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For far too long, Ashutosh Gowariker’s Swades  (2004) has maintained its status as an Indian cinema cult classic. It is a film about a non-resident Indian (NRI) from the USA who visits India to reconnect with his foster nanny. Through his visit, he becomes deeply involved in the socioeconomic issues of the village of Charanpur and ultimately decides to return and settle there. It owes its high status to several features but primarily to its frank depiction and criticism of certain ills of Indian society.   Those ills persist to this day, and in light of this, it is pertinent that Swades ’ status and reputation be re-examined. Whilst Gowariker’s   film was certainly ahead of its time, not recognising its limitations would be both a disservice to the aim of progressing Hindi cinema as well as to the very real issues that the film delves into. Inevitably, such a conversation will expose Swades  as deeply hesitant and trifling in its subversion and critical analysis.   To expose Swades ’ criticality as hesitant and trifling, this article will begin by presenting two crucial ways in which the film does engage in both filmic and cultural subversion. Firstly, Gowariker successfully presents a uniquely nuanced depiction of the NRI, forgoing the typical depictions. This novel conceptualisation lets the narrative critique the caste system—an endogamous system of social stratification unique to India[1]—and conceives of an Indianness that can perhaps be detached from adherence to such oppressive traditions. Unfortunately, because of the large focus on the NRI experience, Gowariker falls woefully short of providing an enduringly meaningful critique of the caste system. It stereotypes the characters of marginalised identities, something that can be seen in current Indian cinema, arguably because no lessons are learnt from Swades . This article concludes that there is an important message within that resonates to this day, but realising it is conditional on taking Swades  off the pedestal on which it has been placed.   Scholarship on Swades  and its relevant themes must be recognised for its contributions to the ongoing conversation about Hindi cinema and the various social issues which are framed within it. Kae Reynolds has recognised Swades for its use of servant leadership in the characterisation of the protagonist, Mohan Bhargava.[2] Relatedly, Amy Bhatt, Madhavi Murty, and Priti Ramamurthy critique the film for operating within a neoliberal framework in which caste (and other social justice issues) are treated merely as barriers to the final aim of economic development,[3] rather than issues in and of themselves.[4] Examination of late-1990s and early-2000s Hindi cinema suggests that Swades  was distinct in its portrayal of NRIs and the West and lacked a cultural superiority complex. Nonetheless, the more simplistic portrayals have persisted.[5] Furthermore, Swades  is recognised for depicting oppressed-caste people as passive and in need of rescuing and recent Hindi cinema films have continued to reinforce the stereotypes of Brahminical saviour complex).[6] Most scholarship critical of Swades relates to caste and neoliberalism, and tends to highlight similar films, rather than critiquing it in isolation.   At the outset, it is essential to outline the Indian caste system as well as the current realities of caste-based oppression. This is crucial to evaluating Swades ’ message. Caste is an endogamous system of social stratification. It has a long and complex history, but throughout various historical periods on the Indian subcontinent, caste-based stratification has endured as part of the dominant religious culture of Hinduism.[7] Through the processes of bonded labour and or strict segregation, those labelled ‘Brahmins’ and other privileged castes have attained great generational wealth and power,[8] and those labelled ‘Dalits’[9] have been made to experience untouchability, violence and exclusion.[10] One’s caste identity is virtually inescapable and shapes every aspect of existence.[11]   According to Rajesh Sampath, caste oppression is comparable to racial oppression to a certain extent. Police brutality, workplace discrimination, and privilege blindness are but a few violations to which oppressed-caste people are constantly subject.[12] Caste has endured perhaps because of its religious roots. Hindu epics and the Manusmriti  feature stark lessons against caste transgression.[13] Eradication has been more difficult since the Modi administration professed a desire to shape India into a Hindu- rashtra (state), with caste politics being redefined as acceptable and defensible to suit this agenda.[14]   Having outlined Swades  and the caste system, the article can begin to examine Swades  for its subversiveness that facilitated its frank social commentary.   