Meet the most powerful woman in banking

Yellen is a distinguished academic, especially known for her work on unemployment. She has even written about out-of-wedlock child-rearing, gang behaviour and the brain drain; she cares about the real world and her work involves careful analysis of behavi

The nomination of Janet Yellen to be the next chair of the US Federal Reserve is an excellent one, especially with all the uncertainty over the US government shutdown and fears over breaching the debt ceiling. The US economy needs continuity in its monetary policy and Yellen, whom I supported for the job, guarantees a seamless transition from Ben Bernanke. Best of all, it’s one for the doves. She will have no trouble at all being confirmed by the US Senate, even though folks such as Rand Paul will vote against her because they don’t believe there should be a central bank. She needs only 60 out of 100 votes to be confirmed, and will be.

The appointment of Professor Yellen has been welcomed by economists no matter what their economic persuasion, Keynesian or monetarist, saltwater (Harvard) or freshwater (Chicago). There have been few if any dissenting voices. Her CV is second to none. She is definitely the number-one central banker in the world; Mark Carney was just the best central banker available in the banker draft when George Osborne chose him to lead the Bank of England.

Yellen, who is only five feet tall, obtained her PhD from Yale, where she was supervised by the Nobel economics laureate James Tobin. She taught at Harvard and the LSE before moving to the University of California, Berkeley. She first worked at “the Fed” as an economist in the 1970s and then returned as a governor from 1994-1997, when I met her as a feisty but “small lady with a large IQ”, as the New York Times has said. She was chair of Bill Clinton’s council of economic advisers from 1997-1999.

From 2004-2011 Yellen was the president and chief executive of the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco and, as the 12 bank presidents do, attended Fed rate-setting meetings. In 2010 she returned to the Fed as a governor and vice-chair. She is married to the Nobel economics laureate George Akerlof; they have a son who is an economist at the University of Warwick.

Yellen is a distinguished academic, especially known for her work on unemployment. She has even written about out-of-wedlock child-rearing, gang behaviour and the brain drain; she cares about the real world and her work involves careful analysis of behaviour.

The new Fed chief is especially concerned about long-duration unemployment and its consequences. Her view is that, for now, inflation can go on the back burner –which is music to my ears, given my recent work showing that a 1 percentage point increase in unemployment lowers well-being by over four times as much as an equivalent increase in inflation.

Yellen has been influential in developing the forward guidance on interest rates that the Bank of England has copied. There will be no rate rises any time soon on her watch unless something dramatic and good happens. I couldn’t ask for better than that.

Pint-sized engagement, going all the way to the top: Janet Yellen, the world's top central banker. Image: Getty

David Blanchflower is economics editor of the New Statesman and professor of economics at Dartmouth College, New Hampshire

This article first appeared in the 17 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Austerity Pope

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Over a Martini with my mother, I decide I'd rather not talk Brexit

A drink with her reduces me to a nine-year-old boy recounting his cricketing triumphs.

To the Royal Academy with my mother. As well as being a very competent (ex-professional, on Broadway) singer, she is a talented artist, and has a good critical eye, albeit one more tolerant of the brighter shades of the spectrum than mine. I love the RA’s summer exhibition: it offers one the chance to be effortlessly superior about three times a minute.

“Goddammit,” she says, in her finest New York accent, after standing in front of a particularly wretched daub. The tone is one of some vexation: not quite locking-yourself-out-of-the-house vexed, but remembering-you’ve-left-your-wallet-behind-a-hundred-yards-from-the-house vexed. This helps us sort out at least one of the problems she has been facing since widowhood: she is going to get cracking with the painting again, and I am going to supply the titles.

I am not sure I have the satirical chops or shamelessness to come up with anything as dreadful as Dancing With the Dead in My Dreams (artwork number 688, something that would have shown a disturbing kind of promise if executed by an eight-year-old), or The End From: One Day This Glass Will Break (number 521; not too bad, actually), but we work out that if she does reasonably OK prints and charges £500 a pop for each plus £1,000 for the original – this being at the lower end of the price scale – then she’ll be able to come out well up on the deal. (The other solution to her loneliness: get a cat, and perhaps we are nudged in this direction by an amusing video installation of a cat drinking milk from a saucer which attracts an indulgent, medium-sized crowd.)

We wonder where to go for lunch. As a sizeable quantity of the art there seems to hark back to the 1960s in general, and the style of the film Yellow Submarine in particular, I suggest Langan’s Brasserie, which neither of us has been to for years. We order our customary Martinis. Well, she does, while I go through a silly monologue that runs: “I don’t think I’ll have a Martini, I have to write my column this afternoon, oh sod it, I’ll have a Martini.”

“So,” she says as they arrive, “how has life been treating you?”

Good question. How, indeed, has life been treating me? Most oddly, I have to say. These are strange times we live in, a bit strange even for me, and if we wake up on 24 June to find ourselves no longer in Europe and with Nigel Farage’s toadlike mug gurning at us from every newspaper in the land, then I’m off to Scotland, or the US, or at least strongly thinking about it. Not even Hunter S Thompson’s mantra – “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” – will be enough to arm myself with, I fear.

The heart has been taking something of a pummelling, as close readers of this column may have gathered, but there is nothing like finding out that the person you fear you might be losing it to is probably going to vote Brexit to clear up that potential mess in a hurry. The heart may be stupid, but there are some things that will shake even that organ from its reverie. However, operating on a need-to-know basis, I feel my mother can do without this information, and I find myself talking about the cricket match I played on Sunday, the first half of which was spent standing watching our team get clouted out of the park, in rain not quite strong enough to take us off the field, but certainly strong enough to make us wet.

“Show me the way to go home,” I sang quietly to myself, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” etc. The second half of it, though, was spent first watching an astonishing, even by our standards, batting collapse, then going in at number seven . . . and making the top score for our team. OK, that score was 12, but still, it was the top score for our team, dammit.

The inner glow and sense of bien-être that this imparted on Sunday persists three days later as I write. And as I tell my mother the story – she has now lived long enough in this country, and absorbed enough of the game by osmosis, to know that 17 for five is a pretty piss-poor score – I realise I might as well be nine years old, and telling her of my successes on the pitch. Only, when I was nine, I had no such successes under my belt.

With age comes fearlessness: I don’t worry about the hard ball coming at me. Why should I? I’ve got a bloody bat, gloves, pads, the lot. The only things that scare me now are, as usual, dying alone, that jackanapes Farage, and bad art. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain