACAVA 2014;
DCLG 2013; European Commission 2013; NFASP 2010), but ‘regeneration’ remains a clear
part of the argument made by government and non-governmental funding bodies to justify
investment in culture (ACE 2014; DCMS 2013, 2016). This chapter seeks to contribute to
our understanding of practices and discourses that link cultural activity and regeneration by
demonstrating the practical steps taken to constitute a body of ‘evidence’ on this topic, identi-
fying where common claims arise and understanding the approaches taken in justifying these.

Method
This chapter takes as its base a literature review of the ‘evidence’ that has been produced in
making the case for the regenerative impact of culture in Britain, focusing on examples from
the last decade. This was done as part of the wider ‘Cultural Value’ project funded by the
UK’s ‘Arts and Humanities Research Council’ considering the means by which the range of
cultural values might best be captured (Campbell et al. 2016; Crossick and Kaszynska 2016).
This project builds upon previous reviews but uses a particular analytical framework to ex-
plore what arguments are made within the discourse constituted by these sources and what
evidence is produced to support these. Our approach is to ask:

1 What ‘regeneration’ is supposed to result from cultural activity? (‘Outcome’)

2 What propositions support these outcomes? (‘Proposition’)
3 What evidence is produced to support these propositions, and how? (‘Evidence’)

Identifying relevant material is made difficult by the nebulous nature (or at least usage) of
the idea of ‘regeneration’. In order to assess relevant evidence, the activity discussed below
is that which explicitly articulates, however loosely, some kind of proposition for how, or
why, regeneration will occur as a result of a cultural intervention. The associated evidence is
then presented to establish this proposition. A full account of the evidence-gathering process
can be found in Campbell et al. (2016), but briefly, academic and grey literature and national
evidence databases (e.g. the CASE (Culture and Sport Evidence) programme led by DCMS)
were reviewed, in addition to consultation with arts funding bodies and organisations. We
do not claim here to provide a comprehensive record of all evidence in existence, but to pro-
vide a clear typology of the evidence produced in practice in Britain. It should also be noted
that as this chapter draws from a larger study, it does not reflect all sources upon which the
study is based. As such, individual sources are in many cases examples of types of intervention,
types of methods for evidence production and types of impact.
In the remainder of the chapter, results are discussed, with each of the ‘outcomes’ identi-
fied as being commonly referred to across a number of activity/evidence examples described
in turn, followed by associated ‘propositions’ and then the methods commonly used to pro-
duce evidence in each area.

OUTCOME 1: Regeneration via sector development

of cultural and creative industries
In their assessment of the rationale for much activity seeking to achieve ‘regeneration’, Böhm
and Land (2009, p. 93) summarise the situation thus: “the arts are seen as central to the

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Peter Campbell and Tamsin Cox

development of social entrepreneurs whose creative energies will revitalise both the local
culture and economy”, and account for this position as follows:

The assumption seems to be that ‘creativity’ is a transferable skill, and that develop-
ing the population’s artistic creativity will deliver creativity and innovation in other
sectors.
(2009, p. 80)

Arts provision is thus seen as leading to regeneration via the development of ‘creative’ skills,
which can be used in many sectors, or in industries related specifically to cultural activity,
resulting in increased employment. Statements regarding the UK’s most recent staging of
the European Capital of Culture (ECoC) programme, for instance, can be seen to reflect
this position:

Creativity has a lot to offer industry and business and we need to make sure that all
employees, employers and business people understand that. Winning European Capital
of Culture shows how key creativity is to Merseyside; to its people, to its economy and
to its future.
( Jones 2008)

This position has clear links to the influential ‘creative class’ thesis, wherein differing forms
of ‘creativity’, be they cultural, economic or technological, are seen as “interlinked and
inseparable” (Florida 2004, p. 8). From such a position, any activity conceived as ‘creative’,
including cultural activity, is vital for achieving success, even if cultural activity only acts
as “an instrumental sideshow that in turn attracts the workers, which attracts the hi-tech
investors” (Pratt 2008, p. 108). The idea that culture is part of an overarching system of
creativity, generating income and employment as part of a move to a ‘creative economy’, as
well as having a social role to play can be seen to have maintained some dominance in recent
years, both at an international level (e.g. European Commission 2010, p. 2; Lähdesmäki
2014, p. 490) and within Britain at national (ACE et al. 2010, p. 1; DCMS et al. 2008, p. 7),
and local levels (e.g. Liverpool City Council 2012, 2013).
Below, we consider the activities undertaken and evidence produced to substantiate these
links between cultural activity and increased/diversified economic activity and what prop-
ositions are (or can be) used to make this link. Evidence will be considered in relation to
three propositions.

Proposition 1: Cultural activity stimulates the creative industries, leading to:

-   Economic growth, diversification and competitiveness
-   A change in industrial profile, supporting wider investment
Evidence generated: Volume of ‘creative’ individuals/firms, level of economic activity & trends
in these
From: Secondary datasets, stakeholder surveys

Some have sought to establish the role culture may play as an attractive force in decision-­
making processes around migration from primary survey data (Biddle et al. 2006). Others,
such as Clifton (2008), have attempted specifically to locate Florida’s ‘creative class’ using
national datasets such as the census and Labour Force Survey (p. 66). Evidence regarding

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 ‘Regeneration’ in Britain

the number of ‘creative industries’ in a location is also often derived from national datasets
such as the ONS (Office for National Statistics) ‘Annual Business Inquiry’ (Impacts 08 2010a,
p. 37). Such datasets provide the data that underlie statements such as this:

Investment in the arts and heritage can be put to work to help economic recovery.
The sector covered by the Department for Culture, Media and Sport accounts for 10%
of GDP.
(ACE et al. 2010, p. 5)

Concern with the overall size and contribution of the ‘high growth’ creative sector is also
clear in Local Enterprise Partnerships and local authority plans (e.g. D2N2 LEP 2012, p. 12;
GBS LEP 2014, p. 65). Such strategies do not necessarily link creative industries directly
to cultural interventions, however, and may associate the sector with tourism, ‘digital’/
IT activities, biological and life sciences or advanced manufacturing. Typically, documents
supporting sector development include assessments of the size and spread of business units
(e.g. The Economic Strategy Research Bureau 2011) and employment (e.g. Morris and Jones
2009). This kind of mapping of secondary data is, however, specifically drawn on in more
recent cultural interventions. The ‘UK City of Culture’ competition requires applicant cit-
ies to supply an assessment of the “current nature and strength of the cultural and creative
sectors” in their area, as well as an assessment of how the UK City of Culture programme
will “help to boost these sectors” (DCMS 2013, p. 19). The most recent winning bid for this
competition specifies a target to increase employment in the creative industries by 10% by
2017 (Hull City Council 2014), suggesting that changes in the size of the sector will continue
to be seen as key indicators of successfully regenerative cultural interventions, and these in-
dicators will likely continue to rely on data from ONS and local directories to substantiate
the level of change.
Relatedly, some (e.g. Bailey 2006, p. 2) give evidence of high levels of new business in the
creative sector and attribute this to the impact of cultural regeneration, thus drawing links
among cultural activity, new business activity and the potentially high economic rewards
that can be drawn from this activity. Similar datasets are used to establish the impact of de-
velopments in cultural infrastructure (New Economy 2013). Some research also uses more
anecdotal data to establish whether stakeholders express the view that creative activity has
increased (General Public Agency 2008, pp. 21–22), or whether survey results demonstrate
a belief that job opportunities are being provided (Biddle et al. 2006), rather than seeking
more ‘hard’ data.

Proposition 2: Cultural activity stimulates the development of creative skills/approaches,

leading to:
-   The development of new creative workers (in both subsidised and unsubsidised environ-
ments), addressing employment issues
Evidence generated: Qualitative data on perceptions, quantitative data on programmes, indi-
viduals involved, artist employment
From: Interviews, focus groups, surveys, monitoring data

Roger Tym and Partners (2011, pp. 45–47) used structured interviews with economic de-
velopment and arts development organisations, revealing opinions on the extent to which
cultural institutions influence business-location decisions and the attraction and retention of

541
Peter Campbell and Tamsin Cox

skilled workers, whereas Biddle et al. (2006) undertook a general survey of the population
of Newcastle-Gateshead, finding that over 90% agreed with the proposition that the Quays
were providing opportunities for young people to develop artistic talent. A preponderance of
more anecdotal evidence in this area, however, may reflect a relative lack of activity within
flagship cultural projects to directly promote or engage with creative industries (Comunian
and Mould 2014).
At a policy level, ‘Creative and Cultural Skills’ and the ‘National Skills Academy for Cre-
ative and Cultural’ specifically run workforce development programmes, including activities
for young people. The Backstage Centre, a “technical training and rehearsal facility”, works
with young people to support the development of skills related to the creative industries. The
facility is described as being “at the heart of a cultural industries business zone […] and is part
of a major regeneration project” (CCS 2014a, emphasis added). The Centre won the RICS’
East of England award for Regeneration and was described by CCS as being developed “to
encourage local talent to stay in the area and aspire for the best jobs” (CCS 2014b). Similarly,
a programme hosted by Tate Modern entitled ‘START’ looked to engage unemployed south
London residents through cultural organisations providing training and workplace experi-
ences in jobs as gallery and retail assistants (Hyslop 2012). Whilst evidence of the existence of
such interventions is clear, however, evidence of their efficacy in terms of ‘regeneration’ is
less easy to establish. Nevertheless, writers such as Holden (2007, p. 26) argue that schemes
that promote involvement with the arts (such as the UK government’s ‘Creative Partner-
ships’) help “build the creative individuals of the future”.

Proposition 3: Prominent cultural interventions (e.g. mega-events) result in:

-   Higher profile, and conditions conducive to the operation of cultural and creative industries
-   Subsidised cultural organisations and individuals being more ambitious, collaborative, in-
novative, networking, etc.
Evidence generated: Sector perceptions of the success, and indirect benefits, of regeneration
initiatives, sector experiences and direct impacts of regeneration initiatives
From: Surveys, interviews, focus groups, monitoring data

Some have gathered evidence regarding creative workers’ views of the impacts of cultural
programmes on their practice. An evaluation of an empty shops scheme in Lancashire (Green
2011) that aimed to develop local creative industries, for instance, provided data on the value
of reported sales and reported potential future clients, evidence of new audiences for parti­
cipating artists and creative businesses through artist-reported estimates and evidence of new
networks and contacts through interviews with participants. Similar lines of enquiry have
been followed using interview and survey techniques around programmes such as the ECoC
(Campbell 2011) and other flagship cultural projects (e.g. Comunian and Mould 2014).
Views elicited are, at best, mixed regarding the results of such interventions and the direct
impact such a programme can make on commercial creative practice, with British examples
to some extent reinforcing the findings of Palmer-Rae Associates’ historic analysis of the
ECoC programme, which found that, when consulted, “very few cities submitted evidence
of following through in any meaningful way on genuine economic targets” (2004, p. 103).
More generally, in providing evidence of what activity has been achieved, many evalua-
tions report basic quantitative indicators such as the volume of artists involved, often broken
down by, for example, levels of local artists, international artists, etc., and discussions of
approaches taken to provide artists with opportunities to develop their work (cf. García and

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Cox 2013). Again, however, data on what activity has taken place does not necessarily enable
us to establish the effects of this activity.

OUTCOME 2: Regeneration via interventions that promote

public profiles and levels of engagement
When considering the means by which culture can achieve regeneration, analyses of the
economic ‘impact’ of tourism and related spending have proved consistently popular in
­Britain (and beyond); they proliferate in press reports of the effects of cultural programmes
(e.g. Owens 2013; Young 2013). Tourism is often specifically linked to particular infrastruc-
tural developments, via the so-called ‘Bilbao effect’ of attractive, ‘iconic’ cultural centres
but also via the association of cultural festivals with wider physical change. These physical
developments can also ‘regenerate’ an area as part of a broader set of interventions.
Arts projects on a small scale are also sometimes used as a means to regenerate the physical
fabric of urban areas. A relatively recent phenomenon is the ‘empty shops’ movement in a
number of towns and cities. Whilst some earlier interventions are independent of any form
of wider funding (e.g. ‘Empty Shop’ Durham, founded in 2008 (Empty Shop 2014)), there is
a rising pattern of support from local authorities and similar bodies in response to declining
levels of retail unit occupancy and a desire to reinvigorate empty high streets using art instal-
lations and cultural enterprises (Burchill 2011; Empty Shops Network 2014).
As well as new cultural practice, some interventions seek to utilise the arts to render wider
processes of physical regeneration more ‘creative’ in some way. The Commission for Archi-
tecture and the Built Environment (CABE 2008, pp. 3–4), for instance, discuss “join[ing]
forces with Arts & Business and Public Art South West […] to inject creativity into deve­
lopment” and to “include artists in determining the future look and feel of our towns and
cities” (p. 6).
This association of culture with some transformation of physical space is often broadened
to include a transformation of the meanings associated with that space, with cultural activity
positioned as a key driver to achieve positive media coverage or image change (García 2010),
which in addition to being valuable in and of itself can also attract a range of audiences.
This section highlights the emphasis placed upon interventions, which introduce new
content to a locale, be this a physical asset or cultural programme of activity. In some cases,
the intervention is specifically temporary or a ‘one-off’ (for example, in the case of ‘City
of Culture’ programmes). In this section, evidence will be considered in relation to six
propositions.

Proposition 4: Cultural interventions involving a change in the built environment will:

-   Provide new, or improve existing, cultural facilities for residents
-   Improve the look/feel of areas and residents’ experiences of them
-   Support more usage/reusage of stock/urban areas, reducing problems associated with
disuse
Evidence generated: Data on physical changes/additions, changes in land values
From: Secondary data sets (on physical investment), land-use maps, photographs, resident
surveys, stakeholder interviews, monitoring data

Secondary data regarding physical investment offers basic information on the process of
physical change, such as levels of investment (e.g. Bailey 2006, p. 6) and the range of facilities

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created or improved (e.g. Barnardo’s 2005; Liverpool Culture Company 2008). For example,
for many of the ‘empty shops’ projects, data on levels of reoccupation of vacant retail units
are suggested as one indicator of success (e.g. Newport City Council 2011). Such data are
commonly reported either as a stand-alone indicator of physical change or as one component
in a wider set of indicators. Some studies, however, have relied solely on other sources of
evidence, such as stakeholder interviews (General Public Agency 2008).
Other studies have employed multiple and mixed methods. The ‘Townscape Heritage
Initiative’ sought regeneration by funding a range of conservation activities relating to heri-
tage, including repairing the fabric of heritage assets, restoring original details and materials,
securing continued use or bringing vacant space into use and supporting public realm works.
In addition to using data on physical investment and conducting surveys and interviews with
residents and stakeholders, the longitudinal review of the Townscape Heritage Initiative
used a ‘townscape survey’ involving land use maps and the observation of “30 to 50 different
views of the streetscapes of each THI site” (THRU 2013, p. 11) against 25 measures, in order
to map overall changes in the physical environment of the case studies.
The manner in which space is used by the public is seen by some studies as an important
measure of the regenerative impact of culture. For ‘empty shops’ projects, local authorities
are naturally keen, for instance, to use attendance figures as a basic indicator of the extent
to which these cultural interventions are re-animating space (Burchill 2011; Green 2011).
Qualitative data from interviews with artists, visitors and participants (Green 2011) are also
used to provide evidence of the effects of such schemes. In the case of the longitudinal review
of the Townscape Heritage Initiative (2013, p. 16), public usage and traffic flow was analysed
in quantitative terms, with higher levels of usage of public space – as observed by the re-
search team and reported by local residents and stakeholders – being interpreted as a positive
indicator of regeneration. For other studies, observation of how ‘regenerated’ public space is
actually used is an opportunity to record the experiences of those who might otherwise be
overlooked or excluded from formal evaluation processes, using both repeated survey data
and more ethnographic methods (Sharp 2007, p. 282). In the Barnardo’s (2005, pp. 32–34)
review ‘Art of Regeneration’, researchers use insights from stakeholder interviews (commu-
nity workers, activists, young people) to form an impression of how renovated space is used,
by whom, and for what purposes.

Proposition 5: A cultural programme of activity improves usage of space by:

-   Providing new opportunities, engaging local residents in different ways, supporting social
inclusion/civic pride
-   Providing a focal point/shared narrative for actors from different agencies
-   Animating spaces
Evidence generated: Volume and type of activity involved in programming, volume and types
of public engagement
From: Monitoring data, audience surveys

As noted above, a common method of providing evidence on the effect of cultural program-
ming is simply to give data regarding the number of events that were held, the number of
opportunities there were to participate or the number of people that engaged with events in
some way, be it through passive or active forms of engagement (Burchill 2011; New Econ-
omy 2013). Sometimes there is particular emphasis by evaluators on new events or festivals
created by a cultural intervention, particularly in cases where this new activity is sustained

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in the long term (García and Cox 2013, p. 116; New Economy 2013, p. 11). In either case,
implicit in such evidence is the assumption that the very existence of cultural events is, in and
of itself, of benefit, and that more/new equals better. In any case, the mere existence of cul-
tural activity in a location is often taken to be evidence of improved usage of that location.

Proposition 6: Cultural intervention involving a change in the built environment (through

new/changed assets) will benefit the surrounding area by:
-   Improving the value and use of land and property
Evidence generated: Increase in land/property prices and/or usage as a result of new cultural
assets
From: Land Registry House Price Index combined with data on physical location of cultural
institutions and other variables, stakeholder interviews, resident surveys, ‘townscape
surveys’

Some studies equate a revived local property market with regeneration and therefore seek
to explore the relationship between cultural interventions and indicators such as greater
demand for property, increasing property prices and changing patterns of property use. A re-
port by the Centre for Economics & Business Research (CEBR 2013), for example, attempts
to evidence a positive relationship between ‘cultural density’ (the number of cultural institu-
tions within a particular area) and house prices. Similarly, Hyslop (2012, p. 158) attributes a
role for the opening of Tate Modern in the increasing property prices.
The review of the Townscape Heritage Initiative (2013, pp. 15–16) also considered the
capital and rental value of property in case study areas but, in addition, monitored shifts
in the patterns of usage for local land and retail space, through a combination of local and
national data sources, physical observation and interviews and questionnaires with local
people. Although few studies have the capacity to employ such a resource-intensive ap-
proach, others have also looked at trends in local land and property use, with an evaluation
of Salford’s Lowry, for instance, pointing to an increase in the number of households during
the period 2001–2011 as evidence of wider regeneration of which the venue is part (New
Economy 2013, p. 23).

Proposition 7: Cultural activities and interventions involving a change in the built environ-
ment (through new/changed assets) will benefit the surrounding area by:
-   Attracting visitors and increasing levels of tourism
Evidence generated: Data on tourism and associated spend
From: Secondary data sets (e.g. STEAM, bed nights and hotel occupation), primary data
surveys of visitors/attendees

Surveys to ascertain levels of tourism and associated retail spending have been used as evi-
dence for economic regeneration for some time (cf. Reeves 2002, p. 8) and continue to have
a prominent role in establishing the value of cultural interventions (cf. Arts Council England
2014; Sacco and Blessi 2007). Evidence on the economic benefits of tourism associated with
new or refurbished cultural facilities generally involve counts of a number of indicators,
including the level of visitors, overnight stays, ‘bed nights’ sold, employment in hotels (or
in the service sector more broadly) and spending (ACE et al. 2010; LGA 2013). These raw
indicators are often supplemented with additional analysis detailing the proportion of visitors

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that were explicitly motivated to visit due to the draw of the attraction being evaluated
(FiveLines 2012, p. 17; Impacts 08 2010a), visiting from outside the area of interest (LGA
2013, p. 13) or visiting during the ‘low season’ for local tourism (FiveLines 2012, p. 16).
Banardo’s (2005, p. 30) used box office data to look at what proportion of the Albany’s audi-
ence came from further afield than the immediate boroughs.

Proposition 8: Cultural activities and interventions involving a change in the built environ-
ment (through new/changed assets) will benefit the surrounding area by:
-   Creating economic value through direct employment and associated indirect and induced
benefits
-   Creating economic value through direct supply chain spending and associated indirect and
induced benefits
-   Creating economic value through direct tourism spending and associated indirect and
induced benefits
Evidence generated: Calculations/indicators of economic impact or size
From: Economic impact analysis, visitor surveys, government statistics, organisational ­accounts/
management information, pre-existing input/output models/multipliers ­(usually from
the tourism sector)

There is no shortage of studies linking cultural activity specifically to economic regeneration,

with evidence in this area having been generated in quite large quantities for a number of
years (Madden 2001). Most comprise analysis of ‘economic impact’ and share the same ba-
sic premise, albeit with considerable methodological variations in execution (e.g. FiveLines
2012; GHK 2009; Hyslop 2012). Typical approaches include attempts to assess the economic
value of employment and spending in the supply chain created by an activity or organisation
or the building of a new physical asset. Approaches may also include attempts to ascertain the
proportion of visitors brought into an area along with the associated spending and potential
effects of that spending. In some cases, efforts are made to consider ‘additionality’ – i.e. the
additional effects of a particular activity, above those that might have taken place in any case.
Considerations of a detailed counterfactual case are rarely included.
Many reports calculate a single figure for ‘economic impact’. For instance, a recent report
by the Local Government Association notes that,

The 500,000 visitors to the Hepworth Wakefield during its first year contributed an
estimated £10 million to the local economy in Wakefield and a recent economic impact
of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park estimated its annual contribution to the local economy
to be £5 million.
(LGA 2013, p. 6)

Similarly, the economic impact of the fourth edition of the AV Festival – a biennial
contemporary art, music and film festival held in North East England – was evaluated
using the Impact Evaluation Framework (IEF) based on the UK Treasury’s ‘Green Book’,
which gives guidance on methods of evaluation and data relating to organiser and visitor
expenditure derived from festival accounts and visitor surveys respectively. Using this ap-
proach, the net economic impact of the 2012 festival was estimated to be £1,091,435, with
a return of £2.88 for every £1 of public funding the festival received (BOP Consulting
2012, p. 7).

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Figures regarding the economic ‘size’ of an event or institution, whether in terms of the
jobs it ‘supports’ or in terms of its gross overall revenue or share of gross domestic product,
are frequently used as evidence of the regenerative potential of culture. In a study of the eco-
nomic impacts of the Lowry on the area surrounding it, the authors point to the fact that the
“Quays area accounted for almost 75% of new employment opportunities in Salford between
2003 and 2008” (New Economy 2013, p. 23). Results such as these are also available relating
to the economic impact of Turner Contemporary in Margate (FiveLines 2012). Such analyses
can also be found relating to objects other than single programmes or new buildings – the
regular activities of the group of major cultural institutions in Liverpool grouped under the
‘Liverpool Arts Regeneration Consortium’ banner, for instance, are also the object of an
economic impact assessment (Roger Tym and Partners 2011, p. 27).
Some studies report more general economic statistics for the area under consideration,
either to support or refute the proposition that a cultural intervention has altered an area’s
economic prosperity. Jones (2013, p. 57), for instance, uses the ONS’ Business Structure
­Database to show that the area surrounding the landmark development of Newcastle-­
Gateshead Quayside suffered private sector job losses, compared to private sector jobs
growth in the city of Newcastle as a whole. This example is helpful in highlighting the way
in which evidence is often presented for interventions selectively and without any signifi-
cant ­a rticulation of the potential relationship between an intervention and wider economic
changes and factors. Other studies, meanwhile, refer to the effect that funding for cultural
activity has on leveraging additional funding (General Public Agency 2008, p. 21) or com-
bine data from various different sources to create composite measures of wider economic
‘vitality’. The longitudinal evaluation of the Townscape Heritage Initiative (THRU 2013,
p. 16), for example, used surveys and interviews with residents and local business people,
observations of physical change and statistical data to arrive at a judgement of ‘business vital-
ity’, defined by the study as a situation where there are few vacant properties and the cultural
intervention is bound up with, or triggers, further investment. In this instance, what is being
offered as evidence is the perception of economic benefit.

Proposition 9: Cultural activities and interventions involving a change in the built environ-
ment (through new/changed assets) will benefit the surrounding area by:
-   Changing the image of the area, internally and externally
Evidence generated: Changes/improvements in perceptions and media coverage
From: Media analysis, stakeholder interviews, surveys of tourists/non-residents and residents,
business surveys, city ranking systems, ‘expert’ opinion, other indicators of ‘profile’

Higher profile and image improvement are among the most frequently claimed benefits of
cultural activity and typically occupy a key role in ‘regeneration’ narratives. These purported
benefits are supported by a range of evidence, the most common of which include indicators
derived from traditional or social media analysis, such as the total volume of media coverage
associated with an intervention, the attitudes expressed by this coverage and its ‘equivalent ad-
vertising value’ (FiveLines 2012; LGA 2013; THRU 2013, p. 16), indicators derived from the
perceptions of those based inside the immediate area of interest, including residents and local
stakeholders (Biddle et al. 2006; General Public Agency 2008, p. 22), indicators derived from the
perceptions of those based outside the immediate area of interest, such as tourists, non-­residents
and non-local businesses (Impacts 08 2010a, pp. 31, 46), the views of ‘experts’ or ‘peers’ in the
arts and tourism sectors (Impacts 08 2010a, p. 35), and the judgments of city ranking systems or

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‘league tables’ (García and Cox 2013, p. 131). It is worth noting that both ranking systems and
monetary valuations of media coverage are often widely used without methodological explana-
tions, making them difficult to analyse or understand in terms of validity.
Whilst various ECoCs have tracked local perceptions of the host city, with a range of pos-
itive effects claimed, the extent to which reported improvements are sustained in the long
term is not clear, as surveys are typically undertaken soon after the end of the event year itself
(García and Cox 2013, pp. 128–129). In the British case of Liverpool, neighbourhood surveys
and workshops that explored residents’ perceptions of the city, among other things, found that
perceptions improved between 2007 and 2009 (Impacts 08 2010b). Biddle et al. (2006) found
agreement concerning pride as a result of cultural capital developments in a local population
survey. Bailey (2006) also discusses a population survey revealing that, “the vast majority (93%)
agreed that the North East is a creative region”. Beyond these indicators, the value of cul-
tural interventions is sometimes evidenced through the awards that such interventions attract,
e.g. Gateshead ­Council’s (2006) listing of the various awards that the Angel of the North has re-
ceived or a similar listing for the Dream sculpture in St Helens (Dream St Helens 2010), demon-
strating a heightened profile for an area, and a (new) positive association with cultural activity.

OUTCOME 3: Regeneration via improved social circumstances

In addition to urban regeneration being achieved via broader economic outcomes, the parti­
cularly social impacts of cultural activity continue to be emphasised, with cultural engage-
ment being seen as having the potential not just to alleviate economic deprivation but also
to transform a social, or perhaps even spiritual, poverty (cf. O’Brien 2013, p. 41). Böhm and
Land (2009, p. 77) date this increasing attention to the “less tangible benefits” of cultural
activity as a later development in the discourse around culture and regeneration. In 2002,
for example, Belfiore (p. 97) identifies Matarasso’s 1997 work as being “so far the only” to
attempt to evaluate such benefits and notes some of the assumed areas in which cultural ac-
tivity is positioned as having an effect:

The arts and culture could increase social inclusion and community cohesion, reduce
crime and deviance, and increase health and mental wellbeing.

