Arts funding: winners and losers

Arts Council England announces its new funding plans after cuts to its budget.

Arts Council England yesterday revealed the effects of a 29.6 per cent government cut to arts funding. 638 organisations were denied any funding by the Council, with 206 of those having previously received funding from them. However, 110 organisations were granted funding by the Council for the first time.

Small theatres received a little extra funding: FUEL is up by 203.9 per cent, Ockham's Raxor by 173.2 per cent, Punchdrunk by 141 per cent, Arcola by 100 per cent, the Barbican by 108 per cent and Theatre by the Lake in Keswick by 22 per cent. However, the Riverside Trust Hammersmith, lost almost half a million pounds, both the RSC and the National Theatre lost 15 per cent funding, and Shared Experience Theatre, Trestle Theatre Company and Northumberland Tourinc Company all suffered cuts. HighTide Festival Theatre, Birmingham's live art Fierce festival and Manchester International Festival are all new recipients of Council funding, whilst both Northcott Theatre, Exeter and Forkbeard Fantasy, Bristol lost all of their funding.

British poetry suffered mixed fortunes. Salt Publishing, an independent poetry publishing house based in Cambridge, lost all funding while the Poetry Book Society, founded by TS Eliot in 1953, suffered a £111,000 loss. Poetry London, the literary magazine, was given a grant, as was English PEN, which works to "promote literature and human rights". The Poetry Society was awarded £360,000 - up from £261,664.

Winners amongst art galleries included: South London Gallery, with funding up 107 per cent, and three galleries that are yet to open: FirstSite in Colchester (up 16.8 per cent), the Hepworth in Wakefield (up 7.7 per cent) and Turner Contemporary in Margate (up 9.8 per cent). A Middlesbrough gallery, Mima, had its funding increased by 143.8 per cent. Both Castlefield Gallery in Manchester, and Phoenix Arts in Leicester had funding totally withdrawn.

Dance suffered significant cuts, though with increased funding going to a collection of small, regional operations. Dance Umbrella, based in central London, took a 43 per cent reduction, and the Cholmondeleys & Featherstonehaughs dance companies saw their funding completely cut.

Although the fledgling Tête à Tête opera gained funding for the first time, the Royal Opera House took a 15 per cent cut to their money.

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Orhan Pamuk's The Red-Haired Woman is playful and unsettling

At times, the novel seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past.

When cultures collide or begin to merge, what happens to their myths? In Orhan Pamuk’s psychodramatic and psychogeographic tale of fathers and sons, the protagonist Cem mentally collects versions of the Oedipus story from across Europe – Ingres’s painting of Oedipus and the Sphinx hanging in the Louvre, Gustave Moreau’s work of the same name, painted 50 years later, Pasolini’s film adaptation, Oedipus Rex. But he also fixates on the epic poem “Shahnameh”, written by the Persian poet Ferdowsi; and in particular the story of Rostam and Sohrab, a reversal of the Oedipus story in which father kills son rather than vice versa. As Cem and his wife travel the world’s libraries to inspect copies, what they learn is “how ephemeral all those ancient lives had been”.

Nor is Cem immune to the act of readerly projection. “Like all educated Turks of my father’s generation,” Cem tells us, “what I really hoped to find on these trips wandering the shops, the cinemas, and the museums of the Western world was an idea, an object, a painting – anything at all – that might transform and illuminate my own life.”

Cem has more reason than many to seek clarification: his own father has been absent – whether for reasons of underground political activity or romantic complications is, for a long time, unclear – for most of his childhood; he and his mother become impoverished and, as he tells us at the very beginning of the novel, his dream of becoming a writer yields to a life as a building contractor. But these matter-of-fact bare bones are deceptive, for what unfolds is a far more fabular account of a life gone awry.

Even beyond his father’s departure, Cem’s life is shaped by his teenage apprenticeship to Master Mahmut, a well-digger of great renown. It removes him from his protective mother’s sphere of influence and immerses him in a world at once simple – long hours of physical labour – and highly skilled. As his and Master Mahmut’s quest for water on a patch of land slated for development runs into difficulties, so their relationship – boss and employee, craftsman and disciple, quasi father and son – becomes antagonistic, beset by undercurrents of rivalry and rebellion. Before too long (and avoiding spoilers) matters come to a head.

Throughout, their story gestures toward the fairytale, as underlined by Cem’s irresistible attraction to a travelling theatre troupe performing satirical sketches and classical scenes in the town near their excavation, and to the red-haired woman of the title. But Pamuk, in the style that characterises much of his work, fuses this material with political and social commentary. Over the three or four decades covered by the narrative, which takes place from the mid-1980s to the present day, the landscape of Istanbul and its surrounding areas literally changes shape. Residential and commercial developments spring up everywhere, many of them courtesy of Cem and his wife Aye, who have named their business after Shahnameh’s murdered son, Sohrab. Water shortages belie the sophisticated nature of these new suburbs, which eventually begin to form an amorphous mass.

Cem is preoccupied by the differences between Turkey and Iran, the latter seeming to him more alive to its cultural past. Turks, he decides, “had become so Westernised that we’d forgotten our old poets and myths”. While in Tehran, he sees numerous depictions of Rostam and Sohrab, and finds himself stirred:

I felt frustrated and uneasy, as if a fearful memory I refused to acknowledge consciously might suddenly well up and make me miserable. The image was like some wicked thought that keeps intruding on your mind no matter how much you yearn to be rid of it.

The extent to which individuals and societies suffer by not keeping their mythic past in mind is Pamuk’s subject, but it becomes more ambiguous when different stories are brought into play. What is the significance of a son who kills his father in innocence rather than a father who kills his son? Which is the more transgressive and ultimately damaging act and should both killers be regarded as guiltless because they knew not what they did?

But, as its title is perhaps designed to suggest, these accounts of fathers and sons omit a key element of the family drama: if paternity becomes a focus to the exclusion of all else, maternal energy must find an alternative outlet. As this strange, shifting novel edges to its conclusion – becoming, in its final act, a noir thriller – that energy makes a dramatic return, changing not only the story but the entire narrative paradigm.

The Red-Haired Woman is a puzzling novel; its intentions are often concealed, and oblique. At times, it seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past; it moves forward by indirection, swapping modes and registers at will. Playful and unsettling, it reprises some of Pamuk’s favourite themes – the clash between the past and the erasures of modernity, so charged in a Turkish context, and the effect on the individual’s psyche – without quite reaching the expansive heights of some of his previous novels. It is, nonetheless, an intriguing addition to his body of work. 

The Red-Haired Woman
Orhan Pamuk. Translated by Ekin Oklap
Faber & Faber, 253pp, £16.99

This article first appeared in the 14 September 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The German problem