Why the arts matter

Politicians are right to make this an election issue.

You'd expect the tabloids to belittle the government's commitment to the arts, but from the Guardian it just sounds weird. In a blog headlined "Don't vote for 'arts policy'", Jonathan Jones argues: "At these kinds of times, when the nation's future is held in the electoral balance, you realise exactly how silly and trivial the media fiction of 'the arts' actually is." He concludes his piece with the dismissive assertion that: "There are bigger things at stake than a new paint job for the National Theatre lobby."

Do the arts really amount to "the cultural comforts of the middle classes", as Jones says? Is the issue so trivial? I don't think so, and neither do the politicians.

In 2001, the then culture secretary Chris Smith wrote (PDF) that "our creative industries . . . are a real success story, and a key element in today's knowledge economy". These sectors, of course, are sustained by the "lifeblood" of what Smith called "original creativity", which in turn depends upon a healthy attitude to the arts in Westminster to fund institutions, programmes and so forth.

The costs are small, especially when set against their rewards -- the UK's major museums and galleries produce annual profits of £1.5bn; music brings in £5bn a year and theatre £2.6bn. According to Charlotte Higgins in the Guardian, when Liverpool was the European capital of culture in 2008, "£800m was generated for the local economy and 27 per cent more visitors were attracted than in previous years".

This is why the first British Inspiration Awards, scheduled to take place on 23 April in London, has the vocal endorsement of all three major political parties. "I am enormously proud of the talented people in this country who, through their creative and entrepreneurial gifts, illuminate their lives and enrich ours," said Gordon Brown, while David Cameron offered: "We should be proud of that heritage. I welcome the opportunity this event brings to celebrate our many creative successes."

In purely fiscal terms, the arts sector is a major employer and earner for the UK. It's more important than ever to insist upon its upkeep.

Yo Zushi is a sub-editor of the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge