The fall in student applications could devastate the UK’s creative economy

The changes to student finance, the promotion of STEM subjects through the EBacc and visa issues for international students are all discouraging potential students from realising their talents by following a creative arts degree.

It is now clear that the hoped for "bounce back" in university applications has not happened in creative arts courses, which could lead to a further drop in enrolments in 2013. This is nothing short of a tragedy because the changes to student finance and the introduction of full-fee loans is discouraging potential students from realising their talents by following a creative arts degree. 

The reduction is more than a personal loss; it will be a loss to the UK’s creative industries and arts sector. More, it is a loss to other sectors which employ arts graduates because they are creative, enterprising, critical and independent.

Just a few years ago, many of us thought the longstanding links between UK creative arts education and creative industries and the strengths of this country’s creative sector had finally been recognised. However, either by accident or design, it feels from my perspective as the Vice-Chancellor of the University for the Creative Arts (UCA), that memories are short and it is once again essential to make our case to government and indeed to prospective students.

In itself, the changes to student finance would be challenge enough, but when combined with that of international recruitment caused by real and perceived visa issues, and the potential introduction of the EBacc that promotes the importance of STEM subjects at the expense of the creative arts, universities like mine are potentially feeling the breeze from an impending perfect storm.

It is vital that we reaffirm the links between our form of education and the strengths of the UK’s creative economy. We need to make it clear that the success of this sector is intimately related to the 175-year history of art and design education in this country. It needs to be recognised that there is no incidental relationship between what happens in creative arts institutions each and every day and the international strength and recognition the UK has across art, design and media – movingly and repeatedly recognised in the cultural aspects of our incredible Olympic Games this summer.

Each and every day we teach students how to be creative and enterprising, by asking them to produce work for which there is no prescription, by requiring them to work individually and collectively in an environment of studios, workshops, galleries and libraries, supported by project briefs, lectures, seminars, crits and exhibitions. Most importantly, students engage with staff – who are themselves working within the arts sector and the creative industries – and the student is formed by a rich diet of industry led collaborations, projects and competitions.

While the content and outcomes have changed hugely, the core challenging experience of the environment and its real engagement with industry and the world beyond the campus has been remarkably stable for more than 100 years – and it works.

So, it is frustrating to be required to make the case repeatedly that what government wants in terms of real engagement between universities and industry is happening within creative arts institutions and has been for more than a century – there is a model of great practice that should be recognised rather than left to suffer from uncoordinated policy initiatives from different government departments.

The recent announcement that creative arts colleges at Norwich, Bournemouth and Falmouth are to become universities is great, well deserved and long awaited – but this is just window dressing if the real threats facing creative arts higher education are not addressed.

So, what needs to happen? Schools need to be judged on the quality of their creative arts provision, providing this formative experience for every child and not only those from families who can afford to buy it after school. The government then needs to make it clear to prospective international students that they are welcome and integral to the university experience of home students who need to understand other cultures and develop international ambitions. And finally, more needs to be done to protect small specialist institutions across the disciplinary spectrum who simply may not have the resources and flexibility to withstand the current perfect storm.

At UCA we recently heard that yet another graduate from our BA in Animation had been nominated for an Academy Award – Chris Butler for ParaNorman – and if he wins he will be the fifth former student to win an Oscar. The tragedy is that we are just about to undermine this possibility for the creative stars of the future.

Simon Ofield-Kerr is Vice-Chancellor of the University for the Creative Arts (UCA)

A still from "ParaNorman" by Chris Butler, a UCA alumnus, which has been nominated for an Oscar.
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad