John Dewey

W.D. Kay

Toward a Theory of Cultural Policy in Non-Market, Ideological Societies *

Journal of Cultural Economics

December 1983, 1-24

Index

Introduction

Artists and Planners

Marxist Political Economy and the Arts

Arts Policy in Nazi Germany

Footnotes

References

HHC: Index added.

Introduction

Supporters of socialist economic systems frequently claim special advantages for such systems with respect to the arts. [1] They argue that total state support of artistic activity serves to protect it from the “ravages” of capitalistic markets, while at the same time making it more widely available to the mass public (cf. Koch 1975, 9-13, 36). Opponents, on the other hand, make the counter-claim that exclusive state patronage is destructive to artistic creativity, having as its only purpose the promotion of the ideological goals of the regime (as well as the containment of possible political dissent on the part of intellectuals) (Lapidus 1965; Schapiro 1971, 470). While the relationship between ideology and sources of arts funding has been widely written about, such discussions seldom go beyond the rather vague claim that socialism more-or-less “naturally” seeks either to censor or propagandize (Friederich and Brzezinski 1965). In other words, the relationship has been assumed rather than analyzed, with this assumption leading to the conclusion that state patronage is nothing more than an ideological tool of the regime. Clearly, ideology is an important factor. Indeed, the initial decision to make the arts a state concern is an ideological one. It would seem, however, that a more explicit account is needed of how a regime moves from financial support to political control of content. [2]

This essay will attempt to provide such an account, arguing that the “causal arrow” between ideology and economies is in fact much more complicated than much of the literature suggests. In particular, I hope to show that “political tests” for works of art are actually rational responses (from the regime’s point of view) to the economic and political pressures that inevitably follow from exclusive state patronage.

The analysis that follows is divided into two parts. First, a “pure” economic model of arts patronage under centralized state planning will be developed, based in part

on the classic Baumol and Bowen (1986) study of the performing arts in free market systems. The purpose of this section will be to demonstrate that the dynamics of the economic system will (of necessity) force ideological considerations into the funding process. Secondly, this model will be expanded to show how different ideological interpretations (beginning with Marx) interact with economics to produce different approaches to cultural policy.

Artists and Planners

The Baumol-Bowen formulation is by now so familiar to analysts of arts policy that no overview will be presented here. [3] Basically, Baumol and Bowen assume a “mixed” economic system, with all decisions regarding production and investment determined by competitive market forces. It is precisely the kind of system to which socialists claim superiority. In order to fairly evaluate this claim, it is necessary to retrace the Baumol-Bowen analysis, this time dropping the “market” assumptions.

Consider a newly-entrenched political system wherein all economic decisions are dictated by a central planning apparatus. Assume that the Leadership has a stated policy of supporting a certain level of artistic activity, perhaps with intentions of including a modest over time. This being the case, planners must determine how much and what kind of resource allocations are necessary for reaching this goal, and insert them into the plan. In the years that follow, assuming that the regime is at least moderately successful in promoting its economic programs, general productivity begins to increase, yielding a social productive surplus (“profit” in capitalist terms) which reverts back to the state. The state, in turn, will divide this surplus between various government programs (public welfare, national defense, etc.), new investments, and increased worker salaries. Since this division takes place according to conscious human design, as opposed to market forces, questions of who gets how much are subject to political debates within the leadership, which could become quite intense, depending upon the circumstances. In any case, it is clear that if the regime decides to increase the salaries of workers generally, it must include artists if a career in

the arts is to remain attractive. In fact, if the goal of the leadership is to enlarge the national artistic community, it must raise salaries and/or other benefits at a faster rate than that of the general popuiace. [4] Since we have already assumed that the regime is committed to a policy of underwriting all costs of the artistic sector, none of this will provide any immediate problem. These new expenses will simply be paid out of the surplus social product. In other words, the dreaded “income gap” will not occur. Thus the socialists’ claims of superiority would appear to be valid.

This appearance, however, is illusory. Note that although the funding arrangements have been altered to the short-run benefit of artists, the internal economic dynamics noted by Baumol and Bowen remain unchanged. The arts are still process-oriented, labor-intensive, and relatively immune to investment, economies of scale, and technological innovation. The sole difference lies in the fact that, under the system outlined above, the declining relative marginal product of artists (i.e., the “loss”) is absorbed by the state. It therefore follows that the gap, while eliminated on paper, continues to exist in some other form.