Activity discussed in previous sections included interventions that sought to improve faci­
lities for resident communities, or (in the broadest sense) engage these communities, as well
as interventions with vaguer propositions that some would argue have an implicit social
benefit, via a general economic benefit. One report reviewed suggests that the social and the
economic may link in a two-stage process thus:

Community development: Engagement of disadvantaged populations in activities

which promote participation, personal and community empowerment and the skills
required to be involved in the regeneration process
Community regeneration: The development of new forms of economic participa-
tion, engagement with the labour market and improved take up of training opportuni-
ties leading to economic recovery.
(Adamson et al. p. 2)

Here it is the eventual economic impact that determines activity as specifically regenera-
tive. More broadly, this is worth considering in the context of the adoption of methods by

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CASE for monetising well-being, using the ONS British Household Panel Survey (CASE
2011), where economic benefit is understood primarily in individual, rather than broader
social terms.
This section considers activities that specifically seek to engage with communities in
order to create a positive social outcome. This includes programmes or activities to connect
communities to, for instance, physical developments, major events and festivals and wider
regeneration activity. On the whole, the propositions made for potential social outcomes are
amongst the least clearly defined we have come across in this review process. As Colomb
(2011, p. 81) notes, “the evidence base on the ‘social’ impacts of cultural regeneration re-
mains relatively thin”.
Indeed, evidence of these outcomes is arguably even more difficult to establish than
those areas considered up to now. Nevertheless, a range of research activity is regularly
carried out in this area, including, for example, surveys and interviews with audience
members and programme participants to determine the effects of cultural activity. In
some cases, it is difficult to relate outcomes directly to cultural interventions. Due to
the perceived potential impact of cultural programmes, however, wider ‘indicators’ such
as crime statistics, household income, health statistics and general population data for a
given location are also often included in research (e.g. Ela Palmer Heritage 2008; Impacts
08 2010a; THRU 2013).
In this section, evidence will be considered in relation to three propositions.

Proposition 10: Cultural projects provide opportunities to engage in cultural ‘work’ or ac-
tivity, in order to:
-   Develop the (potentially) transferable skills and confidence of a participating group
-   Address issues of education/life attainment indirectly, through positive cultural experiences
Evidence generated: Skills development, educational attainment, personal development
From: Volunteer and participant surveys, resident surveys, education statistics

There are examples of cultural activity that aspires to have a positive impact on the skills,
personal development and educational attainment of those involved, whether as audience
members, volunteers or members of the general public, with these impacts frequently linked,
more or less directly, with ‘regeneration’ narratives. This view is echoed by ACE et al. (2010,
p. 1), who argue that the arts and heritage can assist “with jobs, training, skills, experience,
hope”. In the case of Matarasso and Moriarty (2011), impacts on self-confidence and self-­
esteem were evidenced with extracts from interviews with project participants. Surveys of
festival volunteers routinely uncover evidence of increased communication skills, teamwork
skills, decision-making ability and leadership skills, as a result of the volunteering experience
(BOP Consulting 2012, p. 24; Impacts 08 2010a, p. 22), whilst some studies see engagement
with volunteering opportunities around cultural organisations as evidence of positive social
impact (New Economy 2013, p. 28). In terms of direct impacts on young participants in
particular, Holden (2007) cites an analysis of the DCMS ‘Creative Partnerships’ programme,
which found that engagement with arts practice “enhanced motivation” and “encouraged
high aspirations” amongst young people, evidenced via their reporting of such states. Oakley
et al. (2013) qualify their view of the same programme as follows:

As might be expected, the evaluation of initiatives such as Creative Partnerships tends to

find mixed results (McLellan et al. 2012). Common findings are that pupils’ confidence

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and self-esteem are improved, with the implication that this improves efficacy and sense
of well-being.

Similarly, an evaluation of the ‘Music for Life’ project in Liverpool, funded as part of
­Kensington’s New Deal for Communities regeneration programme, reports “improved pupil
behaviour, raising self-confidence and self-esteem” (BaseLine 2007, p. 4). In this particular
instance, the project is praised for the integration of the intervention and the school curricu-
lum (the project was delivered predominantly through music sessions in schools).
On the whole, what is unclear in these examples is the degree to which positive experi-
ences genuinely alter future prospects. Ennis and Douglass (2011, pp. 9–10) state that,

there is evidence that arts programmes in schools can increase self-confidence but there
is no strong evidence demonstrating that this leads to improved economic outcomes for
the participant. In a similar vein, there is evidence that cultural programmes can boost
the self-confidence of offenders leaving prison, but there is no evidence that this leads to
a decrease in the reoffending rate.

What this seems to suggest is an absence of ‘follow-up’ evaluation, as well as an absence of

focus on causality.
For the review of the Townscape Heritage Initiative (THRU 2013, p. 14), by contrast,
the investigators looked at overall levels of educational attainment in the area surrounding
each heritage zone, as well as surveying local people to explore their perceptions of the em-
ployment situation, whilst comparing local employment and occupational statistics against
broader regional trends. Whilst the data in this instance makes a clear case for the possible
‘need’ of a community in terms of low educational attainment, it is less clear that this par-
ticular project proposed to respond to this need or how it anticipated causality between the
intervention and any positive change that might be demonstrated.

Proposition 11: Cultural projects and activities engage communities in order to:
-   Ensure social inclusion in wider cultural programmes
-   Support community cohesion and empowerment
-   Contribute to other elements of community life, such as crime prevention
Evidence generated: Civic and community pride levels, engagement in new activities, new
participants in activity, communities presenting their own creative outputs, perceptions
of community vibrancy, engagement and safety
From: Audit of community organisations/assets, audience/participant/volunteer surveys and
interviews, stakeholder interviews, contextual area statistics, direct observations, mon-
itoring data

A goal of some cultural activity is to develop ‘social capital’, either by bringing commu-
nities together, empowering groups seen as disempowered, including groups that do not
typically participate, or raising the overall level of civic activity within a particular area.
Evidence relating to these objectives is generated using a number of methods. One com-
mon approach is to survey or interview volunteers, audience members or participants for
a particular project, to see whether, in their opinion, the project or event led to new or
strengthened interpersonal relationships, including with people from communities that
the respondent may previously have been unfamiliar with or hostile to. Matarasso and

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Moriarty (2011) quoted from interviews with participants to argue that cultural activity
in North Liverpool had led to a greater sense of community, less loneliness, more friends
and more civic activity. The project also went beyond ‘softer’ outcomes, to suggest
that participants had become more mentally and physically active. Similarly, volunteers
with the Liverpool Capital of Culture reported that the experience of volunteering al-
lowed them to “reach out to others and make connections and friendships” (Impacts 08
2010a, p. 22).
Adopting a different approach, the review of the Townscape Heritage Initiative (THRU
2013, p. 14) looked to audits of community organisations to determine the extent to which
the initiative succeeded in boosting social inclusion in case study areas, with the proposition
that lower levels of community organisations would reflect “a low sense of cohesion, com-
munity and vitality”. A majority of volunteers surveyed for the AV 2012 Festival reported
that the experience either ‘greatly’ or ‘slightly’ increased their confidence and self-esteem
(BOP Consulting 2012, p. 24).
Some studies have attempted to explore the link between cultural interventions and
measures of crime or the fear of crime, albeit with varying degrees of methodological
sophistication. For example, whilst General Public Agency (2008, p. 31), in their review
of ‘Art at the Centre’ (an Arts Council South East initiative), use stakeholder interviews
alone to gauge whether work on the Isle of Wight had had any effect on anti-social be-
haviour, the review of the Townscape Heritage Initiative (THRU 2013, p. 15) combines
crime statistics, physical observation and the perceptions of local people (as captured by
surveys and interviews), to determine the extent to which the condition of each area
changed over time. Neighbourhood research by Impacts 08 (2010b) also explored per-
ceptions of crime and anti-social behaviour and feelings of personal safety, and how these
changed before and after Liverpool’s year as ECoC in 2008, through the use of neigh-
bourhood surveys.
Whilst some activities may target particular communities with the sole intention of posi-
tive social outcomes, others are part of wider cultural programmes where communities may
be targeted or engaged with to ensure that they do not ‘miss out’, or to ensure that a project
can be said to be inclusive. Typical evidence of such activities may simply include basic as-
sessments of activity run for/with local communities and levels of engagement. Liverpool’s
ECoC programme included a dedicated “Creative Communities” strand, some of which
is enumerated in the end-of-year publication (Liverpool City Council 2009) and evalua-
tion of the Dream sculpture in St Helens recorded “people involved in educational work-
shops, events, art projects and study visits” as evidence of levels of social inclusion (Dream
St Helens 2010).
Evidence on the potential social impacts of cultural activity often comes by measuring
the number of events, the size and social characteristics of the audience (e.g. the extent to
which the activity succeeded in attracting a local audience or one drawn from particular
social groups) or the size and social characteristics of the volunteer base (e.g. García and
Cox 2013; Impacts 08 2010a; Liverpool Culture Company 2008). Demographic informa-
tion about audiences/visitors/participants/volunteers is often patchy, making it difficult to
understand if major events and other activities are reaching groups who might not normally
be reached. There are examples of mixed methods being used, including box office data,
surveys and general observation (e.g. Barnardo’s 2005), which suggests that there remains
an issue (potentially of cost/resources) in undertaking sufficient and robust fieldwork in
order to ascertain who is actually engaging with cultural activities and the effects of this
engagement.

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By way of context for much of this activity seeking to engage new groups, it is perhaps
worth noting the effects of the removal of entrance fees for national museums:

Research shows that when the national museums in England dropped their entrance
fees in 2001, this did not broaden the audience for museums but rather meant that the
existing primarily middle class audience went more often.
(ESRC 2009, p. 7)

Proposition 12: Cultural interventions that take place in the context of wider regeneration
programmes can:

-   Emphasise the role of culture, thereby engaging people in a different manner, adding value
to existing programmes or in some cases ameliorating some of the negative effects of
regeneration
-   Provide an ‘alternative’ (perhaps even a resistance) to regeneration activity
Evidence generated: Levels of engagement between communities and regeneration planning
processes, alternative responses to regeneration programmes
From: Interviews, case studies of activities

The evaluation of ‘Art at the Centre’ used interviews with artists and local politicians, as
well as residents, in order to analyse the extent to which programme activity was successful
in engaging the community with the development process around regeneration activities.
The range of activities included explicitly cultural interventions and attempts to use cultural
personnel or methods to engage the community in broader regeneration processes. In one
example, the evaluators note that the absence of the arts strategy (which was developed
through the project) in the area’s overall published masterplan was seen as reflecting a “lack
of commitment to the arts”, and the evaluators suggest that “better parity should be sought
with regeneration processes” (General Public Agency 2008, p. 27).
Similarly, the evaluation of the Music for Life project in the Kensington area of Liverpool
suggested that, in order to have a greater effect within the local community and to ensure
that it was not seen as competing with the wider regeneration programme that funded it
(New Deal for Communities), it should,

attempt to move towards a fuller integration with environmental, social and economic poli-
cies in Kensington. For example, a review of the management arrangements may be required
[…] the inclusion of a broad spectrum of community leaders is encouraged. These local
voices should be tasked with selling and promoting the value of the project and re-assuring
residents that the project […] represents best value for the local communities [and] is not
simply siphoning away money from spending on ‘concrete developments’ in the local area.
(Baseline 2007, p. 4)

In both these instances, cultural projects are seen as needing to fight for a place within
broader regeneration programmes.
Qualitative data is also available to demonstrate positive attitudes towards the value of
schemes involving artists in processes of planning. A report produced by the Commission for
Architecture and the Built Environment (CABE 2008) provides information on case studies

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and interviews with architects, for instance, to demonstrate that artist involvement was seen
as valuable:

Both architects acknowledged that [the artist’s] work had allowed them to develop a
much deeper understanding of staff requirements and the needs of day centre users […]
and that the process had validated the need for Public Arts programmes to be run at
both health centres. (p. 8)

Others report the potential of arts practice to “facilitate community involvement” (p. 16) in
the process of redevelopment. All evaluation of this project rested on eliciting the opinions
of stakeholders in the project.
It is also worth noting examples of activities that seek to resist or offer alternatives to the
‘agreed’ narrative around regeneration programmes. The Liverpool Biennial project 2Up
2Down/Homebaked brought an artist to work with a community in an area that had been
subject to a Housing Marketing Renewal programme. The programme has sought to re-­
establish a community bakery in a building previously used as a bakery and to support the
community to engage in and determine the future development of their own neighbourhood
(2Up 2Down 2012). In national press coverage, the project is framed as a response to what is
perceived to be failed regeneration practice, particularly the HMR programme (e.g. Hanley
2012; Moore 2012) and an empowerment of the local community in the response to large,
structural programmes that fail to recognise the needs of those communities.

Conclusion
This chapter has sought to demonstrate the range of practices that have been used to offer
evidence for the regenerative role of culture over recent years in Britain. In many ways,
these practices reflect those found in earlier reviews of the nature of regeneration and evi­
dence gathering (e.g. Evans and Shaw 2004; Reeves 2002; Vickery 2007). Whilst we do
not therefore claim that our findings regarding the key areas on which evidence gathering
focuses or the ways in which this evidence gathering is done are brand new, to confirm that
key patterns persist 10 or more years is important. This is all the more important due to the
apparent lack of progress in dealing with the ‘gaps’ or problems with this body of evidence.
Considering in detail the kinds of data in use in the studies above reveals a reliance on
secondary data and proxies from beyond the cultural sector, on research seeking perceptions
of cultural activity from convenience samples, on data treating the very existence of cultural
activity as sufficient to demonstrate beneficial outcomes and on relatively short-term research
projects. We consider possible explanations for this in more detail elsewhere (Campbell et al.
2016), but it must be noted that whilst culture continues to be seen as having a regenerative
role to play, there is typically little or no discussion of the role of culture in relation to over-
all findings of major regeneration programmes (e.g. Audit Commission 2011; DCLG 2010).
As such, we return to noting the relatively minor position of cultural policy, which leads to
limited resources not just for interventions themselves, but for their evaluation. Short term
projects, convenience samples, and a focus on secondary data are understandable given such
resources, but this leads to a continued situation wherein there is a relative absence of robust,
longitudinal, or historical data for the cultural sector; for instance, no reliable economic
input-output model for subsidised activity in the sector, limited longitudinal audience and
engagement data, and so on. It is perhaps inevitable that secondary data tends to come from

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outside the sector as there is so little standardised or comparative data freely available within
the sector.
Given the wider policy climate emphasising the importance of economic outcomes, it is
also perhaps of little surprise that we see such an emphasis on the production of a range of
evidence relating to such outcomes, even though its ultimate usefulness may well be ques-
tioned. What is, perhaps, less understandable, however, is the lack of clarity within research
itself of what propositions are being made. Those highlighted above are usually those seem-
ingly implicit within research but seldom explicitly articulated. Indeed, what we have sought
to achieve here is to ask ‘what is this evidence for?’ Any research that does not have a clear
question risks unclear answers, especially when (as is often the case in this body of evidence)
methods themselves remain opaque.
We do not suggest, then, that the body of evidence above is in any way ideal, but that its
nature is instructive of the wider policy climate and that its shortcomings can be understood
in the context of this climate. We also suggest that improving this body of evidence is not
merely a matter of resource but of considering the outcomes proposed and the mechanisms
being examined to question the emergence of this outcome. It is thus hoped this case study
raises useful questions for the British case and beyond.

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 35
Japanese cultural policy, nation
branding and the creative city
Tomoko Tamari

Introduction
This chapter briefly outlines how Japanese cultural policy has developed in response to
changing political and economic circumstances from the early 20th century to the present.
It also focuses on contemporary Japanese cultural policy and pays particularly attention to
two recent phases. Firstly, the Cool Japan initiative, arguably one of the most prominent
nation branding strategies. Secondly, the Tokyo-based new creative city project. Both could
be seen as attempts to open up new horizons for cultural policy in Japan.
Although Japanese cultural policy, as we will see, became fully institutionalized in the late
20th century, cultural policy in general has a long pre-history, which can be traced back to the
international expositions of the mid 19th century. International expositions provided displays
of the latest industrial, military and communication technologies along with art, crafts, folk
cultured exotica from Western nations and their colonies. Japan quickly saw the importance
of using the international expositions not only to learn about western civilization, but also as
an opportunity to display and legitimate a particular image of Japan to the rest of the world,1
especially as it had been long closed off from the West in the Tokugawa Era (1603–1868).
More importantly, to avoid the threat of Western invasion and keep its independence, the new
Japanese government after the Meiji Restoration of 1868 decided that rather than attempting
a military defence, a cleverer strategy could be to become seen as a civilized nation-state by
the West that was worthy of equal treatment. This was because ‘the best defence against the
Western nation-state was the construction of a modern, legal state of its own’ (Najita and
Harootunian 1990: 716). It must be noted that to follow the Western nation-state model also
involved colonialism; hence, Japan developed a policy of endorsing its civilizational credentials
by showing its national power and colonial ambitions to the rest of East Asia.
Prior to the emergence of the 20th century mass media and the revolutions in commu-
nication technology, which are powerful devices to influence not only people’s view of
everyday life, but also public opinion, some of the most effective political devices to bolster
a nation’s image, in order to enhance its political influence, were international expositions.
This is what we would now call public diplomacy: a political strategy entailing cultural
practices/activities framed by the desire to win ‘hearts and minds’ and establish mutual trust.

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 Japanese cultural policy

It is implemented by establishing ‘a selected national image by exporting appealing cultural

products’ (Iwabuchi 2015: 419, emphasis added).
These cultural products are usually categorized as ‘soft power’ (Nye 2004), a term that
has frequently been used in the context of ‘Cool Japan’.2 In the Japanese context, soft power
has often been equated with Japanese popular culture, such as manga, anime, video games
and fashion. Following Nye’s concept, we can understand that soft power works in creating
‘more receptive to Japan’s positions through the dissemination of the country’s cultures and
values’ (Iwabuchi 2015: 419–420). The growing consciousness of the significance of cultural
power in the context of contemporary cultural diplomacy, and the potential of Cool Japan as
a new cultural policy, can be seen as a strategy that developed since the year 2000, in order
to draw attention from consumers around the world and make Japanese popular culture not
only a globally successful popular culture for revitalizing the economy, but also an effective
vehicle for soft power and cultural diplomacy. The idea of creating a positive image of the
nation so as to sustain or improve its privilege or advantageous position in the global national
ranking can be seen as closely bound to that of nation branding. Whereas conventional pub-
lic diplomacy targeted the creation of amicable international relations between nation-states,
the new cultural policy and nation branding via soft power sought to appeal to both ordinary
people who were their own national citizens and people in other countries.
Although nation branding aims to cultivate a better image of Japan among Japanese peo-
ple, initiatives such as Cool Japan are not necessarily the most successful ways to cultivate
the sense of national belonging. Rather, global mega-events such as the Olympics and In-
ternational Expositions could well stimulate more positive images of one’s own nation and
nationalistic sentiments. Tokyo, the capital city of Japan, has been elected as the host city for
the Olympic and Paralympic 2020 Games. There has been considerable concern in Tokyo
about how best to present and stage itself to promote a positive image of contemporary Japan,
one that should be significantly different from that of the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. The image
of Tokyo inevitably stands for the national image of Japan. In this sense, Tokyo can serve
as the most effective cultural diplomatic device. The device could also work to cultivate
­Japanese people’s positive self-esteem, as well as heighten other counties’ perception of Japan.
The idea of the city as a ‘cultural powerhouse’ (Yeoh 2005: 945) has been discussed in
debates about creative cities (Kong 2014). Although Tokyo has been widely acknowledged
as a huge economic and political centre and mature consumer city, it is far behind in becom-
ing a world-class creative city. To improve the current situation, a new cultural urban plan
was proposed in 2014. Contrasting the dominant image of cultural richness in south central
Tokyo (e.g. Aoyama, Roppoingi and Ginza), the proposal highlights the rich traditional cul-
tural resources of north central Tokyo (e.g. Ueno, Hongo, Akihabara, Kanda, Jinbocho and
Yushima). Through an attempt to re-activate, re-discover and re-connect with traditional
cultural assets in these regions, the new cultural urban plan, ‘the Tokyo Cultural Resources
District Vision’ proposes to create ‘a cultural unit’. This idea could be expanded to apply
to all regions throughout Tokyo. Each cultural unit can be seen as composed of diversified
local/regional cultural assets. Then eventually all cultural units of the various communities/
locals/regions could transform Tokyo into a ‘cultural museum’ (Yoshimi 2016).
This chapter, then, focuses on the formation of Japanese cultural policy from the early
20th century onwards. This can illuminate the complex relationship between the political
objectives of public diplomacy and various practices of cultural policy. Focusing on contem-
porary cultural policy in Japan, the paper also examines the Cool Japan initiative and the
ways in which it has been expected to be a vital cultural device for creating a new image
of Japan as a pioneer of soft power, and a political device for improving Japan’s self-esteem

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Tomoko Tamari

and reputation for other countries. In this light, the Cool Japan initiative can also be closely
related to the principle of nation branding.
Since Japan has been elected as the host city of the next 2020 Olympics, the paper also lo-
cates the effort of nation branding within the context of creative city policy in Japan, drawing
on an on-going city project, the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision. The chapter argues
that this can be seen as a new type of urban reform to challenge conventional mega-scale city
planning and creative city policy. By proposing the re-connection of cultural assets to enhance
cultural value, and connectivity of people to pick up as many voices as possible, the Tokyo
Cultural Resources District Vision emphases the importance of creating networking not only
as top-down cultural resources used at the regional level, but also among cultural specialists,
local communities, NGO, the government institutions and various civic groups. In this light,
the paper asserts that the Cultural Resources District Vision can be viewed as a good specula-
tive case to suggest that crucial elements of the lived cultural policy can be brought together
to work as a practice of re-vitalization of cultural values and a consensus-making process to
enhance mutual understanding, collaboration and active participation.

The backgrounds of Japanese cultural policy

The concern with the promotion of cultural value, its positive reception by both domestic
and foreign audiences and its enhanced national image have become pivotal components
for contemporary cultural policy. Although today’s Japanese cultural policy is highly insti-
tutionalized, the field of cultural policy was neither systematic nor regulated until the late
1980s (Kawashima 2012: 296). The early steps of the development of Japanese cultural policy
can be traced back to Japan’s greater involvement in the emerging international community
of nations, which gained momentum after World War I.
Important impetus was proceeded by the needs of many countries to observe U.S.
­President Woodrow Wilson’s diplomatic communications about the need to stabilize the
international order after World War I. This eventually led to the formation of the League
of Nations, the interwar forerunner to the United Nations. Another key experience for the
Japanese was the eloquent Chinese delegation against Japanese expansionism in China at
the Paris Peace Conference supported by systematic anti-Japanese sentiment on the part of
Chinese intellectuals. This prompted a Japanese reaction with the Ministry of Foreign ­A ffair
(MOFA) establishing the Department of Information in April 1920 and a new policy of cul-
tural exchange with China.
In 1934, the Society for International Cultural Relations was established (incidentally,
the British Council was also established the same year). This was the time ‘Japan became
the first and only non-Western nation to establish a modern international cultural exchange
organization’ (Ozawa 2009: 273). Such imitations had to be suspended with the invasion of
Manchuria and the China War after 1931, followed by the Second World War in 1939.
After World War II, Japan as a defeated country was under the unconditional occupation
of the Allied Forces and effectively under the control of the United States. Japan was re-
quired to abandon its state-controlled cultural policies and needed to transform itself from its
self-image as a militaristic, semi-feudalistic and authoritarian state to a peaceful democratic
and liberal state by creating a new vision guided by cultural related policy. Hence ‘Prime
Minister Tetsu Katayama, in an important speech, advocated the “construction of a culture
state” in order to restore national pride and international credibility’ (Ozawa 2009: 274).
The Korean War (1950–1953) proved to be a key event in the reconstitution of the Japanese
economy and gradual rehabilitation and reintroduction into international affairs.

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The 1964 Tokyo Olympics and the 1970 Osaka Expo were global mega events that helped
Japan to deliver evidence of its full recovery from the devastation of the war, as well as
demonstrating its potential to become a world-class economic power with advanced science
and technology. Yet there was still considerable ambivalence. On the one hand, Japanese
economic success drew attention from the West with books like Vogel’s Japan as Number One
(1979), showing how the United States could benefit from the lessons of Japan, such as mer-
itocratic practices, corporate organisations, basic education, welfare and so on (see Sugimoto
2014: 201). On the other hand, Japanese businessmen were still negatively called ‘economic
animals’ and seemed seriously over-dedicated, over-loyal and dutiful to their own compa-
nies. One of the consequences was the establishment of the Agency for Cultural Affairs in
1968. Reflecting the anti-Japanese sentiments and increasing attention to economic success
and ‘suffering from Japan-U.S. frictions over trade imbalances and the Nixon Shocks’,3 the
Japanese diplomatic community began to see combating misunderstandings about Japanese
culture and behaviour as an urgent diplomatic goal (Ozawa 2009: 275).
The Foreign Minister Takeo Fukuda also took an initiative to establish an international
cultural exchange organization that initially focused on relations with the United States.
This plan led to the setting up the Japan Foundation, which operated under the supervision
of the cultural division of MOFA (Ministry of Foreign Affairs) in Japan in October 1972.
The foundation dealt with the exchange of leading academic and cultural personnel, the pro-
motion of Japanese studies overseas and Japanese language education and the organization
of workshops and seminars to introduce Japanese culture. The objective of the foundation
today is the promotion of international cultural exchange through a comprehensive range
of programmes in all regions of the world. The foundation’s global network consists of its
Tokyo headquarters, the Kyoto Office, two Japanese-language institutes and 24 overseas
offices in 23 countries (The Japan Foundation official home page). The foundation became
an independent administrative institution in October 2003.
Prime Minister Noboru Takeshita spoke of his ‘international cooperation initiative’ in
London in May 1988. The plan consisted of three major themes: cooperation for peace, en-
hancement of ODA (official development assistance) and strengthening international cultural
exchange. At this point, cultural exchanges became the first priority issue in Japanese diplo-
matic strategies. After this speech, the Advisory Group on International Cultural Exchange
was set up. The period between the late 1980s and early 1990s was one in which Japanese
global economic power became more salient. This economic success drew much criticism in
the United States, regarding the huge trade imbalances and substantially closed market condi-
tions in Japan. After the Soviet Union collapsed, the sense of irritation and fear of the United
States towards Japan helped ‘Japan bashing’ to grow. Reflecting on this condition in 1991,
the advisory group emphasized Japan’s greater contributions to the international community
and established the Japan Foundation Centre for Global Partnership (日米センター literally in
Japanese, the Centre for Japan and U.S. Partnership). The mission of the Centre was

to promote collaboration between Japan and the United States with the goal of fulfilling
shared global responsibilities and contributing to improvement in the world’s welfare
and to enhance dialogue and interchange between Japanese and U.S. citizens on a wide
range of issues, thereby improving bilateral relations.
(Ozawa 2009: 277)

The 1990s was also the time when other East Asian countries began to be acknowledged
as global economic powers, which started to generate a sense of regionalism and created a

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new identity: ‘We Asians’ (Ozawa 2009: 277). Under the changing Asian communities, the
second report of the Conference for the Promotion of International Cultural Exchange in
1994 underscored the importance of fostering a sense of the Asian communities’ spirit for the
future. This was the time; the new cultural diplomatic strategies shifted from the conventional
idea of introducing Japanese traditional culture and value to responding to the need for Asian
identity formation.
Yet in the 2000s, the actual diplomatic situation between Japan and the rest of East Asia,
especially Korea and China, had begun to deteriorate with events such as the controversies
of the Yasukuni Shrine4 and the Japanese school history textbook problem.5
In response to the criticism, the Council for the Promotion of Cultural Diplomacy was
launched by Prime Minister Koizumi in December 2004. The council suggested that it was
important to promote a better understanding of Japan and an improvement of Japan’s image
(inside and outside Japan) and that ‘(better) understanding of Japan by the public of foreign
countries may be the most influential factor for the government of that country in deciding
policies and actions towards Japan’ (Ozawa 2009: 278). This improvement of the nation’s
image through appealing to the wider public (people) both inside and outside the nation can
be understood as a new initiative of cultural diplomacy in which is the now so-called ‘nation
branding’ became a central strategy for cultural policy. To explore Japanese nation branding
policy, which has resulted from governmental political and cultural initiatives, I now turn to
the discussion of the specific case of ‘Cool Japan.’