To convey the depth of Gowariker’s subversion in the depiction of the NRI protagonist, it is important to be aware of the socioeconomic conditions in which Swades  enters the Indian consciousness. At the turn of the twenty-first century, the Indian economy had been liberalised for over a decade, with it bringing rapid change. Huge shopping centres materialised alongside the bazaars in major cities, bringing foreign retailers into India. Migration opportunities increased tenfold post-liberalisation because of the emergence of an upwardly mobile middle class whose members took up work placements and educational opportunities abroad, particularly to the UK and USA. Whether one emigrated or not, for the middle-class, this was a time of improving living standards and a sense that all social issues have been, or will be imminently, resolved.   As Western media—from the Disney Channel to Comedy Central— began to permeate the televised landscape, Indians became keenly aware of the stark differences in lifestyle. Regardless of social class and region, they were being exposed to the superior quality of life in foreign countries, even as things were improving at home.   The yearning for a Western lifestyle of ease and prosperity began to clash horribly with a sense of patriotic pride. After all, adulation of the Occident is difficult to reconcile with a colonial past and the contemporary realities of racism that the Indian diaspora faced. The NRIs—with their theoretically split loyalties—became prime real estate for Indian cinema to play out these clashing values in vivid Technicolor.[15] It would not be far-fetched to argue that an ‘Indian identity’ was strengthened by Bollywood in careful opposition to Western culture. At this time, many films featured overly patriotic themes. The plots follow the model of ‘Indians in the Occident realised India is just so much better’. NRIs were presented in binary terms—those who ‘lost touch’ with their roots were villainised,[16] and ‘good’ ones always felt alienated and yearned to be in their true home.[17] Indian authenticity was measured by checking how much an NRI resisted the ‘Western mindset’ and maintained their sanskaar aur parampara  (cultural norms and tradition), even though ‘there is   no single opinion about what these values are’.[18]   In these vacuously patriotic times, Gowariker released Swades , which had all the markers of a film that would deliver on contemporary audiences’ nationalistic expectations.   Except, Swades  ignored various Bollywood cinematic tropes,[19] and more importantly had a protagonist who turned a critical eye on India, rather the West. The sheer beauty of Mohan’s character lies in his genuine critique of the Indian government (the intertemporal entity) and Indian society at large, whilst being attached to and invested in it. The film begins with Mohan deciding to visit his foster nanny—a personification of India—because he believes he has a duty to not be so detached from her. His undeniable attachment does not render him blind to the ills of Indian society, which he credibly exposes in private, and when the village elders question him.   This realistic NRI character naturally allows for more meaningful critique, and the most notable issue that Mohan condemns is the Indian caste system. Mohan repeatedly mentions caste—not just caste-based discrimination—in the list of issues that plague the country, at a time when middle-class Indians hardly interrogated their caste-based privileges at all. This would have been the first time this generation of the audience was made to confront sociopolitical issues, since themes ‘concerning class/caste oppression, workers’ rights … [had] been tucked away’ in the post-liberalisation Indian cinematic landscape.[20]   In Swades , degrees of casteism are depicted through the characters. First, there is Mela Ram, an entrepreneurial chef, who is not allowed to sit in on the village elders’ meetings. Then, there is Birsa, who is deeply afraid that the village school will not admit his children. Finally, there is Haridas, a severely impoverished farmer, kept poor by the refusal of the community to do business with him because he is viewed as a caste traitor for abandoning the ‘prescribed’ occupation.   The lack of any obvious display of physical violence or verbal abuse against these oppressed-caste characters stresses the extent to which the caste system has been normalised under the guises of peace and social harmony. Casual acceptance of caste-based segregation marks some of the film’s most powerful sequences. In a scene of an outdoor cinema, all the oppressed-caste people are made to sit on the other side of the makeshift screen. After spending a day helping with the task of enrolling children to the local school alongside Mohan, Mela Ram pauses at the cinema divide, shakes Mohan’s hand, and gestures to the fact that he cannot sit with the privileged-caste protagonist.   