An analogy might be drawn between this situation and that of inflation. “Officially” speaking, inflation, when defined as a constant rise in prices, does not occur in socialist economies. What this actually means is that prices are fixed, and thus cannot increase in response to any existing inflationary pressures. To the extent that such pressures do exist, they tend to emerge in other ways, usually in the guise of shortages. A good illustration of this is currently taking place in Poland, where the government is faced with the distasteful choice between rationing low food supplies and allocating higher prices. In short, the “elimination” of inflation has been in name only, and the policy which supports it is merely cosmetic.

So it is with the arts’ newly-found solvency. If state support of the arts continues to match that of other economic sectors, the gap between the state-supplied income and the artists’ marginal product will continue to grow, even though the artists themselves may not be aware of it. As time passes, however, planners will begin to notice

that they are required to contribute relatively larger shares of the surplus social product to the arts just to maintain a constant level of productivity. Again, given the regime’s original commitment, it is safe to assume that it will accept this growing burden for a time. At some point, however, the relative growth in the arts’ share of the surplus social product will start to encroach upon other areas that the state deems important: scientific research, industrial investments, military spending, etc. In fact, if allowed to continue unchecked, the problem will begin to resemble a zero-sum game. A dollar spent on theater subsidies means a potential dollar taken away from highway construction. As mentioned above, all economic transactions under centalized planning are subject to debate within the leadership. It therefore follows that, as the arts begin to compete directly with other high priority items, political pressure over the regime’s arts policy will intensify. [5)] When this happens, members of the leadership must be prepared to justify (at least to themselves, if not to others who do not share their concerns for artistic activity) the state’s level of commitment. Thus, economic pressures inevitably lead to political disagreements that will ultimately force the leadership to consider the question of “why are we doing this in the first place?” One rather obvious answer to this question is that the arts play an important role in society, one which the regime has an interest in supporting. [6] To answer the question in this way suggests another, more important, question which the political system must deal with: what is the purpose of art?

Western arts administration, particularly Americans, have not been actively concerned with this issue for several reasons. First of all, in the United States, the government’s role in support of the arts has been small enough that its economic impact is almost negligible. U.S. arts policy is aimed (following Baumol and Bowen) not so much at providing total support for the arts as it is at picking up slack. Thus, the political controversy over funding here has been somewhat muted, at least until recently. [7]

Secondly, even if Western policy-makers wished to define the “social purpose” of art, they would find the

task extremely difficult, largely because of the subjective criteria involved. Drawing again upon the U.S. as an example, the possible funding sources are quite numerous, including corporate grants, private foundations, individual donations, and various federal, state, regional, and local government agencies (not to mention the arts organizations’ own income sources), and each may have its own motivations for patronizing the arts. The diffuse nature of the funding arrangements that prevail in liberal democratic society would tend to preclude any effort on the part of a central authority to formulate or impose any but the very broadest (and therefore least useful) statement on the social role of art. [8]

Finally, even if these other problems did not exist, the fact remains that the “purpose” of art is a very difficult concept to deal with. Not only is “answering” this question itself a virtual impossibility, it also gives rise to a host of other, equally difficult, questions: given some idea (however arrived at) of what the arts should “do” for people, how could it (or should it) be applied to individual works, styles, or media? In other words, what procedures can be devised to distinguish between “useful” and “useless” art? How can decision-makers evaluate an arts policy that seeks to maximize some social function? What kind of measures could be used? [9] It is no wonder that Western analysts seem to prefer the path of least resistance, leaving the specific goal of their cultural policies essentially undefined.

For the planned economic system, however, no such option exists. The realities of the economic process have made the arts themselves much more of a political issue than would ever be found in the West. Faced with the task of balancing off the several high-priority items on their policy agendas, socialist decision-makers are now required to state precisely the nature of the social good that their cultural policy seeks to maximize. In order to do this, they must first somehow resolve the problems described above. On some of these issues, such as making policy statements applicable to a number of diffuse funding sources, centalized systems have a clear advantage over Western democracies. Answers to the other questions, however, are as elusive to socialist policy makers as they

are to their Western counterparts. Yet, given the above discussion, they must be answered.

Much of the current literature on decision-making is quite clear on how human beings respond to problem situations that are extremely complex or where the factual premises surrounding the problem are either in doubt or not very helpful. In these cases, decisions are made on the basis of value premises alone (cf. Simon, 1976; Steinbruner, 1974; Emery and Trist 1963). For most centralized political systems, this means retreating to the source of values about which there exists the widest possible consensus, that being the prevailing political ideology (or the prevailing interpretation of that ideology). Thus, ideology now becomes an important component in socialist cultural policy, serving two essential functions: (1) it helps policy-makers to justify politically continued support of a high level of artistic activity by placing it in “social perspective,” and, (2) secondly, it substantially lowers the decision-making costs associated with defining this perspective. The next section will illustrate how this process works, using three interpretations of Marxist ideology.