Cool Japan and nation branding

The Japanese government has been promoting nation branding with the slogan ‘Cool
Japan’ since the beginning of the present century. This new initiative sought to capitalize
upon Japanese popular culture such as manga, anime, video games and fashion, which have
drawn the attention of consumers around the world and has become a globally popular
culture. The aim of ‘Cool Japan’ is not only to expand the creative industry market to the
global level, but also to replace the dominant ‘uncool’ images of Japan as a highly regu-
lated society with rigid hierarchal working practices. This was influenced by the American
journalist Douglas McGray’s report (2002), in which he coined the term ‘Gross National
Cool’ to express the increasing popularity of Japanese popular culture as the Cool Japan
phenomenon.6 Such international endorsement of valid Japanese cultural presence created
the hope and expectation that Japan could recover from the prolonged economic stagna-
tion since the late 1990s, often called ‘the lost decade’. Interestingly, the high esteem for
Japanese popular culture was not only the result of diplomatic efforts on the part of the
Japanese government. Here a number of factors can be identified: the culture-related in-
dustries sought overseas markets because of the stagnating domestic economy; the Internet
and other information technologies helped create a greater receptivity for other cultures,
including Japan; there were visibly more economic, educational and cultural exchanges in
what became termed the ‘Asian Union’ (Gresser 2004 cited in Sugiura 2008: 137).
It is often suggested that the idea of Cool Japan came from ‘Cool Britannia’, which was
associated with Prime Minister Tony Blair’s New Labour’s political campaign in the 1990s.
The aim of the campaign was to promote national pride, enhance cultural industries and im-
prove the national reputation and image, through supporting and embracing British popular
culture. Even though the campaign had a mixed reception, ‘the Cool Britannia campaign
was studied closely by the Japanese actors involved in nation branding’ (Valaskivi 2013: 492).
With a need for greater competitiveness in ‘the age of the global economy’, nation branding

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became a powerful strategy to enhance the nation’s global economic power through high-
lighting its innovative, creative, aesthetic and authentic characteristics. Hence, nation brand-
ing became an important issue.
Yet, nation branding has been always already exercised in the context of public diplo-
macy, since the very aim of public diplomacy is to improve national image in order to create
or sustain privileged or advantageous national status in the global ranking. But this was
generally mobilized by the governmental apparatus delivering diplomatic messages and was
largely conducted at the inter-state relations level in order to maintain smooth international
relationships. But as mentioned earlier, contemporary nation branding seeks to create a pos-
itive national identity both for its own national citizens and for those in other countries (see
Fan 2010). Furthermore, given the situation of the expanding networks and links between
civil societies, the growing influence of non-governmental actors/agents and the increasing
visibility of diverse individuals through social media, nation branding as components of
cultural diplomacy carry more weight. In the new phase of global network communication,
Cool Japan, therefore, became a more significant strategy of nation branding.
In the speech of the Foreign Minister Aso (who become Prime Minister 2008 to 2009) in
2006, he expressed his views about the attractiveness of the image of Cool Japan and its role
as a key element in Japanese cultural diplomacy (see Iwabuchi 2015: 424). He also emphasized
the effectiveness of popular culture and its capacity to increasingly influence ordinary people.7

What we have now is an era in which diplomacy at the national level is affected dramat-
ically by the climate of opinion arising from the average person. And that is exactly why
we want pop culture, which is so effective in penetrating throughout the general public,
to be our ally in diplomacy. To put this another way, one part of diplomacy lies in hav-
ing a competitive brand image, so to speak. Now more than ever, it is impossible for this
to stay entirely within the realm of the work of diplomats. It is necessary for us to draw
on assistance from a broad spectrum of people who are involved in Japanese culture.
(Aso, 2006 at Digital Hollywood University ‘A New Look at
Cultural Diplomacy: A Call to Japan’s Cultural Practitioners’)

In the wake of the rising competitiveness of Japanese popular culture, the Japanese govern-
ment made sustained efforts to bring it into the sphere of cultural diplomacy. It became firmly
institutionalized under Prime Minister Junichiro Koizumi (2001–2006). He actively planned
to improve Japan’s attractive image and soft power by encouraging the development of the
cultural industries. This initiative led to the establishment of various committees and councils
since the beginning of the 2000s, such as the Division of Culture and Information Related In-
dustries (2001), the Headquarters for Intellectual Property Strategy (2003), the Japan National
Tourism Organisation (2003) and the Research Committee for Content Business (2005) (see
Iwabuchi 2015: 423). Although the Cool Japan policy took place in different ways through the
strategies of a numbers of relevant ministries, offices, local governments and other organiza-
tions, following the Proposal by the Cool Japan Advisory Council in May 2011, the Ministry
of Economy, Trade and Industry (METI) took charge of directing the ‘Cool Japan/Creative
Industries Policy’ initiative (METI official webpage).8 The goal of the policy is to ‘promote
overseas advancement of an internationally appreciated “Cool Japan” brand, cultivation of cre-
ative industries, promotion of these industries in Japan and abroad and other related initiatives
from cross-industry and cross-government standpoints’ (METI office web page).9
The Cabinet Secretariat started the ‘Cool Japan Promotion Council’ in 2013. In his
speech in the first meeting of the “Cool Japan” Promotion Council at the Prime Minister

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Shinzo Abe’s Office, he stated that 50 billion yen would be submitted to the Diet for pro-
moting ‘Cool Japan’.
He remarked:

It [Cool Japan] is one of the important policy issues for the Abe Cabinet to break through
the stagnation that hangs over Japan and to develop the country further from now on,
have the Japanese people feel confident of the greatness of Japan including its tradition and cul-
ture, and make all people realize that things from Japan are great, which will also lead to
the burgeoning of a sense of respect for Japan.
(Abe, 2013, Prime Minister of Japan and His Cabinet
official home page, emphasizes added)10

Cool Japan’s internal and external projection

Abe’s political intention in the speech is clear: Cool Japan was understood not only as na-
tion branding to boost Japan to a higher position in the Nations Brands Index but also as
a domestic political device to reinforce positive self-esteem for Japanese citizens. Drawing
on Simon Anholt’s theory of branding in the context of marketing (2007: 6), Valaskivi cor-
rectly points out that establishing a strong internal culture sharing the same values and ‘the
spirit of the organization’ is a crucial factor for building a powerful reputation. A successful
nation brand needs a good perception of itself. Since ‘branding is nevertheless first and fore-
most directed inward, towards the nation itself, aimed at creating a stronger, more coherent
sense of the national “self ” and building self-esteem’ (Valaskivi 2013: 490). The Cool Japan
initiative, with its various governmental activities, could help fashion a new narrative of the
nation to reinforce the sense of national belonging. Such self-internalization of the nation’s
brand image could be constructed by the process of re-discovering Japan, re-valuing cultural
heritage and tradition and re-articulating the ‘taken-for-granted’ social and cultural values
and meanings, at the same time recognizing ‘new’ Japan by using carefully chosen symbols
of politically invented new narratives and meanings.
However, how far the Cool Japan nation branding actually affected Japanese citizens’
perception of Japan and nurtured national pride remains an open question. According to
the report of the public opinion survey on social awareness conducted by the Government
Public Relations Office in the Cabinet Office in 2016, to the question of what you can be
most proud of in Japan and the Japanese people, the highest percentage of answers were from
those who thought that Japan had ‘good public safety (a high security society)’ (56.6%). The
second highest percentage group was those who were proud of ‘beautiful nature’ (55.4%) and
the third highest group was those who were proud of ‘excellent culture and arts’ (49.9%). The
‘excellent culture and arts’ group has not been the leading category for more than 23 years
(Overview of the Public Opinion Survey on Social Awareness 2016: 13).11
The supplemental public opinion survey, conducted in 2009, further detailed people’s
opinions about Japanese culture. To answer the question of what are you most proud of in
‘Japanese culture and the arts’ towards the rest of the world, the answer with the highest
percentage was traditional art (64.7%); the second highest was a group who was proud of
historical architecture and spots/remains/ruins (56.4%), and the third highest was those who
a proud of Japanese food culture (31.5%).12 What these statistics illuminate is that J­ apanese
citizens think that both culture in general and contemporary popular culture involved in
Cool Japan in particular are not necessarily the things one can be the most proud of. This
is to say that the Cool Japan initiative along with the other new narratives and images of

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Japan driven by political imperatives, failed to adequately reinforce Japanese identity and
national pride.
There is a belief in ‘culture’ as a means to help nurture Japanese pride though embrac-
ing Japanese traditional and contemporary culture.13 However, it seems that ‘culture’ can
only work to create ‘imaginary’ Cool Japan or the rhetorical power to create an ‘imagi-
nary’ Japan. Since Noriko Aso claims that, ‘[I]n Japan, when the going gets tough – too
much international scrutiny, failure to achieve domestic political goals, loss of confidence
in political economic institutions – a common response is to bring up “culture”’ (McVeigh
2004: 198; see also Aso 2002 cited in Daliot-Bul 2009: 260–261). Daliot-Bul concludes
that ‘culture’ (bunka) is thus often positioned at the rhetorical core of national renovation
projects’ in the context of Japanese politics. Daliot-Bul also elaborates on the national
renovation project, Cool Japan. No matter how ‘culture’ can help to reinforce a sense of
national identity, the Cool Japan initiative can be seen as a political attempt to re-discover
‘Japan’s national cultural power and a reflection of the requisites of disseminating influen-
tial message for creating national identity, which formed “national pride”‘ (see Daliot-Bul
2009: 259).
In the Intellectual Property Strategic Programs in 2005,

[t]he authors encourage the Japanese people to sufficiently ‘utilize [their] outstanding
capabilities in inventing and creating’ (Nihonjin no mottmo sugureta sozoryoku sosak-
uryoku) and on contributing to the development of the world’s futures and civilizations
with the inventions and creations of Japanese people, aspiring for Japan to ‘uphold an
honoured position in the world’.
(Intellectual Property Strategic Program 2005: 2 cited
in Daliot-Bul 2009: 260 emphasis added)

This suggests that there are ‘recurrent self-congratulatory and ethnocentric assertions em-
bedded in it’ (Daliot-Bul, 2009:260). Daliot-Bul concludes that ‘the Japan Brand Strategy is
thus also seen as a means to revitalize patriotic pride and recruit those patriotic feelings for
national ends’. Hence, it can be viewed as a rhetorical imaginary of Japan in the domestic
political context. So far there is, however, no clear evidence indicating that the Japan Brand
Strategy, in other words, Japan’s nation branding equipped with the Cool Japan initiative,
has helped to revitalize patriotic pride or a sense of love for the country. The question of
Japanese identity for ordinary Japanese people cannot always be seen as an imminent issue
in everyday contexts, since such consciousness often arises in non-ordinariness, including
cases of encountering situations that make Japanese people feel alienated or disorientated
through the unfamiliar (e.g. going abroad or being in a non-Japanese community). Such
feelings can always be seen as dependent on particular contexts. Amongst those that cen-
trally emphasize national identity and belonging are global mega events, such as an the
Olympic Games or International Expositions. There are situations that place nations in ‘the
same time and place’ as they are invited to compare and compete with each other. Joining
in such politicized games, means that nations are required to win in the sporting game, as
well as in the political and economic game among nations.
Here, it is worth noting that there is an interesting public opinion survey on patriotic
sentiment/spirits conducted by the Cabinet Office Minister’s Secretariat Government Public
Relations Office. This annual survey shows that Japanese people’s social awareness includes
a question about the feeling of love for one’s country, by asking people to respond in terms
of whether their feelings are: ‘strong/do not know/weak’. In the period of more than three

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and half decades when the surveys were conducted, the highest percentage (58%) is for the
group of those who answered that they have much stronger/relatively stronger feeling of love
for the nation than other people do; this occurred February 2013 (Overview of the Public
Opinion Survey on Social Awareness, 2016: 1).14
The campaign to host the Tokyo Olympics and Paralympics had started a few years before
the survey. Many committees and organizations had been established, such as the committee
to campaign to host the Olympics in 2011, and it had been taken over by the Tokyo Orga-
nizing Committee of the Olympic and Paralympic Games since 2014. The Japanese O ­ lympic
Committee ( JOC) organized a series of campaign activities, such as a parade of the 71 ­London
Olympic medallists at Tokyo Ginza Street in August 2012, which attracted a crowd of more
than 500,000 people ( Japanese Olympic Committee official webpage).15 These campaigns
did not just aim to appeal to the IOC, but also to create excitement amongst Japanese people.
They also helped to develop an atmosphere conducive to supporting the national project and
generate patriotic pride. Accordingly, Tokyo as the Olympic city has become an important
platform for Japan to create a new image. In the next section, I investigate how global cities,
such as Tokyo, have the potential to become creative cities, which could play a key role in
engendering favourable national images.

The city as a cultural imaginary device

Today the city can be seen as a main cultural powerhouse often discussed in the context of
growing Asian cities in the age of globalization (see Yeoh, 1999, 2005) and seen as one of the
most important components of cultural policy (Lim 2012: 261). Cities, then, should not be
seen as just vital places for the concentration of financial and political power, but also vibrant
spaces for the display of cultural capital and emblematic spaces for nation branding. The idea
of city as a ‘cultural powerhouse’ (Yeoh 2005: 945) engendered “‘Asian mega projects’ such
as Tokyo’s Teleport Town (Toukyo rinkai fukutoshin keikaku) and Yokohama Minato Mirai 21
Project’ (Yeoh 2005: 947). Both can be seen as creative city projects that were part of ‘a new
strategic urban planning method to reinvent the city as a vibrant hub of creative industries
with the potential to improve the “quality of life” for citizens’ (Landry 2008 cited in Kim
2015: 1) and to enhance the national image.
According to the report of Policy of Cultural Affairs in Japan, Fiscal 2015, the Creative
City Network of Japan was established in January 2013 so as to improve and enhance the
network of creative cities all over Japan. ‘The Agency of Cultural Affairs supports this net-
work in order to promote the Cultural and Artistic Creative City throughout Japan’ (Agency
for Cultural Affair 2015: 33).16 The purpose is ‘to be a foundation to construct a peaceful
and symbiotic Asian creative city network as well as to contribute to the reconstruction and
regeneration of Japanese society by spreading and developing creative cities in our country’
(Creative City Network Japan English homepage, emphasizes added).17
Similar statements, targeting ‘the development of a cultural and artistic creative city’
throughout Japanese cities in order to create a network with Asian cities, can be found in
‘the Creative Tokyo Proposal’ announced by the Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry’
in 2012. The proposal manifests a vital role of the capital city, Tokyo. The proposal has a
subtitle saying ‘Moving towards Creative Tokyo-Transforming Tokyo into a Creative Hub’,
which expresses that Japan today should build a new society through the combined power
of its industries, economy and culture and that Tokyo should become ‘the most prominent
creative hub in Asia’ by fostering the development and diversity of Japan’s creative industries
(The Creative Tokyo Proposal homepage).18

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One of the major tasks is,

With the support of Tokyo districts, Japanese creativity will be conveyed across both interna-
tionally and domestically. Through this, we will seek to bring in talented human resources,
relevant information and funds from all around the world. We will also aim to establish
Tokyo as a leading creative hub.
(The Creative Tokyo Proposal, emphasis added)19

In this light, Tokyo is the main platform for expanding Japanese creativity both externally
and internally and is expected to be become the leading creative city in Asia. This can be
seen as a reflection of Japan’s concerns about losing its prominent position and its presence
in Asia, since the rapidly growing Chinese economy and expanding Korean cultural indus-
tries, generated fears of being overtaken and threatening Japan’s pride in Cool Japan. Such
concerns for revitalization of Tokyo’s brand competitiveness had already been expressed in
the Creating a New Japan Proposal (Atarashii nihon no kozo) produced by the Cool Japan Ad-
visory Council in May 2011. More precisely, the council proposed that one way to enhance
the creative industries and the content industry was to collaborate with the tourist campaign
in order to increase Japan’s presence and attractiveness. It also suggested that making links
between the Aoyama, Roppongi, Ginza and Sumida regions (where ‘the Skytree’ was built)
would help to create a diversified Tokyo brand (‘Creating New Japan’ 2011: 10). Except for
the Sumida region, Tokyo’s southwest city districts, Aoyama, Roppongi and Ginza have
been internationally well acknowledged as ‘innovative’, ‘creative’, ‘fashionable’, ‘trendy’ and
‘sophisticated urbane modern’ city areas. Yet there is currently a new type of creative city
plan being developed, which could draw our attention to various innovative and practical
efforts to produce a new city landscape.

Cultural resources in the central Tokyo North (CTN)

To challenge the current dominant image of cultural richness of south-central Tokyo,
­(Aoyama, Roppoingi, Ginza etc.), the new urban cultural plan (proposed in 2014 and cur-
rently being implemented), has re-discovered the rich cultural resources of north-central and
eastern Tokyo (Ueno, Hongo, Akihabara, Kanda, Jinbocho and Yushima). The districts have
been characterized as follows,

This area is composed of Ueno, home of Japan’s largest concentration of history and
art museums, as well as the Tokyo University of the Arts; Hongo, a centre of academic
learning home to the University of Tokyo; Yanesen, a popular spot among foreign tour-
ists filled with old shops, alleys, row houses, and temples; Yushima, a neighbourhood
of religious and culinary culture entered on the axis stretching from Yushima Seido, a
Confucian Temple, and Kanda Shrine to Yushima Tenjin Shrine; Jimbocho, the birth-
place of modern learning in Japan once familiar to Sun Yat-sen, Lu xun, Zhou Enlai,
and other young leaders of Aisa, and Today a district of private universities, publishers,
and bookstores; and Akihabara, known today across the world not only as an electronics
town, but also as a mecca of manga, anime and game culture.
(The Report of the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision 2016: 2) 20

This project has been driven by the Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance, which was founded
as a result of preliminary discussions by the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision in

567
Figure 35.1 
Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision
Source: Tokyo Cultural Resources ­District Vision Homepage.
 Japanese cultural policy

June 2014.21 The participants consist of ‘practitioners and specialists belonging to the cabinet,
Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, and Transport, Cultural Agency, universities, private research
organizations and companies’ (Tokyo Cultural resources District Vision Homepage: 3).22
The Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision emphasizes the importance of Tokyo’s
historical tradition of cultural and intellectual creativity in order to increase competitiveness
in the global nation brand market and enhance Japan’s presence in the world. They postulate
that although Tokyo has enormous potential to develop its rich cultural resources, it has
remained far behind in its efforts to become a world-class creative city. Since the Edo period
(1603–1868), the north-central and eastern areas of Tokyo, which were the main commoner
neighbourhoods, did not become subjected to large-scale redevelopment and so survived rel-
atively intact the past half century of prioritization of motorway construction and high-rise
buildings. This city planning phase is epitomized by the 1964 Olympic Games Metropol-
itan Expressway, Aoyama Boulevard and Olympic facilities, such as the Yoyogi National
Gymnasium and Komazawa Olympic Park Stadium. After that, many high-rise buildings
in West Shinjuku were increasingly constructed in the 1970s. Since the 1980s, Roppongi,
Ebisu, Shingagwa and Shiodome in south-central Tokyo have become the main areas to
create a fashionable cultural centre relying on large-scale city planning (see Tokyo Cultural
Resources District Vision Report 2016: 1).23

The central Tokyo North’s cultural resources

and an idea of ‘tradition’
The Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance declared that the 2020 Tokyo Olympics should not
repeat the same scale of city planning as the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. The Alliance emphasizes
that large-scale redevelopments and the ‘scrap and rebuild’ format are dated principles. The
Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance also argued that Tokyo’s distinctiveness is not because of
its huge population, economic power, political centre, advanced technology or mature con-
sumer culture. The Alliance explained that looking back to the 17th century, Edo, as T ­ okyo
was known until 1868, was already the world’s largest city and the place that prompted
Japanese modernization. In fact, Edo was a multicultural metropolis that was created by the
Sankin Kotai system (the feudal lords with their retainers were required to spend every other
year in residence in Edo. The system created chances to bring many local cultures from
all over Japan to Edo and took Edo culture back to their regions). Accordingly, Edo was a
cultural powerhouse, which developed with a flourishing cosmopolitan culture among com-
moners, such as Kabuki theatre, ukiyo-e prints, haiku poetry and Dutch learning. Following
the Meiji Period (1868–1912), many other cultural fields, such as architecture, literature,
painting and film were also largely cultivated in Tokyo. Hence, The Alliance concluded
that Tokyo had always already been a city encompassing a huge cultural heritage with clear
world competitive value (see Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision Report 2016: 1–2).24
It is worth noting that a good deal of the traditional cultural assets cultivated over the last
several centuries in Tokyo, as explained earlier, are still to be found in the Central Tokyo
North (CTN) district, the areas the Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance wants to revitalize.
This focuses on the discourse of Japanese tradition as an unchangeable authentic cultural
asset, has also been used in expressing the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision’s of the
2020 Tokyo Olympics. In its report, the Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance claimed that
‘with 2020 Tokyo Olympics in mind, Tokyo should improve its attractiveness by promoting
the uncontested value of Central North Tokyo, which has long been cultivated through
Edo and Meiji’s culture and life (Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision Report 2016: 4).

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The discourse of ‘Japanese tradition’ portrays ‘a historical Japanese national character that

is radically different from anything else and is expressed in a diversified range of symbolic
forms, old and new’ (see Moeran 1996 cited in Daliot-Bul 2009: 253). This is why ­Japanese
tradition has often been used and re-used as an effective means to create an ahistorical image
of Japan.
One of the core members of The Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance, a professor at the
University of Tokyo, Shunya Yoshimi, advocates that Japan as the 2020 Olympic host coun-
try should pursue new values and social perspectives, which should be different from those
of the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. Rather than executing a large-scale city infrastructure and pri-
oritizing motor car culture (which were central to the plans for the 1964 Tokyo O ­ lympics),
Japan today should pay more attention to revitalizing and recreating something that has been
damaged, destroyed and ‘disconnected’ due to the urbanizing process in T ­ okyo. Cultural
assets in the Central Tokyo North districts are mostly survivors, irreplaceable cultural re-
sources created in the past-Japanese tradition. Hence, Yoshimi’s proposal further emphasizes
the importance of the revitalization and sustainability of ‘tradition’ as the main vision of
the Alliance.

Tokyo as a cultural device for nation branding

Recently, Central Tokyo North has been also acknowledged as an ideal place to realize the
Tokyo Metropolitan Government’s Tokyo Vision for Arts and Culture. It outlines the idea
of ‘Tokyo as a city of individuality and diversity, born of the coexistence and fusion of tra-
ditional and modern culture’ (Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision Report 2016: 2).25
Both Japanese traditional culture and contemporary popular culture lie in the Central Tokyo
North area. The Alliance believed that this principle is congruent with a fundamental idea of
the creative cities movement that cities ‘must be rooted in cultural tradition, creative talent
and tolerance of diversity’ (Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision Report 2016: 2).26 In
line with this definition, the Alliance asserts that 21st century leading cities will be those
cities that respect cultural tradition with open-mindedness to diversity. These cities can also
attract gifted creative people from around the world.
Therefore, there is the need to reassess and revitalize the cultural resources a city has ac-
cumulated over its history. The Alliance emphasized the significance of ‘restoring the unity
of the Tokyo Cultural Resources District in Central Tokyo North in order to renovate the
region as an epicentre for culture, arts, and science’ district through ‘connecting’ Ueno (arts
culture), Yanasen (community culture), Hongo (intellectual culture), Yushima (religious
and spiritual culture), Jimbocho (publishing culture) and Akihabara (popular culture). This
can ‘produce the space where people enjoy walking, dwelling and living. This will be a vital
strategy to create Tokyo’s “legacy” in the world’ (Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision
Report 2016: 4). This view can also resonate with the International Olympic Committee
(IOC)’s principle for the Olympic Games in the 21st century, ‘sustainable legacies’. Hence,
the Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance concludes that ‘(all these processes) will promote not
only the 2020 Olympic city, Tokyo’s cultural presence, but rather Japan’s cultural presence
in the world’ (Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision Report 2016: 3).27
Here, we can see Tokyo has been cast as a nation-branding device. There are many attrac-
tive spots, which can be ‘connected’ to each other in various ways to create Tokyo Central
North as a cultural unit. An artist, art producer and professor of the Arts at Tokyo U
­ niversity,
Katsuhiko Hibino, observes that ‘Tokyo is constituted of various different regionalities/­
localities.’ (Asahi Newspaper, evening, 6 January: 4). This suggests that each community and

570
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region in Tokyo could possibly become ‘a cultural unit’. This is what Yoshimi calls ‘com-
munity as a cultural museum’. This means that each region contains various cultural entities,
which can be represented as unknown/forgotten narratives and should be revitalized by
rediscovering traditional cultural connectivities and networks that existed in the past. This
idea can also be further stretched to the whole of Tokyo. Accordingly, the attractive ‘cultural
units’ throughout Tokyo can be connected to each other to create a wider cultural constel-
lation. Eventually Tokyo as a creative city and a device of national branding, could become
an influential world class cultural centre, Tokyo as a cultural museum, which is therefore
able to represent and enhance the distinctiveness of Japan’s cultural presence in the world.

Concluding remarks
The Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision says that ‘The 2020 Tokyo Olympics will
take place roughly 150 years after the Meiji Restoration (1868). The first half of this period
encompassed the 75 years of modernization and militarization, and the second half was the
75 years of recovery, high growth, and maturation of society’ (The Tokyo Cultural Re-
sources District Vision official homepage: 6).28 In the second 75 years, Japan had to develop
its cultural diplomacy for the promotion of its international presence in order to make a
better economic and political relationship with the west and the rest of Asia. With the in-
creasingly concern for cultural diplomacy, cultural policy gradually became a central and
firmly institutionalized issue. Promoting the various culture exchange programmes was seen
as an effective way to further mutual understanding between Japan and the United States, as
well as the rest of Asia (especially Korea and China). In the 2000s under the Prime Minister
Junichiro Koizumi, cultural policy was firmly institutionalized along with a new initiative,
‘Cool Japan’. The increasing global popularity of Japanese pop culture, such as manga, anime
and TV games, the so-called soft power, became tightly incorporated into nation branding.
The Cool Japan Brand Strategy became carefully embedded into the broader political mes-
sage and diplomatic rhetoric, not only to improve Japan’s image, but also to reinforce a sense
of national belonging and patriotic pride for Japanese people.
Although there is no clear evidence that Japan’s nation brand strategy worked to create
a new image of Japan and reinforce the sense of national identity, some evidence indicates
that the 2020 Tokyo Olympics campaigns seem to have stimulated Japanese people’s aware-
ness of ‘Japan in the world’ and of being Japanese. In this light, Tokyo as a creative city is
now expected to play a vital role in promoting Japan’s nation branding with a new image
of contemporary Japan. In 2014, the launch of the Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance
drew not only on people who came from the government, but also those from universi-
ties, private research organizations and companies. These groups were involved in taking
the initiative to revitalize the regional cultural assets, which have survived and enhanced
Japanese cultural distinctiveness over radical urbanization, which had been taking place
since the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. The areas of Ueno, Hongo, Yanesen, Yushima, Jimbocho
and Akihabara, consumption and production zones of ‘cultural capital’ (Bourdieu and
Passeron 1977) with the cultural differences and values, used to be connected in the past
but are now disconnected.29 The Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance seeks to re-connect
these areas to create a walkable and accessible concentrated ‘cultural capital’ zone, which
can empower and increase the attractiveness not only of the local communities, but also
of Tokyo as a whole. 30 All their various suggestions entail the re-discovery of traditional
local stories and the creation of new cultural narratives with the intention of offering new
urban experiences.

