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A herbivore quango that is no friend of the arts
Rowan Moore1 Aug 2008
One fantastic part of London's cultural life is its array of theatre and performance groups. But earlier this year several, including the splendid Bush Theatre, Chisenhale Dance Space, the Mozart Players and the Drill Hall gay and lesbian theatre, faced the axeing of their Arts Council grants, with minimal explanation.
Many have since staggered on; some have closed, leaving behind websites like messages on an abandoned ship.
They were cut by the Arts Council, working to the heart-sinking battle cry of "no equal misery for all", meaning that weaker organisations would receive a greater share of misery than strong ones.
It was an epic PR and managerial disaster, which turned the Arts Council's victory in obtaining an extra £50 million from government into defeat. And it is a story that reveals everything that is wrong with a body forever messed around by ministers.
This week's damning report on the cuts, by Lady McIntosh, formerly executive director of the National Theatre, includes words like "appalling", "capricious" and " random". That the cuts were proposed just before Christmas only added to the impression that this herbivore quango was now half Scrooge, half Hannibal Lecter.
At the time, I was director of the Architecture Foundation, which survived the cull. But the process was agonising. The Arts Council was always telling us to plan ahead, yet wouldn't tell us if it would be giving any funding a few months in advance.
What is most shocking about the new report is its picture of the nightmarish internal politics of the Council. It had recently been through two "bruising internal restructures": feeling insecure, the Arts Council wanted to prove that it could administer tough love capably - and ended up proving the opposite. Hardpressed individuals struggling to put on shows for love rather than money ended up paying for this bureaucratic vanity. So did the dedicated Arts Council staff who had to implement the madness of their bosses.
It's a symptom of an organisation subjected to alternate government meddling and apathy. Despite the relatively tiny amount of public money that goes to the Arts Council, it is always being asked to realise government policies on education or inclusion or diversity which the Government itself is unable to achieve.
It is forever having its funding threatened, yet last year the Department for Culture couldn't be bothered to tell it on time how much money it was going to get.
It is no surprise, then, that the Arts Council should have become a group of fearful voles anxious to prove themselves foxes. If ministers have any sincere belief in the arts, they should leave the Arts Council alone and let it recover confidence and strength. Or they should do the decent thing and replace it with an American system of tax breaks on private donations. Otherwise, London's wonderful patchwork of arts groups will get steadily thinner.
* The reappearance of Radovan Karadzic brings with it minor revelations. The latest are the photos of his flat, showing shapeless brown armchairs, disarranged wire baskets and a coffee table bearing an unappetising stew of mobile phones, "wellbeing amulets", fags, papers and booze.
Movies and fiction would have it that the bad guys, like Blofeld, decorate their pads with a certain stylishness. All part of their diabolical genius. Together with BBC2's House of Saddam, the Karadzic residence reminds us that they generally have terrible taste. They are not geniuses but mediocrities with an ability only to be nastier than anyone else. The banality of evil, you could say.
A new god for Spurs' fickle fans
A summer evening in east London that demonstrates the city's inexhaustible variety: riding in Epping Forest, followed by Leyton Orient vs Tottenham Hotspur at the former's ground.
A 10-minute drive and a quick change, so as not to be possibly the first people ever to arrive at the Matchroom Stadium in jodhpurs.
Inside, there is the strange sight of Spurs' millionaire multinationals floating about this tin shed of a ground. Most striking, though, is the speed with which fans transfer their loyalty. Their beloved Robbie Keane had gone the previous day to Liverpool but there is now the 19-year-old Mexican Giovani Dos Santos. On the strength of some YouTube clips and a few hours spent playing for Tottenham, fans were prostrating themselves towards him as if he were a mobile Mecca.
Driving with the wind in my face
After years of practical-but-dull cars, my family has acquired a convertible, in part to avert future accusations of childhoods blighted by vehicular blandness. It doesn't have much room for luggage or legs but it transforms the dull ache of car rides into a delight. The wind in your face gives the illusion that this sedentary, polluting activity is healthy. You are at one with the weather and the street.
It also reveals London's guilty secret: despite speed bumps, congestion charge and parking poverty, driving through it can be beautiful. Outside the rush hour there is no better way to enjoy the curves of the Thames than to glide along the Embankment in a car, with the riverside monuments sedately repositioning themselves as you move. And the evening throngs on the pavements of Shoreditch or the West End look more glamorous at 20mph than on foot.
Reader views (1)
At least London has some cash from the Arts Council. All Inverness has is a few quid for a fireworks display on November the fifth (and one fantastic newly renovated theatre - Eden Court - no thanks to the Arts Council).
- Mikko Takala, Drumnadrochit, Scotland, 01/08/2008 14:36
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