Marxist Political Economy and the Arts

Throughout the bulk of their written work, Marx and Engels make very few direct references to the arts, and what they do say on that subject is often quite vague, leaving it open to many varying interpretations. In the Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844, for example, Marx says that “religion, family, state, law, morality, art, etc., are only particular modes of production, and, fall under its general law” (quoted in Tucker, 1972, p. 71. Emphasis In the original). If one takes the “general law” to mean that, after the socialist revolution, workers will seize the means of production and begin to operate it in their own interests, it then follows that art, as a “particular” mode of production, will be similarly taken over. This explanation does not go very far in telling us how Marx expected the arts to actually work under socialism, beyond the fact that it should operate “in the interests of” the working class. In linking the arts to

the rest of his economic and social theories, however, Marx has provided some guidelines for the management of socialist cultural policy. Of course, since these general theories themselves have been subjected to widely differing interpretations by different socialist regimes over time, we should expect this same phenomenon with respect to the arts.

A good place to begin an examination of Marxist cultural policy would be with A.V. Lunacharsky, the first “People’s Commissar of Enlightenment” in the new Bolshevik government. Lunacharsky had developed his ideas on art and society, some of which were at odds with orthodox Marxism, many years prior to the Russian Revolution, beginning with his early essay “Dialogue on Art”. In his early writings, he expressed the belief that the ability to appreciate and benefit from works of art were “universal” to all men and women (Lunacharsky, 1918). He saw art as an integral part of human development, and thus essential to any form of true “education” which he distinguished from mere “instruction” (the simple transferal of ready information). The fact that workers and peasants appeared unable to appreciate high culture resulted, according to Lunacharsky, from the lack of access to the arts brought on by class distinctions. So far, this line of reasoning would seem to be consistent with the spirit of Marx’s work. Where Lunacharsky differed with Marx (as well as many of his contemporaries) was over how the “means of artistic production” were to be operated immediately after the Revolution.

In an essay entitled “The Proletariat and Art,” he suggests that although the Russian Revolution represented a radical change in the political and economic order of the Russian state, this did not mean that any such changes would occur in the arts (at least at first). Lunacharsky held that artistic change was an evolutionary, not a revolutionary process, meaning that most of the cultural institutions in existence before the Revolution would have to remain unchanged until the “evolutionary process” was completed. [10] In other words, even though the workers were now to be considered the “owners” of the “means of artistic production”, they were not yet ready to “operate” it. Only after a prolonged exposure to pre-Revolutionary

art forms (which were to be a part of their “education”) would the proletariat gradually begin to experiment on their own, creating their own plays, poems, and musical compositions (Lunacharsky, 1919). This “proletarian art” would, after the transition to full Communism, become “universal art,” produced by and for the working class (Lunacharsky, 1925). Lunacharsky saw the role of the state in this process as two-fold: it must first preserve as much of the pre-Revolutionary cultural establishment as possible and, secondly, it should begin to break down the barriers to access that that had been built up under Capitalism.

This two-stage approach formed the basis of early Soviet cultural policy. Well-known artists, such as Chagall, Blok, Malevich, and Mayakovsky were not only encouraged to remain in the country, but were given important posts within Lunacharsky’s Commissariat. Even during the darkest days of the Civil War, most theaters, museums, and opera houses remained open. Attendance at cultural events was highly encouraged among workers: free tickets were often distributed at factories, and various theater and musical groups made frequent tours (sometimes accompanied by lectures) of workplaces and rural areas. Censorship of the arts, or control over content, was relatively rare (particularly when compared to later years): Lunarcharsky felt that the system should strive toward multiformity, not conformity, in artistic expression. [11]

The end of this phase of Soviet cultural policy, which took place between the end of the 1920’s and the beginning of the 1930’s is often attributed to the “excesses” of Stalinism (see, for example, Medvedev (1971). While Stalin’s personal views on art no doubt played an important role in the demise of Lunacharsky’s policies, [12] a somewhat more compelling explanation may lie in the analysis presented in the preceeding section. Clearly, this early approach to arts policy placed a heavy financial burden on the new Soviet regime, a burden which was made all the heavier by the economic dislocations created by the Civil War and mismanagement under War Communism. These economic problems only served to heighten the already significant political controversy that surrounded Lunacharsky and his Commissariat. [13] While both

weathered this first storm, it is inconceivable that any policy remotely resembling that of the years 1917-27 could have survived under the radical economic programs of Josef Stalin. By 1932, life in the Soviet Union had undergone tremendous upheaval brought about by the first Five-Year Plan and forced collectivization (which had caused a nation-wide famine in 1931 despite being only partially completed). This year also marked the beginning of the second Five-Year Plan, which was to stress heavy industrialization. Thus, Stalin certainly had an incentive to develop a less costly (economically and politically) approach to arts policy.