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Tomoko Tamari

These practices are often carried out by cultural specialists. They are able to extract
new values from existing information, knowledge and experiences along with new ways of
interpretations and meanings. Cultural specialists are usually people who work in creative
occupations, such as artists, cultural practitioners and cultural entrepreneurs. This links to
the debate on the two sides of their socio-cultural influence. On the one hand, ‘artists
and cultural producers, often called the “creative class” (Florida 2002), are seen as trigger-
ing gentrification processes, since their presence attracts affluent consumers and dwellers
who are supposed to share aesthetic value and lifestyle with the “creative class” (see Gainza
2016: 2). The subsequent environmental changes can eventually lead to the evacuation of
the lower-class original inhabitants. On the other hand, they have the capacity to revitalize
forgotten cultural capital in communities in order to stimulate economic value and improve
the habitants’ quality of life. The debate is still oscillating between cultural innovation for
people and its negative effects in terms of gentrification (see Gainza 2016: 2).
Yet, public institutions with their rigid regulations and often highly hierarchically struc-
tures tend to fail to fully deal with vital points of city life in terms of the people’s lived every­
day practices, such as the capacity for old people to walk easily to shops, for children and
mothers to walk safely to nursery and for inhabitants to live in a good secure environment.
Cultural specialists with extensive webs across various local sectors could make crucial links
between cultural practices and lived experience with community-based networks and col-
laborative projects and participatory initiatives. Hence, with more self-governing adminis-
trative structure, their activities can offer practical and realistic solutions for many problems.
Here, we can see that the most important component for creative cities is collaboration
among cultural specialists, local communities, the private sectors, Non-Profit Organiza-
tions, governmental institutions and various civic groups. With this in mind, all the practices
of the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision should not be univocal but should endeav-
our to pick up as many voices as possible and incorporate their various visions and practices.
This resonates with Japanese cultural policy scholar Yasuo Ito’s definition of cultural policy.
He asserts ‘(Cultural policy) serves to clarify a consensus building system which sustains the
activities of various cultural entities (the government, local communities, artists, art prac-
titioners, corporations and citizens) …. It also helps people to share the same assumptions
[value] in the outcome/product of cultural activities in order to pass them on to the next
generation’ (2008 author translation). Hence, this definition can echo with the practices of
the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision, since the Alliance seeks a wider network of
business, government, universities and the private sectors, by emphasizing the importance
of collaborative and participative cultural practices in order to produce a ‘new version’ of
creative Tokyo.
In the 2000s, Japanese cultural policy had become weighed down and subjected to the
state’s policy by the keyword, ‘creativity’ (see Valaskivi 2013: 495). The Creating a New
Japan proposal in 2011 by the Cool Japan Advisory Council suggested ‘Creative Tokyo’,
which is the idea of branding Tokyo by combining several areas to orchestrate different
pieces of pre-existing cultural assets. In this context, creativity can be understood not as a
principle to seek something new, but rather a strategy to extract value from the existing,
the original, or traditional, to create new narratives. Thus, the Tokyo Cultural Resources
District Vision can be seen as strong evidence for the potential to explore and experiment
with ‘creativity’: how to extricate values and meanings from existing (traditional) cultural
assets; in what way to re-construct cultural practices with and for people; how different
people’s voices are in play; how these re-discovered cultural assets can create a new image
and enhance cultural presence for Tokyo; and how all these re-constructive processes can

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help to promote the Japan brand. In line with this, it can be conceived that some of the
oft-cited critical factors for nation branding and cultural policy (often characterized by
keywords, such as: attractiveness, distinctiveness and competitiveness), can only be realized
through interactive, participatory, incorporative and self-governing activities with both the
public and the private sectors over time. For a deeper and more nuanced understanding of
the range of meanings incorporated in the term cultural policy, a fuller range of historical,
political, social and cultural dimensions of Japanese society need to be carefully examined.
Innovative initiatives such as the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision, then, can pro-
vide the stimulus for widening our frame of reference and opening up new horizons for
future cultural policy.

Notes
1 In fact, Japan was one of the first to present itself to the world with a national pavilion at the 1867
Paris Exposition. This was followed by the participation of the new Japanese Meiji nation-state at
the 1873 Vienna International Exposition.
2 Soft power - The term, soft power was coined by Joseph Nye (1990) reflecting on the Cold War;
it was believed that ‘cultural diplomacy may well be a more appropriate weapon than warfare’
(Anholt 2015:194). This development was further fuelled by the Bush Administration’s response to
the September 11 terrorist attack in 2001. It must note that Cool Japan was prompted not only by
nation branding but also by the spreading ‘soft power paradigm’ (see Fan, Y 2008).
3 U.S president Richard Nixon stopped the direct convertibility of the U.S. dollar to gold in 1971
(‘dollar shock’) and cancelled the Bretton Woods system in 1973. Nixon also terminated the U.S.
confrontational policy toward China without consultation with Japan, in 1972. ‘These shocking
experiences reminded the Japanese leaders of their catastrophic isolation in the 1930s and 1940s’
(Ozawa 2009:274).
4 Prime Minister Junichiro Koizumi visited the shrine for those who died in the service of Japan.
Among the 2.4 million souls of dead soldiers enshrined, some were, however, World War II war
criminals. The visit of the prime minister was seen as violating the principle of a pacific nation
and provoked memories of Japan’s military/fascist past. This is the reason the prime minister was
strongly criticized by China and South Korea.
5 The problem was the recognition of the historical past by the Japanese government. There are
strong discrepancies in the war history between Japan and countries that were occupied by Japan
during wartime, such as China and Korea. This has led to a long debate since the 1950s, yet it be-
came more serious at the time of Prime Minister Koizumi’s government.
6 It should be noted that Japan has proved to be attractive to the West with the forms of Japonism
appearing in the Western imagination several times in the past. In the 19th century, the French
Impressionists were influenced by Japanese art, and Japanese pottery and ornaments also become
popular consumer goods in the United Kingdom. In the 1980s, the global success of Japanese
business organizational systems and marketing strategies also drew much attention from the world.
‘Tentatively, it appears that “Japan” has been either admired or feared and hated in “the West”’
(Valaskivi 2013, 501; see Sugimoto 2014, Napier 2007 and Sugiura 2008).
7 See Hirai (2015) and Huang (2011) for a detailed account of the reception of Japanese popular
culture in East Asia.
8 www.meti.go.jp/english/policy/mono_info_service/creative_industries/creative_industries.html
(accessed 20 Sep 2016).
9 www.meti.go.jp/english/policy/mono_info_service/creative_industries/creative_industries.html
(Accessed 20 Sep 2016).
10 http://japan.kantei.go.jp/96_abe/actions/201303/04cooljpn_e.html (accessed 20 Sep 2016).
11 www.gov-online.go.jp/eng/pdf/summarys15.pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016). The survey was con-
ducted in the period 28 January - 14 February 2016. It covered more than 10,000 individuals
(comprised of adults over 20 years old) from all over Japan, and the response rate was 58.8% (5,877
individuals). Multiple answers were allowed.
12 http://survey.gov-online.go.jp/h21/h21-bunka/2-5.html (Accessed 24 Sep 2016). The survey was
conducted by the by the Government Public Relations Office in the Cabinet Office in the period

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5–15 November 2009. It covered more than 3,000 individuals (comprised of adults over 20 years
old) from all over Japan, and the response rate was 61.8% (1,853 individuals). Multiple answers
were allowed.
13 The concept of culture (bunka, 文化) in Japan has been transformed in relation to the process of
­nation-state formation. Although the term, bunka was not very widely used before the 20th cen-
tury, it has often been associated with governmental strategies that include not only public diplo-
macy but also political devices; it is based on the totality of the practices, beliefs and values that are
held to unify society. A more nuanced understanding of the range of meanings in the term bunka
would require the examination of the range of other strands in the social terrain that relate to the
process of modern state formation and consumer society. In this chapter, the focus will be confined
to the political strategic perspective on culture.
14 www.gov-online.go.jp/eng/pdf/summarys15.pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
15 https://tokyo2020.jp/en/news/bid/20120820-01.html (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
16 www.bunka.go.jp/english/about_us/policy_of_cultural_affairs/pdf/2015_policy.pdf (Accessed
24 Sep 2016). The Agency of Cultural Affairs also established ‘the Office for Promotion of the
Creative City, the Agency for Cultural Affairs in April 2014, which provides advice to local gov-
ernment in order to promote the creation of the Cultural and Artistic Creative City’ (Agency for
Cultural Affair, The Policy of Cultural Affairs in Japan, Fiscal 2015: 33).
17 http://ccn-j.net/english/ (Accessed 20 Sep 2016).
18 www.meti.go.jp/policy/mono_info_service/mono/creative/creative_tokyo/about/sengen_
en.html (Accessed 20 Sep 2016).
19 www.meti.go.jp/policy/mono_info_service/mono/creative/creative_tokyo/about/sengen_
en.html (Accessed 20 Sep 2016).
20 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 20 Sep 2016).
21 ‘The Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance and the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Promotion
Committee (tentative name), a public-private-academic-industry organization envisioned to be
established in 2018, will take the lead in realizing the Tokyo Cultural Resources District vi-
sion’ (the Report of the Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision 2016:23). see http://tohbun.
jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.pdf (Accessed
20 Sep 2016).
22 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
23 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
24 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
25 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
26 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
27 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
28 http://tohbun.jp/wp-content/uploads/Homepage-Tokyo-Cultural-Resources-District-Vision.
pdf (Accessed 24 Sep 2016).
29 Today it is hard to see the inter-connectivities between regional/local cultures that once were
more interwoven. Yet, in the past, there existed a walking route from Hongo to Ueno, Yanaka,
Yushima, Akihabara and Jimbocho. There was a daily walking route for Ogai Mori who is one of
the most famous novelist in the Meiji and Taisho periods. He walked around entire areas of Central
Tokyo North, which houses the academic, literary and spiritual legacies of Edo culture (see Tokyo
Cultural Resources District Vision Report 2016:14). This suggests that there might be invisible
paths that could possibly be made visible again. The district also has a notable concentration of
traditional buildings from the Meiji period and earlier. Some of them are registered as cultural
heritage properties. Part of the planned cultural programme of the Tokyo Cultural Resources Al-
liance is to preserve them and re-activate and re-use them for communal cultural practices (­ Tokyo
Cultural Resources District Vision Report 2016: 29). The preference for conservation of local
vernacular styles through the reactivation of traditional buildings also helps to create new urban

574
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designscapes. These buildings provide distinctive aesthetics to reinforce local identities and attract
both cultural consumers and producers. A good example is the contemporary art gallery, SCAI
Bathhouse in Yanaka, which was a public bath in the past.
30 This process can also create new channels for flows of information, knowledge and experiences
in Tokyo. In the past, cities were often seen in terms of organic metaphors (See Tamari 2014),
and many have argued that ‘[h]istorically the city grew organically’ (Landry 2000:58). The city
has never developed in a linear way but is continuously changing and transforming to adjust to
ever-changing environments.

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 36
Cultural policy and the power
of place, South Africa
Rike Sitas

Introduction
South Africa is often lauded as having a sophisticated policy landscape. Nevertheless, the
terrain is still hotly contested, and many disjunctures between policy and implementation
exist. It is therefore unsurprising that cultural policy debates are marked by disputes and
dissensus. Post-apartheid cultural policy in South Africa is based on the 1996 White Paper
on Arts Culture and Heritage, with a draft Revised White Paper circulating unsuccessfully
since 2013. Although there are numerous consultative processes drawing in perspectives
from different interests, little consensus has been reached, which has a direct impact on
implementation.
This chapter is particularly interested in the relationship between cultural policy and
urban public life in South Africa. As cultural and urban policy increasingly coalesce, there
is a profound effect on the way cities are structured. South African cities are rapidly urban-
ising, but urban–rural linkages are not as binarised as is often assumed. Although cultural
policy agendas are mandated nationally, implementation largely happens at a local scale,
and resources tend to flow generally towards urban centres and dominant cultural institu-
tions. This chapter starts by giving an overview of post-apartheid cultural policy, drawing
out some of the key ideological assumptions and contestations that underpin the sector. In
addition to exploring shifting local priorities, implicit in this discussion is examining global
policy mobility, specifically unpacking how UNESCO and African Union ideals have trav-
elled into South African policy.
One of the biggest challenges is that despite the best intentions of these global policy in-
struments, the way they land can be problematic. The chapter therefore goes on to explore
three terrains where cultural and urban policy logics coalesce and collide related to: policy,
implementation and governance; creative cities, creative economies and culture-led deve­
lopment; and history, heritage and nationalist agendas. These sections explore how cultural
policy largely foreground an inequitable cultural economy, which perpetuates a cultural elite
that remains disproportionally White; second, they run the risk of essentialising, fixing and
preserving simplistic notions of cultural tradition and heritage; preserving colonial architec-
ture and artefacts; and supporting new, often very expensive, nationalist agendas.

577
Rike Sitas

The framing of cultural and urban policy has left some significant gaps, especially related
to the public life of many ordinary South Africans. Despite these challenges, a wide range
of projects and initiatives have emerged that could better inform more contextually relevant
policy. This chapter will draw on the example of the African Centre for Cities’ project enti-
tled Public Art and the Power of Place: a public-facing art project that aims to explore the signi­
ficance of place in Cape Town’s townships. Through an open call for proposals, five projects
were given R50,000 grants (±$3600), and two projects R25,000 (±$1800) grants to develop
projects at the intersection of public space and urban enquiry in order to challenge dominant
representations in and of Cape Town’s townships. The chapter concludes by drawing on
what projects such as Public Art and the Power of Place can offer cultural and urban policy in
and for South Africa and the global South.
Ultimately the chapter argues that in order to ground cultural and urban policy imper-
atives and implementation, four shifts are helpful: first, re-thinking the centrality of global
policy mobilities and focusing on contextually relevant and localised cultural policy priori-
ties; second, recognising that the formal and informal economies are inextricably interlinked
and recasting the creative economy to reflect this will offer new renderings of how cultural
industries emerge and sustain; thirdly, based on this knowledge re-thinking funding and
support streams that appropriately draw on cultural and urban policy coalitions; and finally,
by recognising the fluidity of art, culture and heritage as always in the making can challenge
problematic tangible-intangible heritage boundaries and mitigate against inherent contra-
dictions that perpetuate a problematic status quo.

Post-apartheid cultural policy and influential instruments

The optimism that marked the transition to democracy in South Africa in 1994 perme-
ated many policy considerations including the development of the 1996 White Paper on
Arts, Culture and Heritage (DAC, 1996). Given the history of socio-economic inequal-
ity entrenched through colonialism and apartheid, the policy was premised on redress and
socio-economic transformation in the interest of what Nelson Mandela in his inaugural
address claimed as: ‘a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world’. Art, culture and
heritage were viewed as essential in the process of national healing and reconciliation. The
purpose of the Department of Arts and Culture (DAC) was to ‘realise the full potential of
arts, culture, science and technology in social and economic development, nurture creativity
and innovation, and promote the diverse heritage of our nation’ (DAC, 1996). The man-
date prioritised art, culture, heritage, diversity (including linguistic), literature and equitable
support for diverse cultural experiences, heritage and symbols. The policy was intrinsically
linked to the values espoused in the Bill of Rights of the Constitution. In addition, legisla-
tive instruments such as the 1999 National Heritage Resources Act and the 2009 National
Policy on South African Living Heritage (draft) have emerged as mechanisms to govern art,
culture and heritage.
An important component of the policy was to enable dissemination of resources that had
historically been funnelled towards urban centres supporting predominantly White1 creative
practitioners and industries. Twenty years after the development of the 1996 White Paper,
concerns about the adequate implementation of the policy abound. Although there has been
some transformation of the arts and culture sector, the mainstream art economy is still dom-
inated disproportionally by White practitioners. In addition, there is unequal provision of
art at schools, which has an impact on university intakes of students as there is a tendency
that only more affluent urban ex-Model C2 and private schools have well-established arts

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 Cultural policy and the power of place

curriculum, resources and facilities. Another increasing concern for arts-based civic or-
ganisations is that much of the public funding for arts and culture serves to support large
institutions such as the state theatre instead of smaller neighbourhood-based organisations.
With shifting regional, local and global cultural policy imperatives, the 1996 White ­Paper
was revisited in the form of the 2013 Draft Revised White Paper on Art, Culture and
­Heritage. This document saw a move from the 1996 version from cultural expression to
creative industries and economies. According to (then) Minister Mashatile ‘[t]he new vision
of arts and culture goes beyond social cohesion and nourishing the soul of the nation. We
believe that arts, culture and heritage play a pivotal role in the economic empowerment
and skills development of people’. This conception of the economic instrumentality of art,
culture and heritage was supported by development of the manifesto for the Mzansi Golden
Economy, which was designed as a way to imagine the ‘Contribution of the Arts, Culture
and Heritage Sector to the New Growth Path’ (DAC, 2013). The purpose of the New
Growth Path was to ‘place jobs and decent work at the centre of economic policy’ with a
target of creating 5 million new jobs by 2020. It therefore became the imperative of each
ministry to plan how sectors would contribute to this goal.
Since its drafting, the Revised White Paper has been used as the basis for a wide range
of multi-stakeholder engagements and has been subject to various layers of critiques and
dissensus as competing interests and generational perspectives3 intersect. Many of the older
generation of cultural activists, who had been instrumental in drafting the 1996 version, are
concerned that economising the arts and culture industry can run the risk of compromising
artistic integrity. Younger generations seem less concerned about normative understanding
of the creative economy and are interested in exploring other ways of thinking of econo-
mies, but many are also committed to the radical or subversive role of art that may not be
adequately represented in the policy.
Alongside the developmental shifts within South Africa over the last 20 years, there have
been two influential global sets of processes: the development of the African Union’s (AU)
Charter for African Cultural Renaissance (2006) and Agenda 2063 and the concurrent de-
velopment of UNESCO Conventions linked to culture and heritage. The premise of the
UA’s charter is that ‘any human community is necessarily governed by rules and principles
based on culture; and that culture should be regarded as the set of distinct linguistic, spiri-
tual, material, intellectual and emotional features of the society or a social group, and that
it encompasses, in addition to art and literature, lifestyles, ways of living together, value
systems, traditions and beliefs’ (African Union, 2006). The concept of the African Renais-
sance is based on culture being the basis for renewal on the continent and was envisioned as
a way of setting post-colonial intellectual agendas of and for the African continent. Previous
South African President Mbeki championed the idea and although critiqued, it still main-
tains prominence in many cultural circles in South Africa.
Simultaneously, UNESCO was consolidating its Convention for the Safeguarding of
the Intangible Heritage (2003) and Convention on the Protection and Promotion of the
­Diversity of Cultural Expressions (2005). These two instruments have had wide impact on
cultural policy across the continent, and elements are evident both in the Revised White
Paper and in policy discussions. The Conventions also involved consultation with South
­A frican policy experts, and the underpinning ideologies reflect a sensitisation to contexts
in the global South. Another influential UNESCO initiative is reported in the Creative
Economy Report (2013).
The simultaneity of different scales of policy development can be seen in contemporary
explorations of the relationship between cultural and urban policy as ‘…cultural policy issues

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Rike Sitas

have been thrust into the center of urban politics’ (Grodach & Silver, 2013, p. 1). Although
decentralisation has been the rallying call of global cultural and urban policy and governance
advocates, this remains complex where many states only have national or provincial cultural
ministries or departments with a direct mandate for arts, culture and heritage (Birabi, 2007;
Olowu & Wunsch, 2004; Resnick, 2012).

Competing cultural policy logics

Despite the best intentions of policy instruments, the reality of how they land can be more
complicated. This section of the chapter explores three ways the logics of cultural policy in-
teract by looking at ideological critiques at a glance; policy, implementation and governance;
assumptions about creative economies, creative industries and culture-based development;
and preserving cultural heritage. Particular focus is given to the ways in which cultural pol-
icy manifests in cities and thereby impacts on the public life of residents.

Policy, implementation and governance

One of the biggest challenges across the African continent is the disjuncture between pol-
icy and implementation. Even South Africa – that has some of the most well-developed
infrastructure, relatively reliable funding streams and robust policy realms – struggles with
equitable and wide spread implementation of cultural policy. Although there are still some
nations that do not have separate cultural policies such as Cameroon, Congo, DRC and
Tanzania who claim to have integrated cultural imperatives into other policies, many states
do have national policy plans and frameworks. The process of cultural policy development
has been supported by UNESCO, and the language of cultural diversity and heritage es-
poused in the Conventions is evident (Ndoro & Pwiti, 2001, 2009). While this has meant
a more comprehensive policy landscape on paper, the realities of implementation are less
convincing, particularly on a local scale (Birabi, 2007; Chirikure, 2013). The trend, barring
a few exceptions, in Africa remains that policy is developed nationally and implemented
locally, but the reality of cities, especially large, rapidly growing ones, is that they take con-
trol of implementation even if not within formal governance structures. Cities in Africa are
growing at such a rapid pace that decentralisation is inevitable in order to meet city-specific
challenges, but this has been largely under-explored in the context of culture and heritage in
Sub-Saharan Africa (Tidjani & Noorderhave, 2001). Where these instruments do exist, such
as the City of Cape Town’s Art Culture and Heritage Framework, they are not accompa-
nied with appropriate budgets. Although ambitious and technically in line with UNESCO
imperatives, many policies have not been adequately funded, and therefore there is no solid
fiscal base for implementation. This is particularly evident at the local scale, as very few
regions or cities have specific frameworks, mandates or governance structures to support
implementation.
Funding is largely disseminated nationally through institutions such as the National Arts
Council, the National Lotteries Commission and a range of European funders such as the
Goethe-Institut (German), Alliance Francaise (French) and Pro Helvetia (Swiss). These
kinds of organisations have offices that tend to be located in Johannesburg, and national dis-
semination is largely based in the urban centres such as Durban and Cape Town. Although
policy development is modelled on international norms, largely those set by UNESCO, the
reality of how money circulates is important to consider. To put this in perspective, South
Africa, which has one of the biggest arts and culture budgets in Africa, has a population of

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±55 million people, and the National Arts Council spends an average of around $7.5 million
annually. England has a similar population of ±53 million people, and their Arts Council
has an annual budget of around $450 million. The difference in resources is astounding and
has a critical impact on the possibilities of implementing local, regional or global objectives
such as UNESCO Conventions. With a global downturn in cultural funding, new financ-
ing models have yet to be adequately explored, particularly in the context of cultural policy
implementation at the city scale in the global South.
Well-established cultural institutions such as national museums and theatres have been
in a better position to leverage cultural policy to ensure financial support from a variety of
public and private actors than smaller community-based organisations. In South Africa these
have been successful in part due to two seemingly incongruous, but mutually beneficial,
processes: the colonial heritage and entrenchment of the institutions in the cultural milieu,
and partly because they were seen as priority spaces for transformation à la African Renais-
sance. There has been some transformation of these institutions with growing audiences
predominantly in Johannesburg, but they remain expensive to run and have been receiving
increasing critique, particularly from emerging youth movements such as #FeesMustFall and
#RhodesMustFall who feel their relevance as public priorities need to be re-examines as part
of a bigger cultural decolonisation and transformation project.4

Creative economies, creative industries and culture-led development

The importance of creative economies, cultural industries and culture-led development has
become a global fixation and an increasingly dominant development priority in cities. Al-
though this has not been enabled through cultural policy alone, new articulations of cultural
policy priorities have made it easier for developmental policies at the city scale to opera-
tionalise arts, culture and heritage for social, economic and spatial development (Bell &
Oakley, 2015).
Dominant thinking about the creative economy is underpinned by the idea that ‘there is
an urgent need to find new development pathways that encourage creativity and innovation
in the pursuit of inclusive, equitable and sustainable growth and development’ and creative
industries are in a good position to contribute to this (UNESCO, 2013, p. 2). Through this,
the creative city has become the means to achieve ‘world-class’ city status. Although limited,
there is growing evidence that creative economies can contribute to some forms of economic
growth (CIDA). In South Africa, the film and craft industries have been pegged as yielding
opportunities according to the Department of Labour’s (2008) report entitled ‘The Creative
Industries in South Africa’ even though the document admits that there is limited data to
work from. Despite limited data, there is a ‘reframing of traditional progressive policy goals
like diversity, inclusion, quality of life, and sustainability as facets of growth’ (Grodach &
­Silver, 2013, p. 5). This has also been fuelled by place branding and marketing through cul-
tural means, seen most explicitly in the Creative Cities Networks (Dovey, 2014).
Growing creative industries have been leveraged beyond the sectors themselves and have
become the basis for urban development, as cultural precincts have gained traction through-
out the world. Some are privately led with property developers at the helm: in South Africa
the most prominent neighbourhoods are Maboneng in Johannesburg spearheaded by prop-
erty company Propertuity (Walsh, 2013) and Woodstock in Cape Town that has largely been
enabled through Indigo Properties (Wenz, 2012). Others have been publicly driven, such
as the development of museum precincts like The Red Location Museum precinct in Port
Elizabeth and the Hector Petersen Museum in Soweto.

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Culture-led urban renewal, often through the vehicle of boosting creative industries,
has been both lauded and vilified: having been critiqued for ‘softening the blow’ of deve­
lopment that favours affluent urban elites (Grodach & Silver, 2013; Miles, 2005; Peck, 2005;
Zukin, 1995). On the one hand it is seen as an essential driver for economic development
and place branding for cities (Florida, 2002; Landry, 2007), and on the other it is critiqued
for compromising urban heritage, gentrifying neighbourhoods and marginalising the urban
poor. It is within culture-based development that the logics of the property market and the
imperatives of social and spatial justice can collide as cultural production shifts towards cul-
tural consumption in the double displacement often referred to as part and parcel of many
culture-based gentrification processes. It is not always the case as the Row Houses project
suggests and therefore not as simple to binarise in reality (Thompson, 2012). In South A ­ frica
new cultural clusters of activity have emerged that service the social and leisure time of ur-
ban youth who are not universally affluent, as Braamfontein and Maboneng in J­ohannesburg
attest (Gregory, 2015). They have also bred resistance as the Woodstock middle class resi-
dents’ support for the eviction of poor by private developers demonstrates. Although there
are clear challenges with shifting values in cities that favour the affluent, binarising the
critique may not be helpful in unravelling the potential for culture-based development in
culture and urban policy development and implementation. According to Markusen and
Gadwa (2010, p. 380), it is important to ‘clarify the impacts, risks, and opportunity costs of
various strategies and the investments and revenue and expenditure patterns associated with
each, so that communities and governments avoid squandering “creative city” opportuni-
ties’. Clarifying these opportunities is an important step in re-casting creative cities as drivers
of social and spatial justice.

History, heritage and nationalist agendas

Heritage is often the most well articulated and implemented aspect of cultural policy but is
also highly contested, where ‘cultural heritage is valued in a number of ways and driven by
different motives, principally, economic, political, cultural, social, spiritual and aesthetic.
Each of these values has varied ideals, ethics and epistemologies. As a result, different ways
of valuing have led to different approaches to preserving heritage’ (Ndoro & Pwiti, 2009).
­A lthough historians have explored the challenges of fixing history through heritage pro-
cesses, these questions have not trickled down into cultural policy spaces adequately, espe-
cially in relation to urban sustainability. New urban conservation paradigms propose a more
fluid approach when recognising cities are in constant flux ( Jigyasu & Bandarin, 2014).
While the UNESCO Conventions intend to balance the importance of tangible and in-
tangible heritage, this is not necessarily how the policy manifests in reality. Although gains
have been made in the conservation of historic cities in Africa, these policy imperatives
have also been leveraged to protect colonial architecture and institutions and point to the
conundrum of urban development and growth in relation to historic preservation (Araoz,
2011; Elong Mbassi, 2002). As there are strong architectural heritage protection lobby groups
that are generally well networked and resourced, critical transformation in these areas can
often be stymied. Although most people in principle believe in fostering more equitable and
integrated cities, in practice NIMBYism (Not in My Back Yard) is rife. NIMBYism is one
of the barriers to social and spatial integration in South Africa, and culture and heritage are
often used as ways to mask resistance to change. For example, the preservation of heritage of
neighbourhoods with colonial buildings can be used by rates payers associations who lever-
age claims on heritage to protect property prices.