Mela Ram and the rest of his peers are forced to watch the entire film, including the title, inverted . The cruelty of this is emphasised by how one of Swades ’ major themes is the way in which oppressed-caste people are excluded from their right to education, embodied by Birsa’s struggles. One can easily envision a village elder character remarking: ‘They can’t read, so how does it make a difference whether they view the film from this side or the other side?’   In depicting the normalisation of caste, Gowariker acknowledged casteism as essential to Indian society. After all, the fact that societal structures are a central feature of Indianness forces the audience to wonder what exactly they should be feeling any attachment or loyalty to. Essentially, Swades  asks, can one conceive of an Indianness without social subjugation under the guise of sanskaar aur parampara ?   Gowariker’s answer is revealed when Mohan leaves Charanpur for the USA. It is held in the parting-gift token. It is a wooden box with compartments filled with spices essential to Indian cuisine. When back in the USA, Mohan’s nostalgia for India is shown through a montage. It features the people he met, rich farmland, traditional architecture, and finally the very spices that come from the soil. Thus, Gowariker fashioned a pathway towards an altered sense of Indian identity at a time when cinema blindly mimicked the Indian tendency to claim superiority based on adherence to centuries of religious culture. This critique is not limited to Hindu religious culture. One could question the merits of linking national identity to a specific geographical region, but the attempt to shift the focus away from vague and uncritically accepted social norms such as caste is noteworthy.   The pathway from a critical protagonist—with whom the audience must identify—to a vision of an inclusive Indian identity that has divested itself from oppressive tradition bears further examination. In fact, this examination of Swades ’ messaging will reveal that the pathway is broken, because it relies on an incomplete analysis of the Indian caste system.   Gowariker’s method for creating a new Indian identity is to employ caste-blindness. An entire song—‘Yeh Tara Woh Tara’ (‘Star Here, Star There’)—is dedicated to this message, although it never uses the word ‘caste’.[21] When Mohan was asked by the village elders about his own caste identifier, he simply says, ‘What difference does it make?’ Although this response is meant to challenge caste adherence, when viewed in conjunction with the message of caste blindness, it suggests a wilful apathy towards an issue that has lasted for centuries. Much like race blindness, caste blindness does not rectify centuries of trauma and injustice. In the aforementioned scene where Mohan displays an initiative to discard his caste identity, he is sat in front of the village elders and Mela Ram—one of the few oppressed-caste characters—is pointedly excluded from the conversation. Mohan had made no effort to have him included, which would have been far more meaningful than claiming his own indifference to caste identity.   Furthermore, merely two seconds afterwards, Mohan volunteers his caste identity and—to no surprise—he is a Brahmin. If it takes a Brahmin man to convince the other privileged caste people to not commit caste-based atrocities, has caste identity truly been challenged? For Gowariker and other filmmakers like Anubhav Sinha,[22] to present an outcome where caste oppression ends on the oppressor’s terms cheapens the message.   The film might convince the audience that its project to display the humanity of oppressed caste people is well executed. When Mohan visits Haridas (Bachan Pachehra), Haridas narrates his story of injustice with tears in his eyes. The camera pans slowly forward as Pachehra’s voice and malnourished appearance become the focal point, and the audience forgets all else. It is a deeply moving scene, undoubtedly the emotional apex of the film.   However, Haridas—like the other oppressed-caste characters—never displays any anger at his oppressors. It is Mohan who exclaims, ‘This is an injustice!’. Haridas, the man subjected to the injustice, is only afforded some poetic dialogue intended to invoke the audience’s pity. There is a privileged-caste saviour; the lower-caste people talk about their plight politely and eloquently with a sense of resignation, never outrage; and the story itself ‘does not answer questions like who created caste’.[23]   The characterisation of Dalit people—especially as lacking in anger—reveals the oppressor’s desire never to be harshly critiqued. A Dalit (and oppressed-caste) identity has been fashioned by the dominant caste to create boundaries and put conditions on Dalit liberation. In doing so, any hint of anger is classed as a digression, a reason to discredit the voice (and therefore the message) without feeling guilty. This is evident in Indian media’s treatment of Mayawati, a Dalit politician and leader of the Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP). Her rise to mainstream politics has been praised by prominent journalists for avoiding the ‘abuse of the upper castes’, and she was later characterised as ‘raging again, on the warpath’.