This second page in socialist cultural policy saw the rise of the artistic doctrine known as Socialist Realism, a term variously attributed either to Stalin or the author Maxim Gorky. The development of this doctrine required a new interpretation of Marxist aesthetics, one quite different than that espoused by Lunacharsky, especially with regard to the relationship between artists and the working class. Socialist Realism downplays the notion that the “means of production” in the arts belong to the masses, substituting the idea that it is the final product, the artwork itself, that is the “property” of the proletariat. Under this scheme, the social responsibility of the artist lies in “satisfying” the “owners”, that is, producing works that can be immediately accepted by the masses (Koch, 1975, 35):

The creative endeavor to match new artistic contents with forms which are both appropriate and convincing is an important element in artistic progress... One of the main factors contributing to the advancement of artistic creation in socialist society is the will to meet the growing needs of society in the field of art; this is what artists often call the “feeling of being useful.”

Who is to judge the “appropriateness” of particular works of art, insuring that the interests of the working class are not being compromised? According to Lenin, it is the Communist Party that stands as the “vanguard” of the

proletariat, working first to promote socialist revolution, and later to assist the transition of society toward full Communism (Lenin, 1903 and 1917). Thus, it falls to the Party to act as the supreme arbiter over cultural matters, taking action whenever at artist fails to meet his/her primary obligation (Kemenov, 1947).

What standards is the Party expected to employ in appraising artistic output? Here again, the ideological tenets of Socialist Realism provide the answers, although they are somewhat less firm. According to the theory, to be fully appreciated by the masses, art must depict “real” life in a decidedly straight-forward way. In particular, any form of abstraction must be avoided. Furthermore, since society is held to be developing along a “socialist path”, artists must incorporate “socialist themes” into their work. Simply put (in the words of its proponents), Socialist Realism is art which is “realistic in form, socialist in content” (Schapiro, 1971, 470; Struve, 1971, 256).

The policies enacted beginning in 1932 effectively promoted this goal. All artistic activity was organized into “creative unions”, which were directly responsible for all phases of cultural life. New works were carefully monitored so as to insure conformity. Those artists who did not adhere to the rigid requirements of socialist realism were quick to feel sharp condemnation, or worse, at the hands of the leadership. [14] Through the unions, the Party exercised total control over content. Expulsion from one of the unions effectively meant the end to an artist’s career. Whatever its shortcomings as an art form (which are considerable), Socialist Realism has to be appreciated as an effective solution to the dilemmas that existed in socialist art policy during the Stalin (and, to some extent, the Khrushchev) regime. State patronage could be justified as serving the immediate needs of the public (as opposed to the highly future-oriented Lunacharskian concept), it promoted only that art which was viewed as being readily accessible by large numbers of people (in contrast to the Futurist and Supremitist works promoted by Lunacharsky), and it was held to be an important factor in the development of socialist society - in other words, it made a direct contribution to the surplus social point.

There are, of course, some trade-offs involved in this

type of strategy. Many would argue that Socialist Realist art is lacking in quality, and that the regime’s enforcement policies resulted in “warping” the creative genius of an entire generation of young artists (Lapidus, 1965; Schwartz, 1972). More importantly (from the point of view of the leadership), extensive political control over the creative process led to the eventual alienation of large numbers of intellectuals, which continues to the present day. Many members of the Soviet intelligentsia have either sought refuge in the West, or have vented their frustrations in the form of political dissent. This, in turn, has prompted even tighter control over those establishment artists who remain today.

A final approach to Marxist cultural policy can be found in the People’s Republic of China during the Maoist period. More than any other socialist country, China at this time appeared to come the closest to a literal interpretation of Marxist doctrine. According to Mao, all “true” artistic creativity is invested in the classes made up of “workers, peasants and soldiers” because their experiences are the only “legitimate” ones in society. Unlike Lunacharsky, Mao believed that are would be taken over by the masses immediately after the revolution, without any form of training period. Pre-revolutionary art represented creativity that was isolated from the masses and was scornful of their experiences. Thus, the mass public could learn little from the “false” art of the past (Mao, 1942, 264):

Take a bucket of water, for instance; where is it to be raised from if not the ground? From mid-air? From what basis, then, are literature and art to be raised? From the basis of the feudal classes? From the basis of the bourgeoisie? From the basis of petty-burgeois intellectuals? No, not from any of these; only from the basis of the masses of workers, peasants and soldiers. Nor does this mean raising the workers, peasants, and soldiers to the “heights” of the feudal classes, the burgeoisie, or the petty-burgeois intellectuals; it means raising the level of literature and art in the direction

in which the workers, peasants, and soldiers are themselves advancing, in the direction in which the proletariat is advancing. Here again the task of learning from the workers, peasants, and soldiers comes in.