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Heritage management is also caught up either in colonial institutions (such as national

museums) or in new nationalist agendas such as Freedom Park in South Africa (Birabi, 2007;
Marschall, 2005, 2010; Meskell, 2012). These tend to be expensive projects that do not nec-
essarily yield adequate audiences – especially amongst the youth who feel alienated from the
discourses and forms of expressions. Preserving intangible cultural heritage can run the risk of
essentialising culture in the interest of cultural tourism (McGregor & Schumaker, 2006). In
South Africa, these can manifest in cultural villages creating spectacles of traditional c­ ultures
for foreign audiences. In addition, there is still a primary emphasis on tangible heritage.
­A lthough intangible heritage is foregrounded in many of the policy documents, the imple-
mentation of intangible heritage projects has been limited, largely because of the ephemer-
ality of the intangible. In addition, it has been argued that separating tangible and intangible
heritage is problematic and ‘[o]n the contrary, the system of material and intangible heri-
tage, intended to redress past inequalities, seems to create new – and perpetuates ­existing –
­d ichotomies and inequalities between North and South’ (Leimgruber, 2010, p. 167).

Art, culture, heritage and public life in post-apartheid cities

The previous section drew out some of the policy contradictions. This section starts by
looking at how culture and urban policy coalesce in post-apartheid cities, paying particular
attention to Cape Town, before providing some examples that offer other practices that may
have progressive policy implications.

Culture and urban policy in Cape Town

The ‘cultural turn’ in planning has had a profound impact on the urban fabric in cities
around the world, which has spawned a wide range of political and politicised responses.
Cultural and urban policy have been drawn closer together in unprecedented ways. Cul-
ture has been increasingly leveraged as vital in urban development and policy instruments
have emerged to harness this. This has involved a range of different actors engaging with
policy such as municipal departments including art, culture, tourism, planning and urban
design, social development and parks; elected and employed officials such as mayors and civil
servants; non-governmental organisations focusing on arts, culture and heritage; private
entities such as property developers; and ordinary citizens (Markusen & Gadwa, 2010). With
these coalitions come a range of different interests and politics.
Grodach and Silver (2013, pp. 14–15) explore these complexities through a range of cases
across the globe that address ‘urban cultural policy as an object of governance’; provide ex-
amples of cities that are ‘rewriting the creative city script’; unpack the ‘implications of urban
cultural policy agendas for creative production’; and explore ‘coalition networks, alliances
and identify framing’. Although the politics of cultural policy has been widely explored
(Bradford, Gary, & Wallach, 2000; Clark & Hoffman-Martinot, 1998; Miller & Yudice,
2002), this volume attempts to locate the debate within the realm of the urban. There has
been a push for decentralisation of governance, and it is therefore unsurprising that cul-
tural policies would also find new urban articulations (Arterial Network, 2011; Olowu &
Wunsch, 2004; Ribot, 2002).
Cape Town has explicitly embraced building its identity as a creative city, through
­Creative Cape Town that ‘communicates, supports and facilitates the development of the
creative and knowledge economy in the Central City of Cape Town’ in order to ‘make
the central city into a leading centre for knowledge, innovation, creativity and culture in

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Africa and the South’ (Creative Cape Town, 2016). This move has shaped place-branding
and cultural priorities of the city. Although Landry’s (2007, 2008) notion of the creative
city focuses on creativity as a planning imperative in the interest of more equitable and
liveable cities through creative economies, Creative Cape Town is more focused on the
development and promotion of cultural industries in the CBD. The creative city concept
has been a largely successful driver of certain creative industries and in particular in relation
to design. In 2013, Cape Town was awarded the World Design Capital status. Although the
impact of the award has been contested, it has been a driver of development of the growing
design district around Woodstock – a historically low-income residential neighbourhood
and one of the few affordable places to live close to the CBD. In recent years gentrification
has intensified, and disputes around dislocation of local residents abound (Booyens, 2012;
Wenz, 2012).
Unlike some other cities, culture-led development in neighbourhoods like Woodstock
is not a state-led initiative: it is largely driven by private developers. Rare in African cit-
ies, Cape Town has an Arts, Culture and Creative Industries Policy that focuses on social
cohesion, positions the city for global cultural tourism, protects heritage, supports artists
and beautifies ‘damaged’ neighbourhoods (City of Cape Town, 2014). Although the policy
instrument exists, as argued earlier, cultural funding is limited, and therefore cultural deve­
lopment is often market driven along the same logics as the formal economy.
South Africa has a long history of radical public art, where cultural activism was inex-
tricably connected to the anti-apartheid struggle. Dollar Brand’s, a Cape Town jazz legend,
wrote a song called ‘Mannenberg Is Where It’s Happening’ which became an unofficial
anthem for the struggle. In addition, Cape Town’s townships have been the hotbed of radi­
cal hip hop (Haupt, 2001), and a wide range of community arts projects (Grunebaum  &
­Maurice, 2012). The transition to democracy in 1994 saw a shift in focus explained by
Makhubu and Simbao (2013, p. 300): ‘the official phasing out of “ideological driven” artist
collectives through defunding and governmentalization seemed to steer art practices into
commercialized private-sector initiatives. Furthermore, the rampant pressures to commer-
cialize increased emphasis on idolized individual artists and curators’.
Cape Town has a plethora of high-profile mainstream galleries and Michaelis, a globally
prestigious art school. Given the socio-economic and spatial inequalities stemming from
colonialism and entrenched during apartheid, Cape Town remains stubbornly divided, and
the bulk of arts, culture and heritage funding circulates within the CBD and through afflu-
ent, predominantly White creative practitioner circles. Nevertheless, there are hundreds of
small art affiliations working in the townships of Cape Town that fall out of the mainstream
networks of resources.
The intersection of urban and cultural policy has a profound impact on the public life of
cities. In South Africa, there is a long history of public spaces heavily regulated according
to race; this meant that many spaces were transitory – it was illegal to gather, and therefore
people tended to move through spaces instead of linger. Despite the fact that finding more
vibrant public spaces is on the planning agenda, the reality is that many open spaces are de-
funct and unsafe for women and children. Given township planning and housing typologies,
few public spaces for engagement exist, and this legacy has prevailed. Unlike many other
African cities, South Africa does not have a widespread active social public life. Public life
tends to happen in interstitial spaces between public and private, and therefore these bina-
rising categories may not be the most helpful. This chapter is particularly interested in how
cultural and urban policy has coalesced to shape specific kinds of public life and proposes
some possible ways to localise policy development and implementation.

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Public art and the power of place

In response, in 2015, the African Centre for Cities, with the support of the National L ­ otteries
Commission, initiated Public Art and the Power of Place – ‘a public-facing art project aimed at
exploring the significance of place in Cape Town’s townships’. The project built on a grow-
ing practice of creating public-facing art projects in the interest of sustained engagement
with socio-spatial issues, such as the Visual Arts Network South Africa’s Two Thousand and
Ten Reasons to Live in a Small Town (2012), 2013 ways of doing public art, and 2014 Ways of Being
here; the work of the Joubert Park Project in J­ohannesburg, Public Eye and Gugulective in
Cape Town and dala in Durban and in the spirit of socially engaged art.
Socially engaged public art in South Africa has followed similar trajectories and is imbued
with similar tensions as is reflected in the literature from the global North (Bishop, 2012;
Bourriaud, 2002; Deutsche, 1998; Kester, 2004; Lacy, 1995; Sharp, Pollock, & ­Paddison,
2005). Despite these challenges, socially engaged art processes have demonstrated an ability
to enable alternative forms of political enrolment; enrich cultural citizenship; and create new
spaces for urban learning (Miles, 1997; Minty, 2006; Pinder, 2005, 2008; Sitas & ­Pieterse,
2013). According to Minty (2006, p. 438) these kinds of projects have ‘opened a whole set
of new narratives linked to previously marginalised stories and histories and to imaginings
for a better future’. At the core, it is ‘not simply art placed outside… (it) is art which has at
its goal a desire to engage with its audiences and to create spaces – whether material, virtual,
or imagined – within which people can identify themselves, perhaps by creating a renewed
reflection on community, on the uses of public spaces or on our behaviour within them’
(Sharp et al., 2005, p. 1004).
With the upsurge in student politics there has been an expanding socially, politically
and spatially engaged arts world in Cape Town. With the interest of supporting this swell-
ing cohort of artists, Public Art and the Power of Place focused on supporting predominantly
Black 5 artists living in Cape Town’s townships interested in engaging the significance of
space. The project involved providing financial support to seven projects in and around
Cape Town.
‘Amasokolari’ was a collective of stand-up comedians interested in simultaneously us-
ing comedy as a means to explore more serious issues and developing comedy audiences in
the vernacular (isiXhosa) in Khayelitsha.6 In addition to performing in both formal (com-
munity theatres and restaurants) and informal spaces (shebeens7 ), ‘Amasokolari’ experi-
mented with stand-up comedy in public spaces along transport routes – such as minibus
taxis, trains and train and bus stations. ‘Artfricraft’ is a network of artists and performers
in Delft. The project used a series of events and performances to draw South Africans and
foreign nationals together to challenge xenophobia. ‘Fast Forward Here’ used film work-
shops with youth to explore alternative urban futures. Taking turns to film, direct, inter-
view and edit, the project unpacked different ways to address social and spatial inequality
in Cape Town.
‘Ghetto Trek’ developed a street festival on gang street corners in the Cape Flats. The
purpose was to reclaim ordinarily dangerous spaces through cultural and performative ac-
tion. The Harare Academy of Inspiration developed a month-long programme of events,
clustered as a ‘semester’, as a way to experiment with culture and learning in Khayelitsha.
Theatre in the Backyard extended the existing practice of site-specific theatre-making by
developing a production emerging out of, and performed in, backyards in Nyanga. ‘Town-
ship Boys’ are a group of high school learners who worked with a local NGO to develop a
large-scale mural for the local soccer stadium.

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Rethinking place, culture and policy imperatives

This section draws on three examples from the project to draw out some suggestions on how
to strengthen cultural and urban policy in the interest of more fair and equitable policies and
industries (Figure 36.1).
Heritage in its most formal sense in the Western Cape remains dominated by colo-
nial museums and naval and war artefacts and is protected by older and predominantly
White custodians. The role of heritage tends to be split between the preservation of –
primarily problematic – pasts and the interests of foreign tourism. Public Art and the Power
of Place was interested in supporting projects working with other kinds of heritage practices
and processes. ‘Theatre in the Backyard’ is one example where historical injustices are ex-
plored theatrically through contemporary realities. Fundamental to the process is producing
the theatre pieces in the backyards of private houses, weaving everyday realities with astute
socio-historical critique. In the context of this project, the backyards were identified in
Nyanga, one of the poorest and most violent townships in Cape Town, the neighbourhood
in which the director lives.
The director worked with professional performers to construct stories that relate di-
rectly to the social, spatial and historical context. For the most part, audiences were made
up of local residents. The purpose was to take theatre out of formal institutions and the
CBD in order to build audiences, but also to generate dialogue about more complex
spatially situated urban issues. In addition, collaboration between the projector and cul-
tural organisation, Coffeebeans Routes, has explored ways to promote the theatre pieces
as alternative tourist destinations. Tourists pay for the performance and dinner in the
homeowner’s backyard. ‘Theatre in the Backyard’ has become an alternative mecha-
nism for weaving ‘storytelling, social and cultural capital, and social and spatial justice’
(Interview, 2016).
The ‘Harare Academy of Inspiration’ was a collective of three women who drew together
a month-long programme of events within a ‘semester’ of cultural activities (see Figure 36.2
for the programme).8 The sessions were led by a combination of community-based organi-
sations and practitioners and well-connected cultural professionals and were held at emerg-
ing arts and culture venue Moholo LiveHouse in the township of Harare. The programme
emerged out of workshops with locals to gauge appropriate content. The purpose of the
programme was to re-think the role of arts and culture as and in education. This was timely,
as it was implemented in the wake of national #rhodesmustfall and #feesmustfall protests

Figure 36.1  Theatre in the Backyard. Image c/o Laura Wenz

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 Cultural policy and the power of place

Figure 36.2  Harare Academy of Inspiration Programme

that initiated a renewed engagement with decolonising and transforming universities spe-
cifically and education more generally. The artists felt that alternative learning academies
are vital for new ways to address social, cultural and spatial injustices. The artists felt this
was an experiment of alternative, collective and public pedagogies à la Freire (Freire, 1970;
Sandlin, Schultc, & Burdick, 2010). The programme mixed lectures (on different kinds of
art practices), seminars (on topics such as the politics of public art and public space), per-
formances (from well-known and lesser-known musicians and performers) and exhibitions
(generated as part of the process, and sourced from major galleries in Cape Town). ‘Learners’
were made up largely of unemployed youth, but included cultural activists and elites alike.
Collective reflection was built into the process and therefore ongoing analysis of the project
was enabled.
Although the Harare Academy of Inspiration has not managed to raise funding for an-
other academy, the popularity of the programme has helped to generate a committed fol-
lowing to ongoing events at the Moholo LiveHouse, which has a unique business model.
Initiator Brenda Skelenge gained access to a building that had been designated as a tavern and
created an entertainment venue that brings food, music and performance to local residents.
The venue is on a square opposite the public library and in the same precinct as both retail
and municipal services. The popularity of the venue has also started attracting CBD-based
elites, enticing them out of the urban centre and into a township historically seen as a dan-
gerous no-go zone in the popular imagination of the affluent. It thereby offers new in roads
for re-spatialising the city. It has also become a cultural precinct of sorts.
Whereas the other projects were working in familiar registers, ‘Amasokolari’ attempted to
popularise a less familiar form of performance. Stand-up comedy in South Africa has tended

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Rike Sitas

towards being centred on big performances in theatres in the urban centres, where perform-
ers largely delivered content in English, until recently where there has been an increasing
attempt to broaden audiences through the support of new talent. Prior to ­‘Amasokolari’,
this was largely in Johannesburg and Durban. The purpose of the project was threefold: to
develop new performances and audiences in isiXhosa in Cape Town; to experiment with
alternative and public performance spaces as a mechanism to do this; and to use comedy as a
way to explore more serious urban issues.
The performers quickly realised that some public spaces were more amenable than oth-
ers. Performing on public transport to captured audiences meant being able to actively
entertain and recruit new talent to stand-up workshops. Public transport terminals were
more problematic because people are usually in transit. Shebeens were not as successful as
­township-based restaurants, as shebeens could run the risk of an alcohol-induced lack of
sense of humour, whereas restaurants tended to be more sober spaces. For the performers, the
most important focus in developing stand up is through storytelling that reflects the expe-
riences of audiences in the vernacular and that can tap into ‘bitter-sweet’ everyday realities.
­‘Amasokolari’ produced a promotional DVD as part of the project, and through the project’s
amplified marketing, Siya Seya has become a nationally renowned comedian who works bet­
ween the mainstream and townships circuits across the country, demonstrating the traction
of engaging the significance of space through novel registers.
These examples demonstrate three things: they explore alternative avenues and mecha-
nisms for arts, culture and heritage production and learning; they re-think creative econo-
mies and culture-based development; and they hint at a case for alternative scales for policy
production and implementation.
Although these kinds of socially and spatially engaged art projects are not new globally,
they were novel in post-apartheid South Africa, where these kinds of projects have largely
been driven by well-resourced and well-networked arts organisations and led by predomi-
nantly affluent artists who have come through the art academy. Many projects have been set
up in vulnerable or marginalised neighbourhoods, but leading artists have rarely stemmed
from the areas themselves, running the risk of the alterity Foster (1996) warned about. These
projects were driven by artists working outside of mainstream cultural industries, in their
own neighbourhoods, and reflected a contextual sensitivity that was able to be dextrous in
the face of contested social and spatial issues. All three also experimented with art, culture
and heritage practices that fall outside or on the periphery of normative assumptions es-
poused in policy documents: ‘Theatre in the Backyard’ in its sitedness; ‘Harare Academy
of Inspiration’ in its pedagogical explorations; and ‘Amasokolari’ in using a type of artistic
expression not usually associated with ‘high’ or ‘popular’ culture.9
Falling outside of the dominant norms of art and culture in South Africa as imagined
by cultural policy can also work to stretch the notions of art, culture and heritage. They
can challenge the binaries of tangible and intangible heritage and work to spatialise cultural
preservation within more temporal frames. ‘Theatre in the Backyard’ demonstrates the im-
portance of apartheid housing typologies in the construction of social realities. Although it
is questionable whether these tangible sites should be preserved, their material entanglements
with contemporary history and heritage need to be recognised as an important part of South
African’s historical picture and may be more accessible than monumental museums to which
ordinary residents may never have access. All three projects also offer alternative cultural
actors to the cultural elites that dominate critiques of creative economies and culture-led
development discourses. These artists are savvy and networked in ways that these critiques
are unable to recognise. The networked social and cultural capital necessary to supplement

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the modest budgets to realise such ambitious projects suggests the need to rework the criteria
that usually focus on economic capital. In addition to re-thinking the notion of cultural ac-
tors, these projects also challenge the role of finance in these projects. Although big national
cultural institutions such as theatres, ballets, operas and museums regularly use ticket sales,
it is often assumed that smaller organisations in the service of ‘communities’ should not use
them, as they carry a stigma that could be seen as antithetical to community development.
In this case, each project was able to leverage the project work towards more financially
sustainable objectives, by mobilising informal networks as well as following similar strate-
gies to their bigger counterparts. ‘Theatre in the Backyard’ and ‘Amasokolari’ used modest
and affordable ticket sales. They felt that this was essential as part of audience development
as people felt they were investing in something worthwhile, giving them power as opposed
to being passive recipients of culture. When interviewed, all three projects reported the in-
tricate webs of informal creative economies that were tapped into – systems of favours and
skills bartering that have been the bedrock of marginalised creative communities. Systematic
research of the formal–informal creative economies in South Africa, and indeed the global
South are sorely missing from the academic record.
In addition, the close link between the ‘Harare Academy of Inspiration’ and Moholo Live-
house revealed an alternative way to think of culture-led development that is not adequately
represented in cultural and urban policy. State-led solutions have historically involved deliv-
ering award-winning architectural community centres that tend to end up largely defunct
(Sitas, 2015), and property development initiatives often result in displacement and exclusion
of the urban poor. This example demonstrates a much simpler approach to a culture-led
precinct that is both socially and spatially responsive to specific contexts.
These three examples were also chosen because although they may respond broadly to
policy imperatives of supporting emerging art, culture and heritage initiatives, they fall
outside or on the outskirts of funding chains. In South Africa, organisations generally need
to be registered as non-profit organisations in order to be eligible for funding. None of
these projects was officially registered as an entity, which immediately alienates it from most
funding opportunities. In some instances, the criteria for funding – such as for the Lottery
Distribution Commission – also include being able to provide 2 years’ worth of audited fi-
nancial statements and have the ability to keep meticulous financial records. The reality of
much of the cultural industry is that it operates between and across the formal and informal
sectors. Artists travel by minibus taxis and support a range of informal businesses, many of
which do not provide receipts, making budgets hard to track. Artists are also not able to
commence work without funds and cannot complete projects without receiving the full
budget as quickly as possible. Because the African Centre for Cities is a non-profit organisa-
tion linked to a university, it was able to by-pass these requirements and pay artists directly
without the stringent criteria.
This requires a re-thinking of how policy is developed, implemented and governed at
the local scale. One of the critiques levelled at cultural and urban policy and governance
by project participants and echoed through interviews with other cultural practitioners is
that cultural policy thinkers are out of touch with the desires of a predominantly Black and
youthful population of cultural producers. Youth feel alienated from policy documents as
much as their imperatives, as they find it difficult to recognise themselves or their practices
in the documents.
In addition, because budgets are managed nationally, there are challenges to ensure ad-
equate devolution of funds. Although some decentralisation has occurred with cities like
Cape Town having its own policy instruments, these have not been adequately funded and

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Rike Sitas

are therefore difficult to implement. Finding ways to assert different forms of creative expres-
sion and production and to leverage alternative creative economies and actors may enable
more relevant policy discourses, mechanisms for implementation and governance at the local
scale. In the absence of budgets, perhaps cultural and urban policy imperatives can create
new funding coalitions to ensure the enabling of additional, similar projects.

Conclusion
This chapter started by giving an overview of the South African and global policyscape
before unpacking how cultural and urban policy has coalesced in Cape Town. This situated
the African Centre for Cities’ Public Art and the Power of Place project within the policy dis-
courses, as well as within a broader engagement of art in the interest of critically engaged
public life in Cape Town. Drawing on three examples from the project, the previous section
argued that there may be alternative ways to ground culture and urban policy coalitions in
the interest of more socially and spatially equitable societies in South Africa. The chapter
concludes by inserting these reflections into global debates about cultural policy.
Critiques of contemporary cultural policy have often concentrated on the neoliberal creep
into policy instruments and governance. Concerns are largely levelled at the instrumental-
isation of art, culture and heritage as a means for elite-centric developments. Although
neoliberal traces can be found when global and local policy instruments and implementa-
tion align, neoliberal critiques alone may not be sufficient to understand the South African
situation. South African policy instruments stem from socialist and developmentalist policy
imperatives that inform the transition to democracy. They are comparably robust and dis-
tribute a large amount of money to select institutions on an annual basis, but these still tend
to have an affluent urban skew. Although it would be easy to argue that this is part of global
neoliberal inequalities, this does not give an accurate picture in its entirety. Despite the urge
to sway South African cultural policy towards more neoliberal and economised ends, the
failure of the Revised White Paper to gain traction suggests that the developmentalist ideals
of the 1996 version espoused by older generations invested in an ANC-led post-apartheid
semi-socialist and cohesive reality, coupled with the radical tendencies of youth movements
committed to decolonisation and transformation is still holding neoliberalism to account
to some degree. Although there are pressures to financialise the arts and culture industry,
the Mzansi Golden Economy (DAC, 2013) sees cultural industries as drivers of job creation
as opposed to being solely vehicles to enable profit-driven ends. A neoliberal takeover also
implies a certain degree of organisation that cannot be facilitated in governance systems that
have not adequately decentralised. This is not to argue that neoliberalism does not play a
role. It is more complicated ideologically to cast art, culture and heritage projects and pol-
icy squarely at one end of the socialist-neoliberal pendulum. The reality in South Africa is
messier.
Many of the critiques argue that working with the state or in relation to capitalist in-
dustries will always result in being complicit in replicating the problematic and neoliberal
status quo (Bishop, 2012; Miles, 2005; Sharp et al., 2005). In contexts with staggering rates
of youth unemployment, livelihoods are at stake. There are no national arts culture and her-
itage stipends. Creative practitioners on the margins are often cultural entrepreneurs seeking
ways to monetise cultural practice but not in the predictable ways that formal art and culture
markets produce.
It may be more useful to see cultural policy and its urban manifestations through a dif-
ferent lens. Recognising the gaps and disjuncture between policy and implementation may

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mean looking inwards in addition to outwards and towards global policy instruments such
as UNESCO Conventions. The majority of cultural practitioners are carving out a living
on the margins of the formal economy in interesting ways that may be able to provide more
contextually relevant lessons for cultural policy. The urban articulation of culture, although
the current source of anxiety, can also be an important opportunity if culture and urban
policy can be more closely drawn together to recognise the strength of formal and informal
entanglements that may better reflect and support the interests of urban youth and in turn
more socially and spatially diverse urban futures that recognise art, culture and heritage as
transient and constantly in the making.

Notes
1 Although racial categories are problematic constructs, they remain important socio-economic and
political determinants in a South African context.
2 Model C schools historically served White students and were only integrated post 1994. Given
the ongoing race-based spatial segregation in many South African cities, these schools still tend to
serve the interest of affluent urban communities.
3 These perceptions have been tracked through interviews with creative practitioners. For more
details see Sitas (forthcoming).
4 In 2015, student movements coalesced nationally around the call for equitable access to education
and a call for fair fees at tertiary institutions. This has intensified non-partisan youth politics that
are working towards new conceptions of the decolonized intellectual project. 2016 has seen a re-
newed bout of student political activity and activism.
5 ‘Black’ in the context of this chapter is seen as a social and political construct that has vital eco-
nomic implications. It is used as an encompassing term to include Black African, Coloured, Indian
and mixed race as per the South African racial categories.
6 Stand-up comedy is not a common form of creative practice in poorer neighbourhoods and in the
vernacular.
7 Shebeens are informal and often illegal bars largely found in South African townships.
8 Documentation of the project can be found at www.facebook.com/harareacademy/.
9 I use inverted commas as these concepts are contested and problematic binaries often used to prop
up inequalities within creative industries.

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 Part VIII
Conclusions
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 37
The light touch
The Nigerian movie industry in
a low policy environment

Jade L. Miller

What is successful cultural policy? Cultural policy research catalogues a broad spectrum of ef-
forts national and local governments have taken to spur and support sustainable creative indus-
tries, from the national Indian government granting industry status to the film industry in order
to spur investment, to South Korean initiatives to send its future producers and pop stars abroad
to internationalise markets, to more local efforts to create walkable arts districts à la Richard
Florida’s platonic ideal of a creative city (2002). Initiatives like these have served to support the
transformation of burgeoning artistic production into sustainable creative industries (or, in other
cases, may have represented ill-considered governmental expenditures with little to show for it).
Nigeria’s prolific English language movie industry, known popularly as Nollywood,1
emerges from a policy environment that was not designed to be supportive to the forma-
tion of cultural industries. The types of policy that form the infrastructure of many formal
cultural industries around the world exist nominally at best in Nollywood: neither copy-
right enforcement, contract enforcement, governmental training initiatives, nor government
grants to burgeoning filmmakers are reliable institutions, and those controlling the industry
generally attempt to evade governmental attention as much as possible. The only reliable
governmental intervention in the industry has come through the Censor’s Board, which
has at times expanded its focus well past censoring content and has looked (unsuccessfully)
towards restructuring power dynamics in the industry.
This chapter first outlines the existent regimes of copyright, contract enforcement, and
other government initiatives that have proven to be quite weak, with the exception of cen-
sorship functions. It then discusses the industry’s self-made alternative structuring institu-
tions that circumvent governmental oversight or intervention, marked by the strength of the
industry’s informal guilds and the strength of personal and ethnic ties in the industry. The
chapter concludes with reflections on the relevance of Nigeria’s cultural policy environment
to studies of other cultural production globally.