[24] It is saddening, though unsurprising, that privileged-caste people have their blindspots. This underscores the need to question and dismantle each misguided fictional representation of oppressed caste people. Lack of such examination has impoverished Swades ’ legacy. Storytellers and film-watchers continue to place it on a pedestal, and they remain nostalgic about themes that did not shake them out of their comfort zones.   To give an idea of the current state of Hindi cinema, one can consider Anubhav Sinha’s Article 15 . The latest major film to depict caste-based violence, it features all the aforementioned tropes. The glaring difference is that the director does not shy away from the darker themes of sexual violence. Whilst there was more criticism of the Brahmin saviour complex, in a panel discussion on NDTV, Sinha can be seen as deflecting from the criticism. He says: ‘If it’s wrong to show a Brahmin, then we can re-cast with a Dalit hero, but in today’s times this story is a humble beginning’.[25] Rahul Sonpimple, a Dalit student activist, could be seen looking unsatisfied with the director’s response. It is evident that a lack of critical engagement with Swades  has resulted in repeating patterns of casteist storytelling, employing all the tropes that damage the cause of caste eradication, and openly profiteering from uninspired narratives of caste-based oppression.   Is there hope for more grounded social commentary, which centres the voices of the oppressed? The current political climate does not provide any reassurance. The Modi administration cannot tolerate an iota of criticism) and routinely acts to subdue and threaten it.[26] Its primary aim (besides maintaining power) is to continue to act on a Hindu nationalist agenda. Any criticism that can be even vaguely considered an attack on Hinduism—which anti-caste storytelling would certainly be—is likely to receive strong pressure to be rescinded, if it gets published at all.   The most recent behaviour of the Modi administration—attacking public figures such as Rihanna and Greta Thunberg for their opinions on the farmer protests—has already revealed its wild and unhinged character to the world. Less known is the tendency of Bollywood personalities to act as governmental mouthpieces. This is widely interpreted as a sign of the devastating reach and influence that the Indian government wields.[27]   That said, creative resistance is free to take root in any space it can. In a thread on Twitter, Raghu Karnad, an Indian journalist, pointed out the historical precedent of raising awareness and forming resistance against previous Indian regimes through important institutions such as The New York Times and Western governments.[28] Promisingly, the most recent iteration of resistance is the ‘younger generations of Indian expats and diaspora’, which uses safer spaces such as social media to profess support for issues back home.[29]   However, the diasporic community is also dominated by privileged-caste people. It therefore remains important that lending a critical voice does not overshadow the ongoing efforts of oppressed-caste people to create their art and provide their critique.[30] Therefore, questioning Swades ’ elevated status is a small step towards making space for better narratives, especially given that I am a part of the community that largely holds Swades  in very high esteem.   Ultimately, after re-evaluating the film, only one message from it still resonates with me, as an NRI in 2021 looking at a fictional NRI in 2004. Just like Mohan, voices like mine need to recognise their own privilege and hold Indian institutions accountable. Richa Kapoor   Richa Kapoor is the Impact Officer at Social Market Foundation. Prior to this role, she graduated from the University of Warwick with a degree in Politics, Philosophy and Economics. She contributed an article to the first issue of CJLPA , before becoming an editor for the second. [1] For detailed understanding of the caste system in India, it is crucial to learn from oppressed-caste voices. Some of the most notable works on the subject and experience are: BR Ambedkar, Annihilation of Caste  (seventh edn, Verso Books 2014); Meenakshi Moon and Urmila Pawar, We Also Made History: Women in the Ambedkarite Movement  (sixth edn, Zubaan Books 2016); and Om Prakash Valmiki, Joothan  (third edn, Columbia University Press 2008). [2] Kae Reynolds, ‘The Hindi language film Swades: We, the People: A different kind of journey to the east’ (2013) 7(1) The International Journal of Servant Leadership 279. [3] Near the end of the film, Mohan leads a bottom-up electricity generation project, since the village was plagued with unreliable electricity. Making the climax an economic development project has been criticised. [4] Amy Bhatt, Madhavi Murty, and Priti Ramamurthy, ‘Hegemonic Developments: The New