These beliefs prompted Mao to advocate a policy of “worker-intellectual integration” (Mao, 1957) whereby the more educated persons were expected to live among workers, and participate in their labors. Since all of this is based upon the assumption that the only valuable experiences in society come from the working classes, it is an easy step to suggest that it is workers themselves who are the “real” artists. The only factor preventing the proletariat from displaying their talents is the bourgeoisie intelligentsia that continuously devalues their works (Mao, 1947, 275). Having destroyed this last obstacle, socialism should recognize and declare at once the “richness” of this “people’s art”. In this way, the distinction between “professional art” and art as a “sideline” of a worker begins to break down.

This idea continues to have strong influence in China. In painting exhibitions, for example, the artist’s name is always accompanied by a statement of his/her “real” trade, be it farmer, factory worker, or Party official (see Brett, 1976). Works by artistic “committees”, made up of as many as five people, are not uncommon. [15]

Here again, it is instructive to observe the economic conditions in China at the time that its art policy was established. Throughout the 1940’s, the country remained backward and impoverished, suffering from both a devastating war agreed to the other socialist cultural policies reviewed here, Mao’s approach appears to be the least costly. It placed no importance on a specialized art education, claiming that experience with the laboring masses was all that was required to produce great works. Support of the artistic sector of the economy placed a relatively small burden on the state budget, since all artists also had other jobs that contributed to the surplus social product. In short, it cut artistic expenses by interpreting Marxist ideology in such a way as to make all Chinese artists “amateurs”.

As mentioned above (in footnote 2), the artistic scene in socialist Eastern Europe appears to be (with some exceptions) fairly liberal, a fact which has led to some embarassment during cultural exchanges between these countries and the Soviet Union (Schwartz, 1972, chapter 19). This apparently tolerant attitude on the part of these governments can also be explained by the analysis presented here. Because Eastern Europe represents such a special case, however, this explanation will be put off until the concluding section.

Arts Policy /n Nazi Germany

The cultural policy of the German Third Reich provides yet another example of the interrelationship between economic pressure and ideological control over the arts. [16] Unlike the Marxist case, the “proper” ideological interpretation of the role of art in society is quite clear. Hitler addressed this topic quite often, and left little room for doubt concerning his feelings on the matter.

Hitler’s concept of culture was shaped (as were most of his theories) by his views on race. He rejected the idea that art was a reflection of time or artistic period, as in Renaissance Art, 19th Century Art, or (especially) Modern Art. Rather, art was an expression of the race/nationality from which it emerged. Once the “character” of a particular race had been established, it was a simple matter (for Hitler) to identify the “kind” of art that it “should be” producing (Hitler, 1937):

From the history of the development of our people we know that it is composed of a number of more or less differentiated races, which ... thanks to the overwhelming formative influence of one outstanding racial core, resulted in that particular mixture which we see in our people today. This power... is contained here again in the same Aryan race which we recognize not only as the carrier of our own culture, but as that of the preceding cultures of antiquity as well

...we who see in the German people the gradually crystallizing end result of this historical process, desire for ourselves an art which takes into account within itself the continually growing unification of this race pattern, and thus, emerges with a unified, well-rounded total character.

It was an equally simple matter to define the “character” of the German “race”: according to Hitler, “to be German is to be clear” (ibid). Great German Art would therefore stress clarity in image and content, so as to appropriately reflect the nature of the “outstanding racial core”. In this way, the Nazi regime was able to erase virtually every artistic tradition since 19th century Romanticism from German cultural life. Cubism, Dadaism, Impressionism, etc., were held to be “out of character” for clarity-worshipping Germans. Hitler even considered continued exposure to such works to be racially “unhealthy” (ibid):

On these cultural grounds, more than any other, Judaism had taken possession of those means and institutions of communication which form, and thus finally rule over public opinion. Judaism was very clever indeed, especially in employing... so-called art criticism and succeeding not only in confusing the natural concepts about the nature and scope of art as well as its goals, but above all in undermining and destroying the general wholesome feeling in this domain....