Background
The history of Nigeria’s English language movie industry has been told many times now (see
Adesanya 2000; Haynes & Okome 2000), and I will only outline the most relevant pieces

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of Nollywood history to the themes of this chapter. Popular press reports in particular tell
the story of Nollywood history as a story of creating something out of “nothing” with little
external support or encouragement. Of course, the industry didn’t actually emerge from
“nothing.” Most academic accounts tell the story of the rise of the industry as a response to
a reduction in audiovisual distribution avenues in the 1990s and the rise of new distribution
channels in Nigeria’s open-air marketplaces.
The industry emerged in the early 1990s partly in response to a series of pressures on
Nigerian popular culture at the time. As oil prices tumbled, the Nigerian currency went
into freefall, and government corruption led to a sharp uptick in street crime, discouraging
people from leaving home to pursue entertainment options (or anything else) after dark.
Two of the more popular arts venues at the time were experiencing crises: the govern-
ment broadcaster cut funding and opportunities for popular domestic soap opera production,
switching over in some cases to inexpensive foreign syndicated programming instead, while
the nation’s popular private travelling theatre troupes were having problems funding their
productions. At the same time, entrepreneurs running the grey market electronics stalls in
networks of open-air markets across Nigeria came into a surplus of VHS products, as first
generation VHS technologies began to age in their primary markets.
Kenneth Nnebue, one of these electronics traders, famously tied these pieces together in
a moment of “entrepreneurial clarity” (Miller 2016a). Hiring underemployed theatre troupe
actors and soap opera directors and crew, Nnebue created the first of what came to be known
as “Nollywood” movies. These movies were shot directly on video and circulated in video
(VHS) format primarily through the network of open-air electronics markets that already cir-
culated imported home entertainment equipment and pirated foreign movies (Larkin 2007).
Nnebue both funded and distributed his early movies, and this model has persisted. As
other electronics traders saw the potential to make money by selling VHS copies of enter-
tainment content that they themselves had produced, an industry emerged, fuelled by sales
of hard copies of VHS, exchanged at the open-air markets where the industry’s executive
producers already controlled distribution networks of open-air stalls. These executive pro-
ducers became known as marketers. Despite the power involved in their roles as distributors
and executive producers, they are still referred to as “marketers” in the industry, and I will
use the same term here.
Twenty-five years later, the marketers still control the majority of the industry’s executive
production and distribution. Recently, a new sector of the industry has emerged, known as
“New Nollywood,” featuring high budget titles with more cinematic aims (sometimes shot
on film and shown in cinemas) and controlled by an elite contingent of renowned directors
with access to more diverse potential funding and distribution avenues. However, the mar-
keters’ portion of the industry produces the lion’s share of titles. While New Nollywood
movies are popular, neither the consumption appetite of Nollywood fans nor the ledgers of
Nollywood distribution outlets can be sustained on these titles alone. Both fans and distribu-
tors rely on the marketers’ productions for the bulk of their titles, despite the preference some
might have for “New Nollywood.”

Government agencies

Nigerian Film Corporation

Given the industry’s roots in informal little-regulated open-air marketplaces, the industry
has traditionally had little interaction with government agencies. The cultural ambitions of

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Nigeria’s oil-rich government in the 1970s foresaw a different relationship with a national
movie industry. In 1972, the national government set up quotas for foreign films (in the
nation’s cinemas, still functional at the time, two decades before rising crime kept people at
home and shuttered many entertainment venues) and put limits on foreign ownership of cin-
ema houses via the Nigerian Enterprises Promotion Decree (Okome 1995). Seven years later,
in 1979, the government inaugurated the Nigerian Film Corporation, meant to support
domestic film production with production and post-production facilities, cinema-building
and training initiatives, amongst other goals.
None of these initiatives ever came to fruition, but the government agency remained and
still exists today. It is located in Jos, a city in central Nigeria far from Nollywood’s hubs in
Lagos and Onitsha. While Nigeria’s prolific video industry is centred in the nation’s eco-
nomic capital (Lagos), the Nigerian Film Corporation, or NFC, was formed with an eye
towards celluloid film production. With a limited budget, the agency’s achievements have
been limited to a film archive, a film school (also in Jos) and sometimes booths at various
international film festivals meant to showcase high-end larger budget Nigerian movies. The
film school, the National Film Institute, is well regarded but is largely disconnected from
the Nigerian video industry that functions thousands of miles away and recruits new talent
without recourse to evidence of government-sponsored training.

Nigerian Copyright Commission

Though not directly aimed at supporting a movie industry (which was virtually non-existent
at the time), Nigeria’s adoption of copyright law in 1988 – and signing of the international
standard Berne Convention in 1993 – had the potential to create a cultural industry policy
environment based on copyright. However, the Nigerian Copyright Council (inaugurated
in 1989 and upgraded to the Nigerian Copyright Commission, or NCC, in 1993) has never
had any resources to execute its goals, and enforcement has remained unfunded.
While Nigeria has signed onto the Berne Convention, few in the Nigerian creative
industries are aware of the parameters of these copyright rules, which automatically assign
copyright to the main resource provider with no need for registration. Most functional
global copyright regimes assign enforcement to police or other specialised enforcement
agencies. In Nigeria, the NCC was given enforcement rights (and duties) in 1992 but no
increase in funding. This means that the NCC, an agency made up of lawyers and admin-
istrators, has no ability to order or run raids. Any copyright raids that do occur in Nigeria
tend to be financed by foreign governments or corporations looking to protect their own
copyright interests and involve a special payment to the police force in return for the raid
they carry out.
The NCC’s only direct intervention in copyright enforcement is to prosecute criminal
cases using information brought to them by aggrieved parties. However, court cases usually
drag on for years, due to the pace of the Nigerian legal system. The slow pace of the system
is driven by the lack of specialised copyright judges, the need to begin trials over when a
judge is transferred and the four to six year appeals process tacked onto the initial case (NCC
lawyer 1 2009). Because of this, most cases will be resolved by a civil agreement between
the two parties years before the NCC prosecution can be expected to culminate, and the
agreement usually involves the complainant dropping out of the criminal case in return for
an agreed-upon fee (ibid). During my research at the NCC, there were no pending cases
regarding the movie industry at all; according to lawyers at the NCC, the NCC prosecutions
that do occur most frequently regard the book publishing industry (ibid).

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National Film and Video Censors Board

Unlike the above government agencies with a charge to support Nigeria’s movie industry,
the National Film and Video Censors Board, or NFVCB, has been effective in pursuing
its primary mission: censorship of movies released in Nigeria. While the NCC and NFC
seemed ignorant of the nascent video industry in its early years, the federal Nigerian gov-
ernment created the NFVCB in 1993, the very first year that domestic video films began to
populate the electronics markets of Nigeria. By 1994, submitting one’s video to the NFVCB
for approval was an unavoidable step in the movie production and distribution process in
Nigeria and continues to be so today.
It may seem surprising that a new Nigerian industry, informal in funding and distri-
bution, would feel compelled to submit movies to the national censorship board prior to
release. One explanation is the robust nature of censorship in what was at the time a military
regime. The NFVCB and the NFC alike were both housed in the Ministry of Information as
opposed to the Ministry of Culture, reflecting governmental attitudes about the importance
of the power of mass media to relay information and influence opinion, overshadowing its
power to contribute to the nation’s cultural profile. Though November 2015 saw, under new
president Muhammadu Buhari, the merger of what was at that point called the Ministry of
Culture and Tourism with the Ministry of Information, neither the NFVCB nor the NFC,
the agencies with direct charge to interact with the movie industry, were linked with the
nation’s cultural aims until that bureaucratic merger.
More practically, the NFVCB has been afforded the resources to pursue non-conforming
filmmakers. Despite the unregulated nature of the exchange of physical copies of Nigerian
movies, each movie comes with the contact information of its main initial distributor printed
on the packaging, and those distributors would be fined and harassed if they were to release
a title that hadn’t pursued and received NFVCB approval. That said, NFVCB guidelines
generally serve as preventative as opposed to punitive. The agency’s standards discourage ex-
plicit sexual content and amoral consequences, but violations of the code are rare. ­Nigerian
popular movies tend to pass through the Censors Board without issue, arriving already with-
out potentially offending content.
While demands for re-edits are rare at the NFVCB, the agency has flexed its muscles in
the past decade with an ambitious heavy-handed initiative meant to restructure distribution
in the industry. Going outside its stated aims to control content in the industry, the NFVCB
spent years attempting to implement a licensing scheme for distributors (see Bud 2014, for
an in-depth examination of this project) in an effort to chip away at the marketers’ dispersed
power in favour of a more easily regulated industrial structure. Begun in 2006 at the behest
of ambitious then-director Emeka Mba, the Framework dictated that all distributors must
register with the NFVCB as national, regional or local. The goals of the Framework were to
encourage the emergence of a small number of large visible national distributors.
The philosophy guiding this endeavour was a drive to transform the vast sea of opaque
financing and distribution opportunities offered by marketers into a scenario in which the
industry would be controlled by a small number of large companies that were more easily
regulated and taxed by the government, more accountable and more attractive to outside in-
vestors looking for reliable record-keeping and transparent ledgers. The agency’s incursions
into structuring the industry were controversial but, by 2009, after much rancour and strug-
gle, nearly every distributor in Nigeria had complied and acquired a license. The marketers,
however, circumvented the scheme’s goals as distributors of all capacities registered for the
national distributor classification, a category initially intended to only have about a dozen

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registrants, with the other distribution categories attracting very few. After years of struggle,
the NFVCB’s most ambitious policy attempt to structure the industry had little effect, and
the framework is generally considered to have failed in its end-goals, even as it succeeded in
forcing a registration process upon the marketers (Bud 2014).

Federal grant funds

While Nigerian moviemakers are free to apply for international grants for making movies, it
is rare for them to do so, given the tendency of such grants to go to art cinema, while Nolly-
wood epitomises popular cinema. Until recently, there has been little in the way of domestic
grant funds to pursue. At times, however, federal announcements regarding funds to support
the movie industry have been used as political tools. Sometimes these funds materialise,
while, at other, the funds fall through.
Former president Goodluck Jonathan, for instance, announced a series of well-financed
initiatives to support the movie industry during his last year in office, including a $9.5 ­m illion
(3 billion naira) grant-making and training fund for the industry and a $11 million invest-
ment by the Nigeria Bank of Industry to a single powerful producer, Gabriel Okoye (known
as Gabosky) to duplicate the marketers’ national distribution infrastructure with a ‘privately
owned national distribution system’ named G-Media, likely meant as a second shot at dis-
rupting the marketers after the NFVCB’s failure (Bud 2014). Two years later, allegations
circulated that the 3 billion naira fund has been squandered and distributed along clientelist
lines (The Punch 2016), and the fund’s future is in question (Husseini 2016), while Gabosky’s
distribution scheme, like that of the NFVCB, has failed to disrupt existent distribution net-
works. Governmental grants, like the NFC and the NCC, have never become a reliable
resource; instead, we can see NFVCB censorship as the only functional government inter-
vention in the industry.

Institutions and alternatives

While the Nigerian movie industry has grown in an environment without reliable copyright
or contract enforcement, with little to no reliance on government grant-making or train-
ing initiatives, the industry is, in fact, highly structured, and its entrepreneurial executive
­producers – the marketers – continue to fund and produce new titles that are distributed
widely. The absence of state-provided structure does not mean that this is an industry in
chaos. In every place where one could imagine cultural policy stepping in, the Nigerian
movie industry has an alternative, created and maintained by those that run the industry.
Much of this is structured by the industry’s guilds, a system of nationally elected representa-
tives that constitute the elite of the industry and govern many industry norms. Other struc-
ture comes from the strength of trust-based and kin-based relationships that gird an industry
based on the norm of repeat collaboration. In this section, I will examine two institutions
and their guild-formed alternatives to government structure: labour agreements and the
protection of intellectual property.

Contract enforcement, guilds and trust

While labour contracts exist across industries, theorists on the creative industries have high-
lighted the importance of contracts in industries that rely on freelance labour as opposed to

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salaried employment (see Caves 2000). Creative industries are more likely to rely on such
labour than other sectors, and film production the world over tends to be particularly reliant
on freelance labour, reformulating teams for each new shoot and offering employment on
a per-job basis2 (ibid.). The Nigerian industry represents an extreme example of team re-
formulation, due to the sheer number of shoots onto which regular industry workers must
be hired in order to make ends meet. The rapidity of filming and large number of titles the
industry releases per year combines with the modest per-title pay offered workers to create
a system in which those working in the industry are often lining up jobs one after another
in quick succession. The rapidity and frequency of team formation mean that good relation-
ships with potential co-workers and employers, important in any industry, are particularly
necessary here (Miller 2016b).
Just as the lengthy trials and appeals in the Nigerian court system undermine po-
tential copyright enforcement, official legal contract enforcement for freelance labour
in Nigeria is virtually non-existent. This is not to say that there is no recourse in Nol-
lywood’s labour disputes, however. Rather than relying on government infrastructure
to mediate conflict, the Nigerian movie industry is structured by business relationships
built on informal “memorandums of understanding” and even more on trust, respect,
clout and handshakes. Labour disputes are meant to be resolved through the guild system
that structures the industry. Nearly every worker in the industry is a member of a guild,
ranging from a guild for make-up artists to the highly powerful guild representing the
marketers, FVPMAN (Film and Video Producers and Marketers Association of Nigeria).
Each guild is national and governed by elected representatives, usually made up of the
most well-connected and well-known in each respective profession. Elections can be
fraught with conflict, as leaders have access to member funds, wield power, and, perhaps
most importantly, are accorded a degree of reverence and respect as a result, both in the
industry and outside of it.
Guilds generally cooperate with one another, and the elite in the leadership of each guild
tend to be friendly with one another. Large-scale auditions, for instance, are meant to have
representatives of the major guilds present over-seeing procedure. The frequency of such
events as well as the consistent parade of premieres and banquets that mark the social life of
the industry’s elite in Lagos means that the leadership of each guild will often be travelling
in one another’s social circles and seeing each other frequently.
When disputes arise, guilds are supposed to represent their members in a quest for a solu-
tion. If, for instance, a crew member and producer have dispute over payments or working
conditions, the guild of the party deemed to be in the wrong is meant to discipline the
transgressor or otherwise ameliorate the situation. For those without clout in the offender’s
guild, workers are meant to contact their own guild representative who will represent them
in discussions or negotiations with a representative from the other guild.
While this system works well in theory, it can fall short in addressing the concerns of
unpopular or non-powerful complainants. Many working in the industry believe the guilds
serve the interests of the elite that run them as opposed to their constituents. If their concerns
are not resolved via the guild system’s dispute resolution process, they have no recourse save
for maligning the name of the offending party. This is not as minor as it may seem, however;
given many workers’ reliance on rapid-fire repeat freelance employment, lining up job after
job, the threat of one’s name losing cache can be significant. Public complaint and gossip can
be a particularly powerful tool in an industry governed heavily by interpersonal relationships
and incentivised by the potential for repeat employment.

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Copyright enforcement and pricing

As mentioned earlier, Nigeria lacks a funded enforcement force to carry out copyright vi-
olation raids, and copyright violations are rarely pursued within the Nigerian legal system,
due to the length of resolution of such court cases in the Nigerian courts. This is coupled
with a normalisation of piracy (which I will refer to here as unauthorised distribution, in
order to remain value neutral) as a means of distribution within Nigerian society (see Larkin
2007) to produce an environment in which profiting from intellectual property is particu-
larly challenging. Goods in Nigeria, from foreign movies (Hollywood, Bollywood, etc.) to
electronics, often arrive via black and grey markets rather than official authorised distribu-
tion channels. Hollywood studios, for instance, make virtually no effort to distribute their
titles in Nigeria for theatrical or home screening; the low returns anticipated there make it
a blank area in global distribution plans. This means that nearly every time a Hollywood
film is viewed in Nigeria, it has arrived via unauthorised distribution networks (with the
exception of films screened at the nation’s small handful of upscale multiplexes in Lagos and
Abuja, which arrive via a South African corporation (Silverbird) which has licensed African
theatrical rights from Hollywood studios). There are few social constraints against purchas-
ing unauthorised access to copyrighted materials in a place where such access is the only
possible access. In my interviews with foreign consulate workers in Lagos, the US consulate
employee in charge of copyright enforcement there told me she routinely purchased unau-
thorised copies of Hollywood films on the streets of Lagos for her own personal use, as it was
the only place to find them.
In his influential work on Northern Nigerian film, Brian Larkin has illustrated the
ways in which the distribution networks for unauthorised foreign movies, snaking through
­Nigeria’s electronics markets, are the very same networks distributing authorised copies of
domestic Nollywood movies through the nation, as well as funding their production (2007).
The lines between authorised and unauthorised can become quite murky in this context.
The marketers responsible for executive producing Nollywood movies are moving their
products through the same businesses that are also often accused of engaging in unauthorised
distribution of Nollywood and foreign movies alike. In a nation where there is little differen-
tiation between authorised and unauthorised products (and, indeed, they often are identical
in both appearance and price), “piracy” of domestic content proliferates.
While directors and producers of Nigerian movies often publicly complain about copy-
right violations, they have banded together via their guilds to safeguard their content them-
selves, as opposed to putting energy into lobbying the government for reliable copyright
enforcement. Guilds have, for instance, engaged in campaigns to educate consumers about
copyright, encouraging everyday consumers to reject pirated content and support Nigerian
talent via billboards and other signage in Lagos, though the impact of this campaign cannot
be measured. The best defence the industry’s executive producers have against loss of sales
due to unauthorised distribution is via the lightning-fast market adjustments achieved by the
cohesiveness of the marketer’s guild, FVPMAN. Nearly every innovation made by unautho-
rised distributors has been met by a response from the marketers, linked collectively by their
guild as well as kinship networks.3
One way to describe pricing in the domestic Nigerian market is that movies wholesale
in VCD (video compact disc, the preferred format in Nigeria for the past decade) form for
around 350–400 naira (around $1 USD) per full movie, and that this has been a steady price
for years. While this is true, the pricing system has morphed considerably over the years
to compete with unauthorised distributors on a price basis. For years, it was common for a

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movie to be released in two parts, with each part wholesaling for 150–200 naira (about
50 US cents), adding up to 300–400 naira for the whole story at wholesale prices. In recent
years, this trend has multiplied, with some movies being split into eight parts in extreme
cases, selling for 43 naira (about 14 US cents) wholesale per copy (Njoku 2013).
To be clear on how drastic this pricing is, this means a wholesale price of 43 naira
(14 US cents) for a brand new title in its initial release in its original packaging. The cost of
production of a VCD has been estimated at 26 naira per copy leaving 17 naira (6 US cents)
per copy gross profit, a remarkable rate for intellectual property that challenges the profit
margins of unauthorised distributors. Since buyers purchasing Part 1 will also likely buy
Parts 2 through 8, overall revenue for the movie might actually be the same as if the movie
were sold in just two parts, leaving prices static for consumers. The cost of VCD replica-
tion, however, could crunch the profit margins of producers, authorised and unauthorised
alike. To be clear, this is just one extreme in pricing. Most movies are still sold in less than
eight parts – more like two, three, or four. In either instance, this reflects a marketer trend
towards cutting prices and extending the number of ‘parts’ to better compete with unli-
censed distribution.
Another strategy the marketers have pursued in their battle with unauthorised distri-
bution is an extreme windowing system: three weeks after a movie’s release, the price
of a given movie will sink to just 50 naira retail, or 16 US cents. Similar to windowing
in ­cinema-based film industries, this is known as the movie’s secondary market. A well-­
connected producer spelled out what this could mean financially for a hypothetical very pop-
ular movie: a movie selling 100,000 copies in the domestic market in the first three weeks
of its release could garner 10 million naira ($32,000 USD). This same title might sell an
additional ­200,000–300,000 copies in the secondary market, once the first three weeks had
passed, garnering a possible 2 million naira ($6,300 USD) in wholesale secondary domestic
sales. To be clear, this is $6,300 gathered from intellectual property sold at an astounding
10 naira, or 3 US cents per copy (these would be sold in the markets for 50 naira, or 16 US
cents retail). Making over $6,300 on intellectual property sold at 3 US cents per title is a
powerful challenge to unlicensed distribution, and one that could give pause to unlicensed
distributors. To be clear, the figures cited here describe a remarkably popular movie, and
average movies in the industry will not sell at this scale. That said, these strategies are used
on movies across the spectrum of Nigerian offerings. And the potential to take profits on
intellectual property sold at such low rates serves as a profound challenge to unauthorised
distribution, not through the threat of legal prosecution, but through squeezing legitimate
profits enough to actually compete on price with “pirates” who did not need to also pay for
the production budget. The reason these strategies have been able to take hold is largely the
cohesiveness of the marketers in FVPMAN. This large number of small to medium scale
executive producers and distributors will generally follow one another’s lead, linked together
by ethnic ties and led by their elected guild leader.

Discussion
The Nigerian movie industry began without any government intervention, and was, in
effect, governed only by the censorship board in its growth years. Significant governmental
attention to the video industry took at least ten years to come about, and attempts by the
government to interact with the industry after this time have generally fallen flat. ­Today,
governmental institutions providing for film development funds, filmmaker training,
grant-making, contract enforcement, and copyright protection in Nigeria are nominal at

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best. While three government agencies exist with a direct charge to support the movie in-
dustry (the NFC, the NCC, and the NFVCB), only one can truly be said to have been an
effectual regulator over the years: the censorship authority (though, in recent years, even
this agency has lost its influence). While many in the industry lament the lack of structure
and demand specific government interventions (particularly directors without the resources
to fund or distribute their own movies, frustrated at their dependence on the marketers and
looking for structural change), many others (particularly those currently profiting from and
running the industry: the marketers) complain that the government has little justification to
interfere in something developed without its support. Can government – particularly in a
state such as Nigeria, ineffectual in many of its initiatives – structure an already self-formed
largely informal industry? Can structure through governmental intervention be laid on top
of an industry born largely outside of any formal governmental rules or policies? While the
answers to these questions cannot be known directly, as the industry is still developing and
the story is far from over, we can take note of the failure of specific policy and governmen-
tal oversight initiatives that the government made two decades into the birth of a dynamic
informal creative industry. Both state-financed initiatives to restructure power and distri-
bution in the industry – the NFVCB and G-Media initiatives – have failed, and any further
attempts seem likely to meet the same fate.
This policy environment, though distinct from the many examples of intentional cultural
policy worldwide, is by no means rare. Indeed, much cultural production on a global level
emerges from contexts in which institutions like contracts and copyright are weak. The
global fame the Nigerian movie industry has garnered in the two past decades makes the
industry one of the more visible examples of a cultural industry functioning in a light policy
environment, but far from unique.
Studying the Nigerian movie industry in the context of cultural policy allows us to con-
sider the potentials for the development of sustainable cultural industries in an environment
absent of significant government intervention. With no functioning copyright enforcement
mechanism and with current distribution channels largely outside of possible governmental
intervention or even attention, Nollywood stands as a model for industrial development in
the context of a particularly low level of cultural policy – or simply a model for what a sus-
tainable cultural industry can look like without the governmental institutions often thought
of as supportive of industrialised cultural production. The answer here is an industry full of
small-scale entrepreneurs, funding their own productions out of the profits they make from
personally overseeing distribution, structured by personal ties and guilds and with consistent
resourceful responses to challenges like unauthorised distribution.
As technological and financial barriers to entry to various production and distribution
avenues become lowered on a global scale, one could expect to see sustainable creative pro-
duction develop in a diversity of policy environments, particularly those that do not fit the
parameters of traditional thought on the ideal role of cultural policy. Future policymakers
would do well to consider the limitations involved in supporting and regulating cultural
production largely created and circulated via venues outside of their control. Researchers,
in turn, would do well to consider alternatives to governmental policy as possibilities for
structuring sustainable creative production and could look to the Nigerian experience for
guidance. As online and mobile phone distribution venues begin to make incursions in the
Nigerian mediascape, those researching Nollywood will need to assess whether the possi-
bility of increased transparency in distribution opens doors for government intervention, or
if the accompanying unauthorised distribution venues leave the Nigerian movie industry as
separate as ever from governmental oversight and infrastructure.

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Notes
1 While there are many issues with using the name “Nollywood” as a stand-in for Nigeria’s multi-­
faceted movie industry (see Haynes 2007; Adejunmobi 2015), I use it in this chapter as shorthand
for ease of reference, though acknowledging its drawbacks.
2 Though this looks quite different in film industries operating on a “studio system” framework,
employing salaried cast and crew. The studio system, though once structuring both American and
Indian film production, no longer structures any of the world’s prominent film industries.
3 FVPMAN is the guild for marketers from the Igbo ethnicity. Other marketer guilds for other
ethnicities do exist, but the industry is largely run by the Igbo marketers making up FVPMAN.

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Adejunmobi, M., 2015. African film’s televisual turn. Cinema Journal, 54(2), 120–125.
Adesanya, A., 2000. From film to video. In J. Haynes (ed.) Nigerian video films (pp. 37–50). Athens:
Ohio University Center for International Studies: Research in International Studies Africa Series
No. 73.
Bud, A., 2014. The end of Nollywood’s guilded age? Marketers, the state and the struggle for distri-
bution. Critical African Studies, 6(1), 91–121.
Caves, R., 2000. Creative industries: Contracts between art and commerce. Cambridge: Harvard University
Press.
Florida, R., 2002. The rise of the creative class: And how it’s transforming work, leisure, and every day life.
New York: Basic Books.
Haynes, J., 2007. Nollywood: What is in a name? Film International, 5(4), 106–108.
Haynes, J. & Okome, O., 2000. Evolving popular media: Nigerian video films. In J. Haynes (ed.)
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in International Studies Africa Series No. 73.
Husseini, S., 17 July 2016. Buhari sings a different tune for Project ACT Nollywood. The Guardian [online].
Available from: http://guardian.ng/art/buhari-sings-a-different-tune-for-project-act-nollywood/.
Larkin, B., 2007. Signal and nosie: Media, infrastructure, and urban culture in Nigeria. Durham, NC: Duke
University Press.
Miller, J., 2016a. Nollywood central. London: BFI.
Miller, J., 2016b. Labor in Lagos: Alternative global networks. In M. Curtin and K. Sanson (eds.)
Precarious creativity: Global media, local labor (pp. 146–158). Berkeley: University of California Press.
NCC lawyer 1, 2009. Personal communication with the author, July 30.
Njoku, J., 13 Dec 2013. Alabanomics: Yesterday, today, and the future of Nollywood. Just Me:
­Jason Njoku: Blog [online]. Available from: www.jason.com.ng/post/70277008903/alabanomics-
yesterday-today-and-the-future-of.
Okome, O., 1995. Film policy and the development of the African cinema. Glendora Review: African
Quarterly on the Arts, 1(2), 46–53.
The Punch, 11 Oct 2016. Nollywood: Emeka Ike seeks probe of N3bn intervention fund [online]. Avail-
able from: http://punchng.com/nollywood-emeka-ike-seeks-probe-n3bn-intervention-fund/.

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 38
The political career of
the culture concept
Tony Bennett

My concerns in this chapter are with the discursive coordinates that shaped a distinctive
episode in the political career of the cultural concept: that comprised by the role it played in
the development of assimilationist conceptions of multiculturalism in the inter-war period
through to the early post-war period. The key developments here focus on the successive
elaborations of Franz Boas’s interpretation of the culture concept – briefly, the conception
of culture as an ordered way of life – that informed the trajectories of American anthropol-
ogy during a period when it was both intellectually dominated by Boasians and, somewhat
contrary to Boas’s own inclinations, entering into increasingly close forms of collaboration
with a range of governmental agencies (Mandler 2013; Price 2008). By focusing on this ep-
isode in the political career of the culture concept, I also aim to throw some fresh light on
a later moment in its history when, in the founding years of British cultural studies, it was
annexed to a conception of class politics in which the ways of life of working-class cultures
were constituted as potential sources of resistance to dominant class formations. This inter-
pretation of the concept departed from its inter-war history in being fashioned as a source
for ­counter-conducts rather than as a governmental actor and, as an aspect of this, the way
in which its relations to aesthetic conceptions of culture were interpreted also changed.
I shall show how its earlier history as a policy actor in the United States rested on a particular
governmental mobilisation of formalist aesthetics that informed the conception of ways of
life as being endowed with a particular shape or pattern derived from the creativity of the
people concerned. The initial phases of its use in British cultural studies detached it from the
coordinates of race and ethnicity that informed its earlier American anthropological career,
coordinates to which the concept has been re-attached in its later career in cultural studies in
the light of its re-reading by Stuart Hall and others. While this later episode in the political
career of the culture concept goes beyond the historical remit of my concerns in this chapter,
it nonetheless informs my engagement with its earlier moments.
The order of discussion will be as follows. I look first at the definitional issues associ-
ated with the concept of culture as a way of life across its relations between anthropology
and cultural studies. I then look more closely at the Boasian and post-Boasian interpreta-
tions of the concept within American anthropology, focusing particularly on its aesthetic
properties and the differential interpretation of these across its application to the cultures of

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Native Americans, Caucasians, African-Americans and European migrants. This prepares the
ground for a closer examination of the deployment of the concept in the early years of the
development of American assimilationist policies and particularly the political logics inform-
ing the exclusions effected by these policies. I conclude by reflecting on current critical re-­
engagements with the relations between the Boasian culture concept and the category of race.