Indian Middle Class, Gendered Subalterns, and Diasporic Returnees in the Event of Neoliberalism’ (2010) 36(1) Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 127 < https://doi.org/10.1086/652916 > accessed 14 February 2021; Prem Singh, ‘The Representation of the Dalit Body in Popular Hindi Cinema’ (2011) < https://www.academia.edu/25943972/The_Representation_of_the_Dalit_Body_in_Popular_Hindi_Cinema > accessed 27 March 2021. [5] Ravinder Kaur, ‘Viewing the West through Bollywood: a celluloid Occident in the making’ (2002) 11(2) Contemporary South Asia 199 < https://doi.org/10.1080/0958493022000030168 > accessed 14 February 2021; Laya Maheshwari, ‘How Bollywood stereotypes the West’ ( BBC Culture , 2017) < https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20170922-how-bollywood-stereotypes-the-west > accessed 12 February 2021. [6] Vidushi, ‘Cinematic Narrative: The Construction of Dalit Identity in Bollywood’ in Einar Thorsen, Heather Savigny, Jenny Alexander, and Daniel Jackson (eds), Media, Margins and Popular Culture (Palgrave Macmillan 2015) 123; Khushi Gupta, ‘Stereotypes in Bollywood Cinema: Does Article 15 Reinforce the Dalit Narrative?’ (2021) 13(1) Inquiries Journal 1 < http://www.inquiriesjournal.com/a?id=1868 > accessed 12 March 2021. [7] Romila Thapar, The History of India , vol 1 (second edn, Penguin 1990) 28. [8] Rajorshi Das, ‘My Casteism & Privileges: A Test For Upper Caste People In Academia’ ( Feminism In India , 2020) < https://feminisminindia.com/2020/06/10/casteism-privileges-test-upper-caste-people-academia/ > accessed 14 February 2021. [9] Caste is hierarchical. Several groups are between Brahmins and Dalits on the caste ladder. [10] Das (n 8); Adam Withnall, ‘Caste in India: What are Dalits and how prevalent is casteism in modern-day society?’ The Independent (London, 30 September 2020) < https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/asia/india-caste-dalits-brahmins-hindu-society-b718984.html > accessed 14 February 2021. [11] Kaur (n 5); Varghese K George, ‘Caste is the constant’ The Hindu  (2016) < https://www.thehindu.com/sunday-anchor/conversion-confusion-caste-is-the-constant/article6711442.ece > accessed 27 March 2021 [12] Rajesh Sampath, ‘Racial and caste oppression have many similarities’ ( The Conversation , 19 June 2015) < https://theconversation.com/racial-and-caste-oppression-have-many-similarities-37710 > accessed 12 February 2021. [13] Tejas Harad, ‘Why Manusmriti is the symbol of the caste system for anti-caste reformers’ ( The News Minute , 3 November 2020) < https://www.thenewsminute.com/article/why-manusmriti-symbol-caste-system-anti-caste-reformers-136809 > accessed 14 February 2021. [14] Avishek Jha, ‘BJP’s 2019 victory: How caste-based politics has been redefined and reinvented’ ( South Asia @LSE , 26 June 2019) < https://blogs.lse.ac.uk/southasia/2019/06/26/bjps-2019-victory-how-caste-based-politics-has-been-redefined-and-reinvented/ > accessed 14 February 2021. [15] Laya Maheshwari, ‘How Bollywood stereotypes the West’ ( BBC Culture , 25 September 2017) < https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20170922-how-bollywood-stereotypes-the-west > accessed 12 February 2021. [16] As in Pardes  (1997). [17] As in Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge (1995). [18] Kaur (n 5) 207. [19] Song lyrics featured the messages of the story and weren’t mere eye or ear candy. The romance was not the focus of the narrative, and it lasted three hours without much epic drama. [20] Kaur (n 5) 206. [21] Although the song does not mention caste, the film alludes to caste by playing it during the segregated outdoor cinema event scene. During the song, the makeshift screen that divided the villagers is brought down and all  the children sing together about ignoring differences and truly unifying. [22] The director of Article 15  (2019), a crime drama film about a police investigation about the disappearance of three Dalit girls. The film is inspired by several real-life incidents. [23] Khushi Gupta, ‘Stereotypes in Bollywood Cinema: Does Article 15 Reinforce the Dalit Narrative?’ (2021) 13(1) Inquiries Journal 1 < http://www.inquiriesjournal.com/a?id=1868 >. [24] Bhatt, Murty, and Ramamurthy (n 4) 139-40. [25] NDTV, ‘Does “Article 15” Have An Upper-Caste Gaze? Filmmaker Anubhav Sinha Responds’ ( YouTube , 19 July 2019) < https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIdZs7DbBfA > accessed 14 January 2021. [26] Meenakshi Ganguly, ‘Dissent is “anti-national” in Modi’s India - no matter where it comes from’ ( Scroll.in , 13 December 2019) < https://scroll.in/article/946488/dissent-is-anti-national-in-modis-india-no-matter-where-it-comes-from > accessed 14 February 2021. [27] Geeta Pandey, ‘Farmers’ protest: Why did a Rihanna tweet prompt Indian backlash?’ ( BBC News , 4 February 2021) < https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-india-55931894 > accessed 14 February 2021. [28] Ironically, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), the group that rallied foreign bodies and lobbied them to put pressure on Indira Gandhi in the mid-1970s, is closely associated with the Modi administration and supports curbing dissent. [29] Raghu Karnad ( Twitter , 3 February 2021) < https://mobile.twitter.com/rkarnad/status/1356917930194202627 > accessed 14 February 2021. [30] Satyajit Amin, ‘Dear Indian Diaspora, We Need to Talk About Caste’ ( Varsity , 24 July 2020) < https://www.varsity.co.uk/opinion/19634 > accessed 27 March 2021.