Germany, like most countries in Western Europe, has had a long tradition of state involvement in arts patronage. In addition, the German cultural scene between the wars had become quite varied and progressive, consisting of such prominent artists as Kollewitz, Beckmann, Schoenberg, and Hindemith. With the beginning of the Nazi era, state patronage was maintained, but had taken a decidedly different turn. Mainstream works of 20th century art no longer received state support, and proponents of these styles were given great incentive to either

change to the approved style or leave the country. The infamous “degenerate art” exhibition of 1937, in which many prominent works of modern art were displayed (in a haphazard fashion, with many derogatory comments appended) alongside sculpture, paintings, and drawings of insane people, clearly conveyed the message that the Nazi regime would not tolerate what it took to be “bolshevik” or “jewish” art. That same year, Hitler presided over the opening of the Haus der Deutschen Kunst in Munich, which had been built by the regime (with state funds) to stand as a “monument” to the state-approved, “truly German” art, and was to demonstrate the natural superiority of this art over that of the “degenerate” artists. State support for musical institutions and festivals that featured compositions from the German Romantic era (particularly Wagner) was increased, while the music of Schoenberg, Webern, and Hindemith (among others) was banned. In short, the category of artistic works that were deemed worthy of government funding was narrowed considerably through the use of severe ideological criteria.

Once again, it is important to place this approach to cultural policy in the proper economic context. When the National Socialist Party came to power in 1933, the German economy was still suffering from the effects of military defeat and world-wide depression. Inflation was rising at a staggering rate, and industrial productivity had yet to reach its pre-WWI level. Nazi economic policy was geared heavily toward re-industrialization, a reduced reliance on imports, and (most importantly) the reestablishment of Germany as a dominant military force in Europe. All three of these goals (which had a higher political priority than the arts) required substantial allocations of resources, and it is clear that the regime would not allow any other economic sectors to even begin to encroach upon this funding. Thus, a definitive statement making art (as well as science, education, etc.) subservient to the larger aims of the polity, and denying government aid to any that did not follow suit, seemed to be a “rational” course of action.

Conclusion

Useem (1976) has stated (see note 8) that an important consideration in a government’s ability to control artistic content through funding is the number of alternative sources available to artists. If, in principle, an artist can reject government funding that has strings attached, and seek financial support elsewhere, the danger of political control is minimized. In other words, he appears to be saying that state patronage is a necessary but not sufficient condition for state control. An examination however, of cultural policy in contemporary Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union of the 1920’s makes it clear that a monopolization of patronage is itself not a sufficient condition for control. Some centrally planned economic systems exercise stringent control over their artists while others do not. Given the above, we are now prepared to make some suggestions as to why this occurs.

A recurring theme throughout this analysis has been the economic pressure placed upon command economies following their initial decision to be the sole supporter of the arts. This economic pressure eventually leads to political conflict as the level of funding required increases due to the “income gap” to a point where, in order to maintain a constant level of artistic productivity, the regime must forego allocating resources to other areas of high politically assigned priority. When this political conflict reaches a certain point, the leadership is led to reassess its priorities and must therefore adopt new decision rules to guide further appropriations. The most convenient source for these decision rules, it is suggested, is a political ideology in its prevailing interpretation. Works of art are subjected to ideological tests over their style and/or content as a means of lowering the regime’s decision-making costs and of justifying the new priorities.

The critical variable in the differences across countries appears to be the point at which political pressure causes the leadership to turn to ideology, a point reached because of economic pressure, which in turn is a function of many things: the availability of resources, the number of competing interests, and the number and relative political strength of each interest’s supporters. The greater

the expense and pressure of competing priorities, the more likely that “certain point” will be reached with the arts.

Herein lies the key element in the different approaches to arts policy in centrally planned economies: the Soviet Union is currently attempting to develop a world-wide military presence commensurate with its status as a super-power, pursue an ambitious space program, settle and exploit vast undeveloped land areas, and maintain a wide range of social services, all in addition to its goal of industrial expansion. Nazi Germany sought to promote extensive growth in industrial capacity, aimed at a rapid build up in its military forces, and pursued an expensive policy of enforced economic self-sufficiency. In contrast, the aims of socialist Eastern Europe are much more modest: they rely primarily on the USSR for defense; have nothing comparable to Soviet space efforts, and have few areas of wilderness to develop and exploit. These countries are also well developed, meaning that they have had generally greater productive surpluses than can be found in mainland China. It therefore seems reasonable to conclude that the comparatively lessened economic strain in Eastern Europe has led to a greater political tolerance of artistic experimentation . [20]

The most salient issues for artists and art critics are those surrounding freedom of expression. Those instances in which freedom of expression is curtailed are attributed to narrow-mindedness at best and barbarism at worst. Such a dichotomy is clearly an oversimplification and inaccurate. This paper has shown that control of the arts in command societies may be neither, but rather the result of a logical approach to a combination of political and economic problems.

Kalamazoo College

FOOTNOTES

*The author gratefully acknowledges the many useful comments and suggestions made by Norman Furniss. Additional help was given by Michael Berheide, Phillipe LePrestre, Keith Moore-Fitzgerald, and JP. As usual, any errors, factual or otherwise, are solely my responsibility.