From universal hierarchy to patterned differences

In his classic Beyond Nature and Culture, Philippe Descola insists that it was only with Boas
‘that there emerged the idea that each people constitutes a unique and coherent configura-
tion of material and intellectual features sanctioned by tradition, that tradition being typical
of a certain mode of life, rooted in the specific categories of a language and responsible for
the specificity of the individual and collective behaviour of its members’ (2013: 73). As such,
its significance consisted in replacing the grading of peoples in evolutionary terms ‘by a
synchronic table in which all cultures are equally valid’ (73). It was further, Descola argues,
through his acquaintance with Boas that Claude Lévi-Strauss, in subscribing to ‘the idea that
nothing justified setting up a hierarchy of cultures in accordance with either a moral scale
or a diachronic series’ (75), contributed to the production of culture as a new surface for the
management of differences, ostensibly replacing both race and earlier aesthetic hierarchies,
that informed the debates leading to UNESCO’s post-war statements on race. There were,
of course, other intellectual currents running into UNESCO’s founding documents than the
Boasian one: Lévi-Strauss’s relativism arguably owed as much to his association with Paul
Rivet at the Musée de l’Homme as to his acquaintance with Boas (Laurière 2008), and the
reworking of the legacy of early twentieth century anthropology effected by Mass Observa-
tion also fed into UNESCO’s early adjudications of the relations between race and culture
(Kushner 2004). These qualifications to one side, however, there can be little doubt regard-
ing the long-term impact of UNESCO’s formulations in producing culture as a policy actor
for the regulation of differences that have shaped a variety of its programmes – running up
to, in the 1990s, Our Creative Diversity (1996) and, more recently, its Convention on the Protec-
tion and Promotion of the Diversity of Cultural Expressions (2005) – with significant consequences
for the development of a wide range of national cultural policies.
I am more immediately interested here, however, in Descola’s disputation of those accounts
that attribute a continuous history to the culture concept as running uninterruptedly from
Edward Burnett Tylor’s 1871 formulation of culture as ‘that complex whole which includes
knowledge, belief, art, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by
man as a member of society’ (1). He has particularly in mind the influential codification of the
history of the culture concept effected by two of Boas’s students, Alfred Kroeber and Clyde
Kluckhohn, in their Culture: A Critical Review of Concepts and Definitions. In presenting Tylor
and Boas as the two key figures on the road leading toward the science of culture they wished
to establish, Kroeber and Kluckhohn overlooked what Descola highlights as the crucial dif-
ference between them: Tylor’s commitment to an evolutionary and hierarchical ordering of
the relations between different cultures as calibrated by the degree of their approximation
to Euro-American norms of civilisation. This long-standing criticism of Tylor within the
anthropological literature has been accompanied by another that, again, accentuates the dif-
ferences between Tylor and Boas. Whereas Boas viewed culture as a creatively ordered whole
in which the elements that comprise it are configured into a distinctively patterned way of life,
Tylor’s conception of culture amounted to no more than ‘a list of traits, with the consequence
that culture might be inventoried but never analysed’ (Kuper 2000: 57).

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Williams who, in his Keywords entry on Culture (1976), relies a good deal on Kroeber
and Kluckhohn’s text, nonetheless registers his unease at their attempt to draw a clear line
of demarcation between a scientific, anthropological approach to culture and its aesthetic
­conception – a distinction that, it should be added, is given a nationalist inflection in ­K roeber
and Kluckhohn’s interpretation of the former as an American approach developed in op-
position to European humanistic traditions (Gilkeson 2010). This is evident, for example,
in their comments on T.S. Eliot who, while being congratulated for speaking of culture
‘in the quite concrete denotation of certain anthropologists’ as exemplified by his famous
characterisation of the activities that go together to make up the English way of life (Eliot
1962), is chastised for attempting to reconcile ‘the humanistic and social science views’ of
culture as a misuse of the American anthropological tradition on which he drew (Kroeber
and Kluckhohn 1952: 32–33). Williams (1965), while failing to acknowledge the differences
between them, draws more on the aesthetically inflected registers of the culture concept
articulated by Ruth Benedict’s conception of the distinctive patterning of the relations bet­
ween the elements comprising a whole way of life than on Tylor’s listing of cultural traits.
The same was true of Richard Hoggart who, Richard Handler (2005) has suggested, was
influenced by the modernist inflection that was given to the culture concept in the ‘culture
and personality’ school, most notably represented by Edward Sapir, whose contrast between
‘genuine’ and ‘spurious’ culture (Sapir 1924) provided a model for Hoggart’s analysis of the
relations between working class and mass culture (Hoggart 1969). It is the distinctive aes-
thetically patterned form that it acquires from the situated creativity of the working classes,
Hoggart argues, that imbues working-class culture with its resilience – its capacity to resist
the synthetic orderings of commercial mass culture. At the same time, if, as Handler puts it,
this account rests on ‘the assumption (standard in anthropological theory) that the pattern of
working-class culture is alive – adaptive, resistant, persistent – precisely because its “bear-
ers,” the “natives,” hold to it unconsciously’ (Handler 2005: 163–164), this failure to attain
a critical self-consciousness also entails its devaluation from the modernist perspective that
informs Hoggart’s work: it might survive but can never become a general model. Williams
similarly, Handler argues, universalise a modernist conception of creativity in attributing
the dynamism of culture to the general interplay between inherited cultural forms and the
creativity of groups or individuals, while nonetheless retaining, in his conception of culture
as ordinary, a modernist distinction between ‘the most ordinary common meanings and the
finest individual meanings’ (Williams 1989: 4).
I make these points by way of noting how the influence of the American culture concept
on the founding texts of British cultural studies was largely filtered through the later, more
explicitly high modernist interpretations of that concept by Eliot and Sapir with neither
Hoggart nor Williams looking much beyond these to the earlier history of the concept or
its political articulations. This was even more true of the subsequent development of the
concept in British cultural studies where, in being switched initially from the axes of race
in being attached to those of class, the ‘anthropological concept of culture’, as it came to be
known, was typically endorsed for its value-neutral, levelling qualities in asserting the equal
value of all forms of cultural creativity irrespective of the place accorded them within official
cultural hierarchies. This was an aspect of its early history in post-war Britain, evident, for
example, in Williams’s role in contributing to a limited shift in the Arts Council’s priorities
from an initial exclusive focus on high culture to a broader conception of the range and
kinds of cultural practice that might merit government support. We need, however, to look
to the earlier history of the culture concept and its relations to the fieldwork tradition in
American anthropology, to appreciate how its aesthetic properties were initially acquired

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and how these came to be fused with its operations as a policy actor. It’s a history in which
the idea of culture as a patterned articulation of the relations between elements in a way
of life became attached to assimilationist programs within a hierarchical ordering of racial
categories.

The aesthetic ordering and differentiation of cultures

From its inception in the work of Tylor, the culture concept has been shaped by the rela-
tions between the practices of collecting materials from subordinate cultures and ordering
the relations between these and dominant cultures, in ways that have informed practices of
governing. While the limitations of ruptural interpretations of the development of the field-
work phase in anthropology in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries have been
widely canvassed (Fabian 2000), the place accorded fieldwork within the Boasian tradition
did significantly shift, while not entirely displacing, the place accorded ‘primitive cultures’
within the earlier paradigm of evolutionary anthropology. Key here was the transition from
the style of armchair anthropology practiced by Tylor and the evolutionary assumptions un-
derlying the typological method of museum displays that informed his collecting practices.
Objects culled from diverse locations – by missionaries, traders, policemen or looters – were
brought together in evolutionary sequences in testimony to a universal path of human deve­
lopment (Bennett 2004). This lack of concern with the configurational ordering of relations
between traits comprising a particular culture has often been assessed as a limitation from the
perspective of the later Boasian development of the concept. In fact, though, it constituted
a different principle of ordering that was shaped by a political program that, in identifying
those traits that represented what Georges Didi-Huberman (2002) characterises as a ‘spectral
time’ – a legacy of the past that is disconnected from the present that has superseded it – also
identified those aspects of ‘primitive cultures’ that were to be surgically removed by colonial
governance. Tylor was perfectly clear about this implication of his doctrine of survivals that
was not, he argued, to be understood as a ‘mere abstract truth, barren of all practical impor-
tance’ but, to the contrary, as a means of identifying those ‘streams of folly’ that, persisting
from the past, have to be eliminated in order to integrate ‘the savage’ into the culture of the
higher races (Tylor 1867: 93).
Although Boas cut his anthropological teeth in projects directed by Tylor, the problem
space that he went on to develop was, George Stocking (1968) contends, a quite different one
in which the interpretation of fieldwork evidence made the specific patterns produced by the
intermixing of the traits comprising any specific culture a particular historical problem that
was not susceptible to any general laws of an evolutionary kind. Susan Hegeman develops
this line of argument further seeing the Boasian fieldwork problematic as a key moment in
the development of a new form of anthropological authority based on the anthropologist’s
unique ability to decipher the distinguishing qualities of other cultures. In place of a com-
mitment to the collection of objects that could be put on display for all to see as evidence
of a universal narrative of humanity, the Boasian paradigm substituted the more abstract
object of ‘cultures’. This required special methods of collection alert to the interrelations
of objects, myths, rituals, language, etc., within a specific way of life accessible only to the
trained anthropologist immersed in the culture in question (Hegeman 1999). Each culture,
as Boas put it, ‘can be understood only as an historical growth determined by the social and
geographical environment in which each people is placed and by the way in which it deve­
lops the cultural material that comes into its possession from the outside or through its own
creativeness’ (2010: 4). Ruth Benedict registered the shift that this involved in chastising the

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earlier generation of armchair anthropologists for the undue emphasis they had placed on the
collection of material culture:

Strictly speaking, material culture is not really culture at all. ... Behind every artefact
are the patterns of culture that give form to the idea for the artefact and the techniques
of shaping and using it. ... The use and meaning of any object depends almost wholly
on non-material behaviour patterns, and the objects derive their true significance from
such patterns.
(Benedict 1947: 1)

This form-giving capacity was subject to different formulations at different moments in the
development of the culture concept. Boas was notably reticent on the subject, implicitly
drawing on the Germanic tradition to impute the creativity of a people to their unique ge-
nius, a capacity he sometime interpreted in terms of Herder’s categories, sometimes in terms
of those provided by Humboldt and sometimes in Kantian terms (Bunzl 1996; Stocking
1968). As subsequently developed by his various students, however, the distinctive shape of a
culture was re-interpreted in more explicitly modernist terms (Hegeman 1999) as the result
of a form-giving activity modelled on the work of art that, whether performed by indivi­
dual or collective social agents, broke through inherited patterns of thought and behaviour
to crystallise new social tendencies. This is evident, for example, in Benedict’s concept of
the pattern of culture that, drawing on Wilhelm Worringer’s conception of abstract form
­( Worringer 1997), she interprets as ‘the result of a unique arrangement and interrelation
of the parts that has brought about a new entity,’ a process she compares to that ‘by which
a style in art comes into being and persists’ (Benedict 2005: 47). Melville Herskovits, like
Benedict one of Boas’s students, took the analogy further arguing that it ‘it is necessary to
know the “style” of a culture—which is merely another way of saying that we must know
its ­patterning—in precisely the same way that the student of art must know the styles that
characterise the various periods of art-history in order to cope with the individual variations
that are exemplified in the works of artists of a given epoch’ (Herskovits 1938: 22).
It was, then, this conception of a configurational order arising out of the form-giving
principles that expressed the inner necessities of group life – of culture as ‘an integrated spir-
itual totality which somehow conditioned the form of its elements’ (Stocking 1968: 21) – that
differentiated the Boasian culture concept from Malinowski’s functional conception of the
social whole as an amalgamation of the pragmatic functions performed by different traits.
The anthropologist’s attention was redirected accordingly: ‘The anthropologist,’ as ­Margaret
Mead put it, ‘is trained to see form where other people see concrete details’ (1942: 4–5).
At the same time that it was advanced as a general theory of culture, however, the culture
concept also distinguished between cultures – and it did so along lines derived from the
principles of aesthetic modernism. This was clear in Boas’s Primitive Art, his most extended
treatment of the subject in which he explicitly disputed the various grounds on which earlier
generations of anthropologists had either denied colonised peoples any capacity for aesthetic
creativity or acknowledged it only in a diminished form. The conception of a universally
valid sequence for the development of art forms; the contention that the mental capacities of
‘primitives’ are inferior to those of ‘civilised’ peoples; the denial of any capacity for aesthetic
innovation to ‘primitive people’ as a consequence of the force of habit in inhibiting the de-
velopment of originality: all of these are given short shrift. Like their modern counterparts,
Boas argues that primitives differed from one another in the degree to which their aesthetic
capacities are developed: ‘intense among a few, slight among the mass’ (Boas 2010: 356).

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There are, however, still differences between moderns and primitives – relative rather than
absolute, and accounted for in sociological rather than biological terms – but differences
nonetheless:

What distinguishes modern aesthetic feeling from that of primitive people is the man-
ifold character of its manifestations. We are not so much bound by a fixed style. The
complexity of our social structure and our more varied interests allow us to see beauties
that are closed to the senses of people living in a narrower culture. It is the quality of
their experience, not a difference in mental make-up that determines the difference
between modern and primitive art production and art appreciation.
(Boas 2010: 356)

It was, however, a hallmark of the Boasian tradition that the closure of primitive cultures
was always presented in relative rather than absolute terms. Its unity, accordingly, was
always conceived as incomplete and provisional. If the unity of a culture is derived from
the aesthetic form-like properties that give a distinctive shape to the elements comprising
a way of life, that unity, Benedict argued, is always a fractured one. Why? Because most of
the traits that comprise the building blocks of a culture come from sources that ‘are diverse
and unlike’ (Benedict 1947: 1), thus constituting contradictory elements that either cancel
each other out or are brought together in a new form of synthesis. It is in the processes
through which such new syntheses are produced that the aesthetic and the spatial aspects
of the culture concept – most fully expressed in the concept of culture area – are brought
together. For the Boasians, culture was always both territorially grounded and subject to
disruption from the trans-­territorial flows of cultural traits carried by the histories of peo-
ples in movement. It is to these matters that I now turn as a prelude to considering how
the aesthetic and spatial registers of the culture concept combined in shaping its qualities
as a policy actor.

Mutable spatialisations of cultures in movement

Let me go back to Williams. In opening his essay ‘Culture is ordinary’, Williams first looks
to connections between place and way of life to convey a sense of culture’s ordinariness. ‘To
grow up in that country,’ he says, ‘was to see the shape of a culture, and its modes of change’
(1989: 4). The country in question – the Border Country between England and Wales – is
richly evoked by recounting a bus journey from Hereford to the Black Mountains. Orchards,
meadows, hillside bracken, early iron works, Norman castles, steel mills, pitheads, the rail-
way, scattered farms, town terraces – this is the regional scene that Williams starts with be-
fore populating it by describing his own working-class affiliations to it through his father and
grandfather. But it is the sense of a wider spatially defined culture that comes first, and class
second. The complex interplay between these regional and class co-ordinates also spills over
into questions of Englishness as, with T.S. Eliot in his sights, he insists that working-class
culture – and not the petty niceties of the English ruling class – gives English culture, un-
derstood as a way of life, its distinctive coherence. Welsh culture too, of course; however, in
this essay, it is Englishness that most concerns Williams in pinning his colours to the princi-
ples of ‘a distinct working-class way of life … with its emphases of neighbourhood, mutual
obligation, and common betterment as … the best basis for any future English society’ (8).
Ways of life are thus defined spatially as well socially; they are regionally embedded, and the
relations between them are nationally defining.

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In highlighting the relations between place and way of life, Williams followed in the
footsteps of T.S. Eliot who included among the three main conditions for culture ‘the ne-
cessity that a culture should be analysable, geographically, into local cultures’ (Eliot 1962,
Kindle loc. 70). He acknowledges his debt to the American school of anthropology in this
regard: ‘By “culture”, then, I mean first of all what the anthropologists mean: the way of
life of a particular people living together in one place’ (loc 1687; see further Manganaro
2002). Although these connections between culture and place were, in the Boasian tradi-
tion, fluid and mutable, they have often been read as binding different ways of life, people
and territories into essentialist relations to one another. There are several reasons for this.
Some have to do with the interpretation of the culture concept in the context of American
assimilationist policies in the late 1920s and 1930s in which the conception of America as a
melting pot defined an emerging American national self-consciousness that was differenti-
ated from European nationalisms (Gilkeson 2010; Mandler 2013) – and I shall have more to
say on this shortly. Others derive from the territorialisation of the culture concept during
the 1939–1945 war and the post-war period when it was revised to refer to a field of na-
tional differences that were to be made commensurable with one another through the new
­geopolitical-diplomatic order of the United Nations (Price 2008).
Some of Boas’s early work also echoed Herder’s conception of culture as the expression
of a geographically delimited people. Later, however, he rejected any sense that regional
environments might be regarded as having a determining influence on cultures. ‘It is suf-
ficient,’ he wrote in 1932, ‘to see the fundamental differences of culture that thrive one
after the other in the same environment, to make us understand the limitations of environ-
mental influence’, adding, as a pointed contrast, that the ‘aborigines of Australia live in the
same environment in which the White invaders live’ (Boas 1932: 256). The key questions
here bear on Boasian conceptions of the relations between processes of cultural diffusion
and the organisation of cultural areas. These questions have been revisited in a substantial
body of recent work that argues that the Boasian construction of these relations anticipates
contemporary accounts of the relations between trans-border cultural flows and migration
in breaking with the modern order of nation states. It was, Ira Bashkow argues, ‘axiom-
atic to the Boasians that cultural boundaries were porous and permeable’, citing Robert
­L owie’s contention that any given culture is ‘a “planless hodgepodge,” a “thing of shreds
and patches”’ as economically summarising the view that any particular culture ‘develops
not according to a fixed law or design but out of a vast set of contingent external influ-
ences’ (Bashkow 2004: 445). These are brought into historically contingent, impermanent
and unstable fusions with one another in particularly territorially marked culture areas,
only to be later disaggregated in the context of different relations of cross-cultural contact
and population migrations. Brad Evans similarly interprets Boas’s significance as consist-
ing not in his pluralisation of the culture concept – something that Herder had already
done – but in his conception of the ‘detachability’ of the texts and objects that comprise
the elements of a culture from any organic association with any particular spatial or histor-
ical culture so that they might serve as ‘vehicles for the articulation and disarticulation of
meaning across discontinuous geographies and temporalities’ (Evans 2005: 15). Recounting
Boas’s role in the reconceptualisation of folklore studies under the influence of turn-of-­the-
century deve­lopments in philology, Evans argues that these undermined earlier romantic
and nationalist conceptions of an inherent connection between a particular people and a
particular culture by reconceptualising cultures as being, like languages, ‘public objects’
formed by processes of historical interaction and migration beyond the control of individual
speakers or speech communities.

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The pattern of a culture, then, is not expressive of an essential set of relations of a people,
place and way life but is a conjunctural and pliable articulation of those relations that derives
its distinctive qualities from the creative, form-giving capacity of the people concerned. As
cultural traits are diffused across cultural areas, their meaning is transformed: ‘The nature
of the trait,’ as Benedict put it, ‘will be quite different in the different areas according to the
elements with which it has been combined’ (2005: 37). In turning now to consider how these
spatial and aesthetic aspects of the culture concept informed the governmental rationalities
that characterised the development of the relations between earlier ‘settlers’ and more re-
cent immigrants and between both of these and Native Americans and African Americans,
I engage with recent re-evaluations of the relations between the culture concept and racial
categories.

The culture concept, race and assimilation

While the reappraisals of the Boasian tradition that I have drawn on above accentuate those
aspects of the culture concept that resonate with contemporary accounts of processes of
cultural hybridisation, they are also careful to stress the differences. Moreover, many of the
other qualities conventionally attributed to the culture concept – its rebuttal of hierarchical
orderings of the relations between different cultures and its critique of racial categories – do
not withstand scrutiny. Although Boas contested the conception of ‘primitive cultures’ as
having had no history (‘even a primitive people has a long history behind it’ [1909: 68]) the
distinction between primitive and civilized peoples was never entirely jettisoned. As we have
seen, it informed Boas’s account of the difference between ‘modern aesthetic feeling’ (2010:
356) and that of the primitive. Perhaps more crucially, however, this relative generosity to-
ward the primitive was not matched by a corresponding assessment of the cultural creativity
of contemporary African or Native Americans. These exclusions were constitutive of the
culture concept during this period. When Boas wrote about the ‘creative genius’ of Africans,
it was always only with reference to their traditional culture in Africa. He took no account
of the consequences of the Middle Passage or the contemporary cultural creativity of African
Americans, even though he produced his most important work at the University of Colum-
bia at the time of the Harlem Renaissance (Lamothe 2008; Zumwait 2008). When discussing
African Americans his attention focuses on ‘the backwardness, inertia, and lack of initiative
of the great masses in the South’, contrasting this with the ‘active life that the same people led
before the baneful influence of the whites made itself ’ as the slave trade separated the Negro
from ‘the culture that he has developed in his natural surroundings’.1 While, courtesy of the
anthropological fieldworker, the cultures of Native Americans provided a defamiliarising
device that highlighted the distinctive qualities of American culture (Hegeman 1999), there
was never any sense – in Boas, in Benedict or in Mead – that they might be counted a part of
that culture. As Steven Conn (2004) has shown, Boasian anthropology played a key role in
detaching Native Americans from the realms of American history and painting and assigning
them to a timeless anthropological present that was in America, but not of it.
This bears on the third limitation of the culture concept: its relations to a set of biological
race categories that excluded African Americans and Native Americans from the machineries
of assimilation that the concept established. This is not to discount the significance of Boas’s
persistent probing of racial accounts of human difference. ‘It has not been possible,’ he wrote
in 1920, ‘to discover in the races of man any kind of fundamental biological differences that
would outweigh the influence of culture’ (Boas 1920: 35). This was, however, never a mat-
ter that he entirely put to rest. Throughout his career, and paralleling his ‘fieldwork’ among

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the Kwakiutal, the public school provided Boas with another context for collecting – not,
though, stories, myths or languages, but anthropometric data relating to changes in the body
types of second, relative to first, generation immigrants (Baker 2010: 137–146). Boas con-
ceived this work as a critical engagement with the problem space of anthropometry: ‘we have
to consider the investigation of the instability of the body under varying environmental con-
ditions as one of the most fundamental subjects to be considered in an anthropometric study
of our population’ (Boas 1922: 59). However, while demonstrating the plasticity of bodily
types in ways that suggested that immigrants might be just as malleable in their physiogno-
mies as in their ways of life, Boas – and his followers – retained a distinction among ‘Cauca-
soid’, ‘Mongoloid’ and ‘Negroid’ as biologically differentiated stocks of humanity. Although
not organising the relations between them in hierarchical terms, these categorisations led
Boas to place the Negro in a different position from the immigrant with regard to processes
of assimilation. He interpreted this as not just a cultural process but as a physio-anatomical
one that would likely depend on the disappearance of the Negro as a distinct physical type
through miscegenation. Arguing that this would lead to a progressive whitening of the black
population, he concluded that the continued persistence of ‘the pure negro type is practically
impossible’ (Boas 1909: 330).
The situation with regard to Native Americans was different but scarcely more auspi-
cious. On the one hand, in racial terms, they hardly mattered. The degree of intermarriage
between Indians and settlers, Boas argued, had not been sufficient in ‘any populous part of
the United States to be considered as an important element in our population’ (1909: 319).
Nicely distanced from the urban centre of metropolitan America, Native Americans were
not a part of the mix from which the future of America’s population stock or its culture
was to be forged. The ‘skeleton in the closet’ of Boasian anthropology, William Willis has
argued, consists in the fact that, when applied across the colour line separating Caucasian
from other populations, its lessons regarding the plasticity and conjunctural mutability of in-
herited cultures was translated into the one-way enculturation of coloured people into white
culture. ‘The transmission of culture from coloured peoples to white people was largely
ignored,’ he argued, ‘especially when studying North American Indians’ (1999: 139). Either
that or, in Ruth Benedict’s conception, the cultures of the Indian and of white Americans
had – after an initial period of interaction – come to face each other as two impermeable
wholes, each unable to find any space for the values of the other within its own. ‘The In-
dians of the United States,’ as she put it, ‘have most of them become simply men without a
cultural country. They are unable to locate anything in the white man’s way of life which is
sufficiently congenial to their old culture’ (1974: 1) and were thus located outside the melting
pot of an emerging American culture.
My account here draws on the work of Mark Anderson (2013), Kamala Visweswaran
(2010) and, more particularly, Matthew Jacobson (1998) who interpret the significance of
the culture concept in terms of the role it played, alongside changing conceptions of white-
ness, in adjudicating capacities for citizenship against the backdrop of the longer history of
American republicanism. Jacobson focuses particularly on the 1924 Johnson-Reed Act as
prompting a pivotal revision of the category of whiteness. Whereas whiteness and citizenship
were linked in a 1790 Act of Congress according to a ‘nativist’ concept limiting citizenship
to free white persons with rights of residence, the period from 1840 to 1924 witnessed a stra-
tegic redefinition of whiteness designed to address the dilemmas of American white nativism
faced with new waves of immigration from diverse sources. This produced new racialised
divisions within the earlier undifferentiated category of whiteness, disbarring some ‘white’
groups from the liberal criteria defining fitness for self-government by producing new shades

615
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of darkness that differentiated groups like the Poles and the Irish from Anglo-Saxons, the
privileged representatives of white nativism. The 1924 Act constituted a new articulation
of this tendency in differentiating desirable European migrants (defined as ‘Nordic’, a wider
category than Anglo-Saxon in that it also included German and Scandinavian migrants)
from ‘Alpines’ and ‘Mediterraneans’ (who had been the main sources of new immigrants
since the 1880s, and whose numbers were curtailed by this measure). The logic governing
the revision of the category of whiteness after 1924, when the tensions around immigra-
tion from southern Europe lessened somewhat as a consequence of the reduction in their
numbers, was, Jacobson, argues, ‘one in which the civic story of assimilation (the process by
which the Irish, Russian Jews, Poles, and Greeks became Americans) is inseparable from the
cultural story of racial alchemy (the process by which Celts, Hebrews, Slavs, and Mediterra-
neans became Caucasians’ (1998: 8).
This conception of a project of assimilation organised around a newly homogenised
category of the Caucasian defined against the categories of the Mongolian and the Negro
provided the political rationality informing the governmental mobilisation of the culture
concept. I have argued elsewhere the need to attend to the relations between the processes
of ‘making culture’ and ‘changing society’, arguing that the cultural disciplines have played
a key role in organising distinctive ‘working surfaces on the social’ through which gov-
ernmental practices are brought to bear on the conduct of conduct (Bennett 2013). The
trajectory of the Boasian culture concept is a case in point. From the late 1920s through
the 1930s and into the 1940s, the relations between the aesthetic conception of the pattern
of culture, its spatial coordinates, and its malleability came to inform a program in which
cultural planners, guided by anthropologists, were to regulate the conditions in which
American society would creatively transform itself by absorbing immigrant cultures in an
assimilationist logic that focused exclusively on the relations between different periods of
European migration. The culture concept was, Anderson argues, integral to ‘the larger
processes whereby stigmatized European immigrant populations were “whitened” and ren-
dered assimilable into the “American” mainstream’ (Anderson 2013: 5). The key reference
point for this governmental rationality was that of the ‘third generation’. In applying the
culture concept to ask what were the uniquely defining characteristics of the American
character, Mead argued that Americans establish their ties with one another by finding
common points on the road that they are all expected to travel ‘after their forebears came
from Europe one or two or three generations ago’ (Mead 1942: 28). It is a road defined by
the forging of new ties and by a dialectic of ‘remembrance and purposeful forgetting of
­European ancestry’ and an initial clinging to European ways of life in Little Italies followed
by a scattering ‘to the suburbs and the small towns, to an “American” way of life’ (Mead
1942: 29). It was in this sense, she argued, that ‘however many generations we may actually
boast of in this country, however real our lack of ties in the old world may be, we are all
third generation’ (31). Negroes, Native Americans and, in some formulations, Jews were
special cases to be dealt with differently.
Anthropology, Willis argued, was the discipline that, in one way or another, made
non-white people into different human beings from white people. Whereas this had ear-
lier been done by explicit racist ideologies, the Boasians achieved the same end through
the concepts of culture and cultural relativism – sleights of hand, he suggests, which
avoided black outrage at white dominance while retaining the status of non-whites as
objects to be manipulated in a ‘laboratory’ setting, be it that of the field, the Indian re-
serve, or the public school. These were, however, more than just sleights of hand. They
constituted, albeit partially and problematically, a displacement of race but also, as John

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Dewey (1939) recognised, a displacement of the primacy hitherto accorded individuals in

liberal forms of rule as cultures, and the relations between them, came to be conceived
as providing the working surfaces on the social through which the relations between the
populations constituting a multicultural polity were to be managed. This was, however,
a polity with its own constitutive exclusions.

Conclusion
I want, in concluding, to look more closely at the position from which these exclusions
were organised, and at the distinctive form of aesthetic ordering they embodied. It will
be instructive to go back to Tylor whose ordering, constructed from the vantage point of
a generalised European cultural superiority, effected an equally generalised devaluation of
the primitive as representing a generalised level of backwardness that was abstracted from
any particular national or colonial history: the ordering of cultures was always that of
their relative placement on a universal sequence of development. In being cut to the cloth
of American assimilationism, the forms of governmental action effected by the culture
concept were significantly transformed albeit in ways that also differed from the abstracted
forms of relativism and universalism that were attributed to the concept in the founding
texts of UNESCO’s post-war cultural programmes. For the ordering principles of the ‘third
generation’ were those of a diversity of traits, brought together from diverse sources, that
were to be woven into a distinctively American ‘cultural pattern’ whose political logic arose
from a fusion of white nativist and European perspectives into which, once they had shed
their differentiating racial characteristic, African Americans and Native Americans would
eventually be melded. Benedict articulated this political logic clearly when, in asking why
public schools, in arranging assembly programmes ‘where the Negro children sing their
spirituals and the Balkan children dress in their native costumes and wonder why they don’t
like it,’ she answers:

In Eastern Europe such programs would be realistic-each group is proud of its tra-
ditional customs and they have perpetuated them generation after generation. In
­A merica each generation wants to be more and more American. It is the barriers we
native born set up against their learning how which hinders them. They have the will
to be ­A mericans until we prevent it. Each new generation is ashamed of its hang-overs.
Those who are working to promote race relations should take advantage of this if they
would, and watch for occasions where the aliens could work shoulder to shoulders with
the native born of the ward or the village or the city for better city administration,
better schools, better housing-occasions when they would be working as citizens of
America and not as a group singled out and labelled for their differences from other
citizens.
(Benedict 1941: 4)

It is significant in this regard that the most influential interpreters of the culture concept –
Boas and his students – shared two characteristics. First, they were either white nativists –
like Benedict and Mead – or they were first- or second-generation European migrants, like
Boas himself, Sapir and Kroeber. Second, they were all, in their family backgrounds, school-
ing and early intellectual careers, steeped in European aesthetic traditions – the influence
of Kantian conceptions of Bildung on Boas is well-covered territory (Cole 1999) while
both Benedict and Mead had backgrounds in literary education prior to their acquaintance

617
Tony Bennett

with anthropology, particularly Benedict during her years at Vassar College (Banner 2004).
It  is, however, notable that none of the other participants in the Boasian fieldwork tra-
dition played any significant role in the development of the culture concept. It was not
something that George Hunt, Boas’s Native American ‘informant’ at Fort Ruppert, con-
tributed to (Briggs and Bauman 1999). Nor was it an aspect of Boas’s work that signi­
ficantly engaged Zora Neale Hurston. An African American woman who had studied with
Boas, Hurston’s Mules and Men (1986) brought Boasian methods to bear on the collection
of African-­A merican folk tales in a significant departure from the black folklore collecting
practices that had earlier been developed in association with the ‘uplift’ programmes of
the ­Hampton Folklore Society. However, her affiliations were much more strongly with
the Harlem R ­ enaissance  – which also recruited Melville Herskovits’s interests ( Jackson,
1986)  – rather than with the practical applications of anthropology developed by Boas’s
white ­A merican and European students.
If the culture concept did not cross the line separating white nativists and European immi-
grants from Native Americans, nor did it travel across the colour line. Rather, it was rebutted
in favour of a politically inflected early nineteenth-century ‘raciocultural’ p­ aradigm –
most influentially articulated by Hippolyte Taine (Evans 2005) – in which race is interpreted
not according to the biological template derived from later evolutionary paradigms but as
‘accumulated racial differences carried somehow in the blood’ (Visweswaran 2010: 56). It
was on the basis of such conceptions, Visweswaran argues, that W.E.B Dubois maintained
his distance from the culture concept. Yet Dubois, like Boas, was profoundly influenced
by the post-Kantian history of Bildung, albeit interpreting it differently in his concern to
harness that ‘striving in the souls of black folk’ to be co-workers in the ‘kingdom of culture’
(DuBois 1994: 3, 7) to a theologically inflected political program in which ­A frican Ameri-
cans would take the lead in mobilising the capacity of culture to overcome the schisms of a
divided humanity.
There is not space to pursue this line of argument further here. My purpose in ending on
this note, however, is to underscore the continuing, unresolved tension between the roles
performed by the categories of culture and race in the field of differences.

Acknowledgements
This chapter draws on research conducted as a part of the project Museum, Field, Metropo-
lis, Colony: Practices of Social Governance (DP110103776) funded by the Australian Research
Council (ARC). I gratefully acknowledge the ARC’s support, as I do that of my partners
in this project: Fiona Cameron, Nélia Dias, Ben Dibley, Rodney Harrison, Ira Jacknis and
Conal McCarthy. I am especially grateful to Ira Jacknis for what I have learned about the
history of American anthropology from both his publications and my conversations with
him during the course of this project. The chapter draws on other publications from this
project, particularly Bennett (2014, 2015), the formulations informing Bennett et al. (2016)
and chapter 10 of Bennett (2017). I am also grateful to Meaghan Morris for alerting me to
the significance of Zora Neale Hurston’s work.

Note
1 Taken from an undated paper in the Boas Papers held by the American Philosophical Society in
Philadelphia.

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 Index

1974 US Trade Expansion Act 107 arts transition from cultural to creative
1996 White Paper on Arts, Culture and industries 341–4
Heritage 578 assimilation in Iran 508
2013 Revised White Paper 579 audiences; arts 300–5; economic analysis 36–7;
United Nations art collection 223–5
academia and arts management relationship Australian actors’ guild protest 273–5
65–70 authority of policies 3
academic disciplines 19; cultural policy-driven
journals 26–7; knowledge and sociology The Backstage Centre 542
development 53–5 Baumol, Wiiliam 34
access points to policymakers and civil servants Beauregard, Devin xiii
78–80 Bennett, Tony xiii
access to culture 55–9; disabled people 176–7 Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary
Access to Knowledge movement 130–1 and Artistic Works 109
ACNI (Arts Council of Northern beyond and between nation-states 133–43
Ireland) 203 Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) governments 486
ACTA (Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Bilbao Effect 346
Agreement) 98 BJP (Bharatiya Janata Party) governments 486
aesthetic registers of culture 21 black humour 175
African Union’s Charter for African Cultural Blair, Tony; and the Department of Culture,
Renaissance 579 Media and Sport (DCMS) 342–3
alternative and mainstream cultural production BoA K-pop female idol 525
crossover see Fringe to Famous Boas, Franz 607
alternative learning academies in South Africa Bourdieu, Pierre 55
586–7 Bowen, William 34
Amasokolari 588 Braga incident 240–1
ambiguity of governance 149 BrandHK (Brand Hong Kong) 253–4
ancientisation in Iran 506
anthropology; aesthetics blend 2; as registers of Callus, Anne-Marie xiii
culture 21 Camilleri-Zahra, Amy xx
Antichamber video game 283 Campbell, Peter xiii
anticipating problems with cultural governance Cape Town; creative city identity 583–4;
161–2 socially engaged public art 585–90
Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement Catalan film subtitles 181–2
(ACTA) 98 CCI (Centre of Excellence for Creative
AOC (appellation d’origine contrôlée) 125 Industries and Innovation) 286
archaism in Iran 506 CDCE (Convention on the Protection and
arm’s length principle of arts management the Promotion of Diversity of Cultural
74–5 Expressions); diversity of cultural
Arts Council of Northern Ireland (ACNI) 203 expressions 421
arts’ effects on health 309–17 Central Tokyo North 567–71
arts management relationship 64–70 chaebols 111
arts managers and educators’ data sets 71–2 changes in cultural enjoyment 385–6

621
Index

cheese and wine geographic designations 125 creative class 347–8, 359
China; economic rise 233–5; return creative economies 422–3; as a development
to Confucius 235–7; smart power engine 440–5; questioning policies 445–6
strategy 237–41 creative industries 33; as development engine
Choi, Eun-Kyoung xiii 440–5; discourse 5–6, 10–11
CODECU (Commission for Cultural creative labour see cultural work
Development) 430; public debate 435–8; Creative Nation framework in Australia 343
transversal and participatory policies 438–40 creativity 33
Colombian ethnolinguistic diversity 185–7 creativity-led urban renewal 346–9
commerce; culture interconnection 283–94; critical sociology 59
versus cultural rules and regulations 95–8 crossover between alternative and mainstream
Commission for Cultural Development see cultural productions see Fringe to Famous
CODECU Crow, Liz 174
Committee of the Regions 406 CRPD (Convention on the Rights of Persons
communication in developing worlds 93 with Disabilities) 168
Community of Portuguese Language Countries CSICH (Convention for the Safeguarding
(CPLP) 136–44 of the Intangible Cultural Heritage) 424–5
community radio 474–7 cultural activities stimulation from creative
comparative research on political science in industries 540–2
cultural policy research 28 cultural capital 327–31
competitive firms of cultural ecosystem cultural citizenship in NI 198–200
pyramid 442 cultural diplomacy 23
Comunian, Roberta xiv cultural economics 34–8
Confucius (kong fuzi) 235 cultural ecosystem pyramid 441–2
Confucius Institute 233–7 cultural engineering 516–17
Conor, Bridget xiv cultural governance 148–55; anticipating
consolidating corporate interests 106–10 problems with 161–2; political logics 158–61
contract enforcement 601–2 cultural identities 90–1
contradictions of the welfare state 152 cultural imperialism 103–5
Convention for the Safeguarding of the cultural industries 421–2
Intangible Cultural Heritage (CSICH) 424–5 cultural information systems 443–4
Convention on the Protection and Promotion of cultural policies; definition of 34, 51
Diversity of Cultural Expressions see CDCE cultural products 89–94
Convention on the Protection and Promotion of the cultural unity 156–7
Diversity of Cultural Expression 108 cultural voice in developing worlds 95
Convention on the Rights of Persons with cultural work 266–75
Disabilities (CRPD) 168 culture 2–4; accessing 55–9, 176–7; definition of
Cool Britannia 562 51–2; role in development 94–5
Cool Japan 562–6 culture concept 607–16
cooperation of member states 137–8 culture-led development 247, 259–60
coordination and communication measures of Cunningham, Stuart 5
EU cultural programmes 402 cycles of policies 27
Copyright Term Extension Act 110
Copyright Treaty 109 Dâmaso, Mafalda xiv
copyrights 109–10, 124 DCAL (Department of Culture, Arts and
corporate governance 153–4 Leisure) 202–3
corporate interest consolidation 106–10 defining the object of study 24–6
cost and risk of governance 153 demand-side policies 303
Council for the Promotion of Cultural demographics of NI 196–7
Diplomacy 561 Department of Culture, Arts and Leisure
Council of the European Union 405 (DCAL) 202–3
Cox, Tamsin xiv Department of Culture, Media and Sport
CPLP (Community of Portuguese Language (DCMS) 342–3
Countries) 136–44 Department of Health (DH) 311
crafts sector 345, 493 DG-EAC (Directorate-General for Education
creative autonomy 293–4 and Culture) 403
creative cities 248–50, 256–9 DH (Department of Health) 311

622
 Index

different forms of knowledge 66–8 Fast Forward 290

digital media, and relationship between fringe Federation of Korean Industry 115
and famous 295 Fenech, Paul 291–2
digital trade 98 FICCI (Federation of Indian Chambers of
Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA) Commerce and Industry) 496
110, 130 Figueira, Carla xiv
DiMaggio, Paul 25 The Film Industry Promotion Project 456–7
diplomacy; cultural 23; links to foreign policy The Flagship Film Industry Development Project 457
134–6 Florida, Richard and the creative class 347–8
Directorate-General for Education and Culture foreign policy; diplomacy links 134–6
(DG-EAC) 403 formulation of policies 27
disability; arts culture 172–6; definition of 167 framing arts management practices 72–4
disabled people; access to culture 176–7; France’s intellectual property geographic
representations of 167–72 designations 125
Disabled People’s Against Cuts 174 Free Culture movement 127–8
‘Distinction’ 327 free trade agreements 107–8; corporate interest
DMCA (Digital Millennium Copyright Act) consolidation 106–10; cultural imperialism
110, 130 103–5; national reconstruction 111–15
documentary perspective of cultural information Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA) 129
system 437 free trade-focused development 419–20
dominance of culture 4 frequency of national identity and cultural
Durrer, Victoria xiv identity Google n-grams illustration 91
Fringe to Famous 282–5; creative autonomy
EACS (European Association for Chinese 293–4; ethnic diversity 291–2; innovation
Studies) 240–1 286–91
East Asian regionalism 561–2 FTAA (Free Trade Area of the Americas) 129
economic outcomes of urban regeneration 538
Edmond, Maura xiv gap between rule and its application 151
Education, Youth, Culture, and Sport Council Garcia, Beatriz xiv
(EYCS) 405 GATS (General Agreement on Trade in
electronic communication 128–30 Services) 96, 107
electronic global cultural policies 128–30 GATT (General Agreement on Tariffs and
embodied cultural capital 328 Trade) 4, 106–7
emerging cultural capital 334–6 gender equality in cultural work 271–3
enabling capitalist innovation with creative gender exclusions 349–50
industries 350 geographic clustering in creative industries 348
engineering in Iran 516–7 geographical indicators of intellectual property
entrepreneurial arts 345, 351 44–5, 125
EP (European Parliament) 404 Gibson, Mark xv
epigenetics 317 Girls’ Generation (SNSD) 521, 525–6
ethnic diversity and alternative cultural global issues 10–12
production crossover into mainstream 291–2 Global South 4
ethnolinguistic diversity 185–7 global electronic policies 128–30
EU (European Union) 397–401, 408 global stakeholder interests in
European Association for Chinese Studies mega-events 370–1
(EACS) 240–1 Goldthorpe, John 58
European Commission 403–4 good relations in NI 202
European Parliament (EP) 404 Gordon-Nesbitt, Rebecca xv
European political parties, inner-life of 23 Greater London Council’s creativity driving
evaluation of policies 27 urban renewal model 342
existing audience research 300–2 Group of 77 4
expanding audiences 303–5 Guerrilla television 291–2
EYCS (Education, Youth, Culture, and Sport Guggenheim model 346
Council) 405 guilds 602

Facebook’s Internet.org 390 Hallyu 520

Fancy Boy 293–4 Hanquinet, Laurie xv

623
Index

Harare Academy of Inspiration 586–7 IRIB (Islamic Republic of Iran

health; arts’ effects on 309–17 Broadcasting) 509
heritage 2, 424–5 Irish Language Act 201
Hernández Acosta, Javier J. xv Irish Language Broadcast Fund 205
hierarchy of cultures 608 Isar, Yudhishthir Raj xv
high culture status 329–30 Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB)
high-impact firms of cultural ecosystem 509
pyramid 442 Islamic Revolution of 1979 505, 508–11
Hindu nationalism 486 issue-emergence of policies 27
hipster economy 351
Ho, Louis xv Japan; as cultural powerhouse 566–7;
Homan, Shane xv international cooperation initiative 561;
Hong Kong; cultural and creative industries nation branding 558–9, 562–6
355–63; rebranding 250–4, 259–60 Je-gyu, Kang 114
JEL ( Journal of Economic Literature) 34
ICHR (Indian Council of Historical Research) Judeo-Christian influences on cultural
498 constructions of disabilities 168
ICP (Institute of Puerto Rican Culture) 434
image-making in mega-events 369–70 Kant, Immanuel 2
IMF (International Monetary Fund) 106 Karvelyte, Kristina xvi
impairment; definition of 167 Kim, Gooyong xvi
implementing policies 27 knowledge-based economy 37–8
implications of creative cities 259–60 KOCCA (Korea Creative Content Agency) 528
incentives-to-innovate intellectual property 40 KOFICE (Korea Foundation for International
independents 159 Culture Exchange) 529
India 486–99 kong fuzi (Confucius) 235
Indian Council of Historical Research Korea; national reconstruction to cultural
(ICHR) 498 industrialisation 111–15
inequalities; cultural capital 327–31; Korean Copyright Act of 1957 112
new media access 383; policies 10 Korea-US Film Agreements 112
influencing policymaking 68–70 KORUS (Korea-US free trade agreement)
initial motivations 155 102–3, 115–18
innovation 38–40, 286–7, 350 K-pop female idols 523–32
input firms of cultural ecosystem pyramid 441 KTO (Korea Tourism Organization) 526
Institute of Puerto Rican Culture (ICP) 434
institutional completeness of linguistic languages 154, 182–4
normalisation 184 Latin America Internet access government
institutionalised cultural capital 328 agreements for people without connections
intellectual property 39–45, 122–3; resistance conflict 390
130–1; rise of creative industries 344 LDAF (London Disability Arts Forum) 173
interdisciplinary academic journals 26–7 League of Nations 560
international expositions 558–9 Leavisite literary criticism 284
International Monetary Fund (IMF) 106 Lin, Yu-Peng xvi
international trade regulation 89–99 linguistic-cultural-political groups 133–45
Internet access 383–90 linguistic identities 181–90
Internet of Things (IoT) 387 link between culture and policies 329
Internet.org 390 Liu, Tony Tai-Ting xvi
interpretative perspective of cultural lobby groups of EU 406
information system 437 local stakeholder interests in mega–events 370–1
interweaving cultural and economic values London Disability Arts Forum (LDAF) 173
284–5 The Love of Art 55
intrinsic rights of intellectual property 40 Luckman, Susan xvi
IoT (Internet of Things) 387 lusofonia 134–45
Iran 504–8; cultural policy orientation changes
in post-revolution era 511–15; post-revolution MacBride Commission report 94
era cultural developments 510–11 managing culture 3
Iranian women; status of 514–5 Mandela, Nelson 578

624
 Index

Manning, Lynn 175 NI (Northern Ireland) 195–207

Mass Communication and American Empire 104 NI Screen 205
mass communication and political science Nigerian Copyright Commission (NCC) 599
research 23–4 Nigerian Film Corporation (NFC) 598–9
Mattocks, Kate xvi Nollywood 597–605
MCST (Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Non-Aligned Movement 4
Tourism) 528 non-disabled artists in disability art 176
MDDA (Media Development and Diversity nonprofit arts organizations 300–3
Agency) 188–9 Northern Ireland (NI) 195–207
MEAA (Media Entertainment and Arts North-South flows and power investigation 4
Alliance) 273–5 Novak-Leonard, Jennifer L. xvii
measuring cultural/creative city potential NWICO (New World Information and
249–50 Communication Order) 4, 93–5
media; community radio 474–7; diversity and NZAE (New Zealand Actors Equity) 273–5
ownership issue 343–4
mega-events 11, 365–71 object of study; defining 24–6
Meisel, John 24–5 objectified cultural capital 328
Melbourne as a music city 468–79 O’Brien, Dave xvii
Miller, Jade L. xvi O’Hanlon, Seamus xvii
Miller, Toby xvii Olympic Games 371–9
Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism omnivorousness of cultural capital 331–4
(MCST) 528 Orangeism 200
minority languages 181–90
Miracle on the Han River 520 Paquette, Jonathan xvii
mobile Internet uses in developing countries 383 Paris Convention for the Protection of
Moore, Tony xvii Intellectual Property 109
mortality; arts effects on 312 parochial cultures 21
Motion Picture Promotion Law 114 participant cultures 21–2
MPAA (Motion Picture Association participation in culture 57–8
of America) 104 patents 124
multilateral cultural cooperation patronage to markets movement 91–2
strategies 139–41 Performances and Phonograms Treaty 109
multi-level governance in EU 406–7 physical regeneration 543–8
multilingualism; promoting 187–9 place-branding 583–4
multiple voices and viewpoints 66 policy-oriented sociology 59
Murdock, Graham xvii political actors’ authority 160
music cities 468–79 political career of the culture concept 607
political culture 21–2
National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) 300 political displacement 151
National Film and Video Censors Board political influence on creative cities 259
(NFVCB) 600 political parties; inner-life of European 23
national identities 4, 52, 90–1 political regimes; study of 23
nation-states 13–14 political science research 21–30
NCC (Nigerian Copyright Commission) 599 political system influences on cultural policy 505
NEA (National Endowment for the Arts) 300 post-apartheid cultural policies 578–80
negotiation process for policy exchange 159 post-colonial cultural politics 94–5
neoclassical economics 37 post-revolution era Iran 509
neoliberal social policy 521 post-World War I Japan 560
neoliberalism policies 148–60, 449–50 post-World War II Japan 560–2
nested scripts 160 potential audience research 302–3
new media 383–91 power 150–1; assumptions 70
New World Information and Communication practical perspective of cultural information
Order (NWICO) 4, 93–5 system 437
New Zealand Actors Equity protest 273–5 practice and policy alignment 76
NFC (Nigerian Film Corporation) 598–9 practice driving policy 76–8
NFVCB (National Film and Video Censors practices 9–10
Board) 600 private sector corporate reform 153–4

625
Index

privatisation of culture 369 Sitas, Rike xviii

programmes of EU 402–3 situating cultural policies to other
progressive technical identities 54 disciplines 6–7
prominent cultural interventions 542–3 smart power 238–41
Protection of Intellectual Property 109 SNSD (Girls’ Generation) 521, 525–6
Protection of Literary and Artistic Works 109 social epidemiology; arts effects on health 313
public art see socially engaged public art social imagination; development during times
public debate on cultural policies 435–8 of crises 431–3
public domain; intellectual property and 126–7 social media 384–8
public health implications of arts engagement 317 social order 2
public interest regulations 91–4 social policies; K-pop female idols 527–30;
public policies; effects on political science South Korean neoliberal 521
research 25 social regeneration impacts 548–53
public subsidy system for creative industries socially engaged public art 585–90
459–63 Society for International Cultural
Puerto Rico; creative economy 440–5; Relations 560
questioning cultural policies 445–6; socio-analytical perspective of cultural
reimagining development 430–40 information system 437
socio-economic context (NI) 196–7
questioning policies 445–6 sociology 51–61
Quintero Rivera, Mareia xviii soft power; Japan 559; Shanghai 257
software in creative industries 344
race and assimilation; in culture concept South Africa 579–83
614–6 South African multilingualism 187–9
Ramsey, Phil xvii sovereignty of new media 389
rational-functionalist approach 155 sports; and NI cultural citizenship 199
reducing tariffs 4 SPPA (Survey of Public Participation
reflexivity 59–60 in the Arts) 301
regeneration 538–43; cultural activities 546–7; stakeholder interests in mega-events
social impacts 548–53 370–1
regional responses to global issues 10–12 states governing through regulation 152–3
regulating international trade 89–99 streaming services 384–5
regulations 7–8 Strengthening Investment in Cultural and
reinforcing the visibility of culture 142 Creative Industries project 461
researching cultural capital future 336–8 Strong, Catherine xviii
resistance of intellectual property 130–1 students enrolled in cultural/creative
Revised White Paper 579 programs in Hong Kong 362
Rhee, Syngman 111 subdivisions of political science 19–20
rights 8–9; intellectual property 40 subject cultures 21
rise of hipster economy 351 subsidy system for creative industries 459–63
rise of the creative class 347–8 successful ageing 314
role in cultural work 268–71 supplementary measures of EU cultural
royal patronage and trade regulations 91 programmes 403
rural creative industries expansion 348–9 supply-side policies 300
supporting measures of EU cultural
Salawu, Abiodun xviii programmes 402
Schiller, Herbert 104 Supreme Cultural Revolution Council in Iran
Searle, Nicola C. xviii 509–10
secularisation in Iran 507–8 Survey of Public Participation in the Arts
selective interventionism; Hong Kong (SPPA) 301
government 250 sustainable creative economy index 444–5
services, trading 107
S.E.S. K-pop female idol 525 Taiwan’s neoliberalised creative industries
Shanghai 254–60 450–63
Shiri 114 Tajmazinani, Ali Akbar xix
Shumpeterian approach to innovation 34 Tamari, Tomoko xix
Singh, J.P. xviii tariffs 4, 104

626
 Index

TBUC (Together: Building a United UNESCO (United Nations Educational

Community) 202 Scientific and Cultural Organization) 4,
TCE (Traditional Cultural Expressions) 43 94–5, 418–9
Tebbutt, John xix unions 273–5
technology; global electronic policies 128–30; ‘United in Diversity’ motto 1–2
intellectual property trade regulations 98; United Nations art collection 215–30
rise of public interest regulations 92 United States; arts policies 299–305
Theatre in the Backyard 586 unity; academic disciplines 19; cultural 156–7
threats to the cultural elite 161 Universal Copyright Convention (UCC) 109
TK (traditional knowledge); and intellectual urban development 247–9
property 43–4 urban entrepreneurialism 249
Together: Building a United Community urban renewal strategies 346–9
(TBUC) 202 Uribe-Jongbloed, Enrique xix
Tokyo Cultural Resources Alliance 567 Uruguay Round of the GATT 96
Tokyo Cultural Resources District Vision 568
Tonight Live 290 Vaidhyanathan, Siva xix
Touchard, Jean 23 Valenti, Jack 104
tourism; economic impact 543; Hong Kong 252; Valentine, Jeremy xx
increasing 545–6 value in creative industries 344
Townscape Heritage Initiative 544 The Vienna Convention on the Law
trade 4 of Treaties 98
trade regulations 90–8 visibility of culture, reinforcing 142
trademarks 41–2, 124–5 Vizard, Steve 289–91
Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Vlassis, Antonios xx
(TRIPS) 39, 107 vocational disciplines; and arts
traditional cultural assets 569–70 management relationship 65–6
Traditional Cultural Expressions (TCE) 43,
127–8 waterfront redevelopment strategies 346–7
traditional knowledge (TK) of Waterhouse-Bradley, Bethany xx
intellectual property 43–4 Weber, Max 23
transition from cultural to creative weight management and arts engagement
industries 341–4 314–5
transnational cultural policies 137–44 Weights 175
TransPactific Partnership agreement 98 westernisation in Iran 506–7
TRIPS (Trade-Related Aspects wine and cheese geographic designations 125
of Intellectual Property) 39, 107 WIPO (World Intellectual Property
Tropic Thunder 172 Organisation) 109
Tsai, Hui-Ju xix women and intellectual property
two community straitjacket 197–8 interpretations 39
world communication 93
UCC (Universal Copyright Convention) 109 world cultural voices 94–5
UK City of Culture competition 541 Wright, David xx
UK full student fees for higher education WTO (World Trade Organisation) 4, 39, 107
268–71 Wyszomirski, Margaret J. 25
UK post-war intellectual life 53–5
Ulster-Scots Broadcast Fund 205–6 Yúdice, George xx

627