[1] For much of the paper I will refer primarily (although not exclusively) to socialist systems, although, as the title suggests, the analysis is applicable to any political/economic system employing centralized planning along with some form of ideology.

[2] Of course, the situation is quite clear for those cases involving direct challenges to the political leadership. Over the entire range of artistic activity in these countries, however, such cases are relatively rare, and one should avoid applying the same explanations to both the norms and the exceptions. For example, the preservation of political hegemony does not appear to have been a predominant factor in the early condemnations of the music of Shostakovich or Hitler’s ban on German Expressionism. Furthermore, this kind of explanation is unable to account for the fact that, despite the similarity in political/economic arrangements, East European officials are generally more tolerant of diversity in artistic expression than are their counterparts in the Soviet Union.

[3] Baumol and Bowen confine their analysis to music, theater, and dance, although there is no reason why it could not be applied to the visual arts as well. For example, it would be relatively easy to show that painters and sculptors do not respond to market mechanisms like supply and demand. This is vividly illustrated by the case of Pablo Picasso, who, against the advice of art dealers, continued to produce an impressive number of paintings until his death. A “rational economic actor” would have produced fewer works, allowing the smaller total supply to drive up the price. In fact, if the law of supply and demand were being adhered to, no one would ever become an artist, since all young, unknown artists face zero

demand when they start out, and must therefore over-produce.

[4] This discussion is, of course, somewhat oversimplified. The term “salaries” is intended to serve as a “catch-all” for any material benefit that the government might bestow upon its artists: improved studios and theaters, vacation retreats, frequent tours abroad, etc. In addition, the above account does not even begin to deal with the resource allocations required by the different sectors that support the arts, such as musical instrument or theater equipment manufacturers.

[5] Up to this point, we have been assuming that economic activity has been increasing over time. If the rate of economic expansion slows down, or if the economy should actually decline, the political debate will be all the greater. Furthermore, this analysis has assumed that these problems will become evident gradually, and that a certain amount of time must pass before planners become aware that anything is wrong. Actually, the economic dilemma of the arts may be detected immediately, or even anticipated by officials prior to their ascension to power.

[6] This statement is not necessarily inconsistent with the claim that art is valuable in and of itself. To answer the question “why should society support its artists” with the phrase “arts for arts’ sake” does not really tell us anything. Instead, the question now shifts back to “what is it about art that makes it so important?” In other words, no intellectual progress is made with this sort of claim.

[7] It is interesting to note that efforts on the part of the Reagan administration to cut the NEA budget have taken the form of tying lessened arts funding to economic recovery.

[8] Useem (1976), in showing that government patronage does not necessarily lead to political control, makes two points related to this discussion. First, he argues that since the U.S. government engaged in arts subsidies at least partially as an attempt to enhance its legitimacy, it

will not make any attempts to impose restrictions upon content for fear of damaging its credibility. Secondly, he claims that the important factor in the funding-control controversy is not the fact of government patronage itself, but rather the number of alternative funding sources available in addition to government. As long as artists are not totally dependent upon the state, they will be relatively safe from political interference. This latter argument is particularly important and will be returned to later.

[9] The problem of evaluation is a perplexing one, although it is by no means unique to arts policy. The usual procedure is to define some kind of surrogate measures that supposedly reflect public acceptance (if not enjoyment) of different works. What is wrong with such procedures can be illustrated by looking to the current situations facing policy-makers in the field of education. Until recently, students’ progress through the educational system was measured in terms of grades completed. Under this scheme, a student who graduated from high school (i.e., completed 12 grades) was defined as “educated”. Recent concern over high rates of functional illiteracy among even high school graduates tends to argue against the validity of these measures. The same argument holds for various measures of public health as well. Thus, policy-makers who wish to know “when is the public culturally enriched” are in the same position as those who ask “when is the public educated” or “when is the public healthy,” in that the surrogate measures for “culture” (concert attendance, for example) are prone to the same problems (see Cwi (1980).

[10] This aspect of Lunacharsky’s thought clearly shows the influence of the Austrian physicist and philosopher Ernst Mach, of whom he had been an early disciple. Mach’s ideas, which follow in the tradition of George Berkeley, held that it is the mind, not material relationships, that is the dominant force in nature. Lunacharsky’s efforts to combine the seemingly disparate notions of Mach and Marx had led to a temporary break with Lenin in 1910.

[11] A fascinating description of this exciting period can be found in Schwartz (1972), chapter 2.

[12] Lunacharsky lost his post at the Commissariat in 1929 to Andrei Bubnov, a former Red Army official. In 1933, he was appointed Soviet Ambassador to Spain, and died in Menton, France while traveling to Madrid on December 26, 1933.

[13] Some members of the leadership, Lenin among them, felt that too much money was going to the support of “landlord culture” at the expense of basic education. Others opposed Lunacharsky’s ideas on evolutionary change in the arts, maintaining that a total cultural revolution should begin immediately (see a 1921 letter form Lenin to Lunacharsky quoted in Tucker, 1975; and Schwartz, 1972, 20-21).

[14] This practice began in 1936, with an article in Pravda attacking Shostakovich’s opera Lady Macbeth of Mtensk. While confined to the composer and his opera, this criticism was meant to stand as a warning to other arts as well (Schwartz, 1972, 123, 129).

[15] It may be recalled that the Yellow River Concerto, a composition for piano and orchestra, was premiered in this country in 1975 by the Philadelphia Orchestra. This marked the American audience’s first exposure to music-by-committee. After a few months of attention as a novelty item (including a recording), the work quietly died out.

[16] Some readers may feel that this section strains the analysis somewhat, as Nazi Germany is not usually considered to have had a centrally planned economy in the same sense as that found in the Soviet Union or the countries of Eastern Europe. Friederich and Brzezinski (1965) maintain that it was Hermann Goering’s incompetence coupled with Hitler’s single-minded disregard for economic problems that prevented planning in Germany from being effective. On the other hand, Goering did initi‑

ate a four-year industrialization plan, begun in 1936, and was able to exercise a vast amount of control over otherwise “private” capital and investment funds through threats and intimidation (see Friederich and Brzezinski, pp. 226-7; 238-241).

REFERENCES

Baumol, William J. and William G. Bowen (1966), The Performing Arts: The Economic Dilemma. Cambridge: MIT Press.

Brett, Guy (1976) Peasant Painting From Hu County, Shensi Province, China. London: Arts Council of Great Britain.

Cwi, David (1981), “Toward an Ideology of Cultural Policy Research: Concluding Observations,” in Hendon, Shanahan, and MacDonald (eds), Economic Policy for the Arts. Cambridge: ABT Books Inc.

Emery, F. E., and E. L. Trist (1963), “The Causal Texture of Organizational Environments”, Human Relations, 18:1 {August).

Friedrich, Carl J., and Zbigniew K. Brzezinski (1966), Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy. New York: Praeger.

Hitler, Adolf (1937), Speech Inaugurating the Great Exhibition of German Art, reprinted in Herschel B. Chipp (1968), Theories of Modern Art. Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 474-482.

Kemenov, Vladimir (1947), “Aspects of Two Cultures”, reprinted in Chipp, pp. 490-6.

Koch, Hans (1975), Cultural Policy in the German Democratic Republic. Paris: UNESCO Press.

Lapidus, Gail (1966), “Literature and the Arts”, in Friederich and Brzezinski (1966), pp. 329-342.

Lenin, V. I. (1903), What Is To Be Done? New York: International Publishers, 1969.

(1917), The State and Revolution. New York: International Publishers, 1943.

Lunacharsky, A. V., (1918), “Proletariat i iskusstvo”, Sobranie Sochinenii, Moscow: Khudozhestvennaya Literature, vol. 7, pp. 201-202.

(1919), “O proletarskioi kul’ture”, Sobranie Sochinenii, vol. 7, pp. 194-200.

(1925), “Chitaite klassikov,” Sobranie Sochinenii, vol. 7, pp. 420-444.

Mao Tsetung (1942), “Talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art,” in Selected Readings from the Works of Mao Tsetung. Peking: Foreign Language Press, 1971, pp. 250-286.

(1957), “On the Correct Handling of Contradictions Among the People,” in Selected Works, pp. 432-479.

Medvedev, Roy (1971), Let History Judge. New York: Vintage Press.

Schapiro, Leonard (1971), The Communist Party of the Soviet Union. New York: Vintage Press.

Schwartz, Boris (1972), Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 1917-1970. New York: W. W. Norton.

Simon, Herbert (1976), Administrative Behavior (3rd Edition). New York: Free Press.

Struve, Gleb (1971), Russian Literature Under Lenin and

Stalin. Norman- University of Oklahoma Press.

Steinbruner, John (1974), The Cybernetic Theory of Decision. Princeton University Press.

Tucker, Robert (edX1972), The Marx-Engels Reader. New York: W. W. Norton.

(ed)(1975), The Lenin Anthology. New York: W. W. Norton.

Useem, Michael (1976), “Government Patronage of the Arts and Sciences in the United States,” American Behavioral Scientist, 19:6 (July/August), pp. 785-804.