Abstract   In the wake of successive disappointing election performances by the UK Labour Party, commentators on the party’s centre-right have argued that it can only be electorally successful if it is perceived as closer to the political centre than it was under leaders such as Jeremy Corbyn and Ed Miliband. These comments reiterate the received wisdom that, for a political party to be successful, it must be perceived as occupying an ideological centre ground. This political wisdom is derived from Anthony Downs’ ‘median voter theorem’,[1] which states that ‘a majority rule voting system will result in the outcome most preferred by the median voter’.[2] The following study tests this argument empirically by comparing voter estimations of the ideological positions of the Labour, Conservative, Green, and Liberal Democrat parties on the left-right ideological scale before the 2017 and 2019 General Elections and during polling carried out in June 2020.   Introduction   Discourse within the political commentariat, and the general public, often involves discussion of whether parties have moved towards the left or right because of leaders, political philosophies, or significant events such as Brexit or the 2008 financial crisis. Failure at the polls—such as the Labour Party’s failure to win a majority in 2015 and 2019—is often attributed to a party shifting its position on this scale so that it is out of sync with the electorate. The UK Labour Party was accused of moving ‘too far to the left’ under Corbyn,[3] while Joe Biden was attacked on the campaign trail in the US as being not left-wing enough.[4] However, studies have suggested that it is actually quite rare for parties to shift significantly on the left-right ideological spectrum.[5] This raises the question: is there actually a correlation between a party’s position on the left-right axis, as perceived by the mean voter, and electoral success? Do voters ignore ideological shifts when making electoral decisions—and is electoral perception of such shifts even accurate enough to allow informed decision making? The following study seeks to answer these questions by using a number of simple statistical tests and linear models to investigate the link between voter estimation of British parties’ ideological positions on the Anthony Downs’ scale,[6] and the electoral success of these parties. As a precursor to this analysis, the study also considers the conclusions of two previous studies on voter estimation of ideological position in Europe and Britain, and the influence these have on this study’s results. Ultimately this study finds that—based on the results of two previous general elections, pre-election surveys from these polls, and survey results after one year of Sir Keir Starmer’s leadership of the Labour Party—the proximity of a party’s perceived ideological position to that of the median, centrist voter, is a poor indicator of electoral success. The study also highlights that, in order to better understand the relationship between voter estimation of the ideological position of a party and electoral success, more data from smaller-scale electoral contests is required.   Theoretical background and previous studies   Before testing the hypothesis that, in the UK, the party which is perceived as being closest to the ideological centre ground does the best, it is necessary to consider some of the assumptions within this hypothesis.   The first of these is the assumption of a level of ‘political knowledge’ or ‘political sophistication’ within the electorate. Parties in Britain and many other Western democracies tend to be characterised as ‘left’, ‘right’, or ‘centrist’ on the two-dimensional scale described by Downs.[7] In Down’s model, these labels describe, with broad strokes, the ideological positions held by parties which determine their stance on a range of policy issues. They let members of the electorate identify the party they are most closely aligned with without having to analyse the party’s stance on individual issues.[8] Busch[9] points out that this model assumes voters can understand the ideological content of a party’s positions and compare it with their own, rather than comparing the label itself, which may disguise significant differences between party and voter priorities. The same assumption is present within the argument made by centrist politicians such as Tony Blair[10] and Peter Mandelson[11] that the Labour Party can only win elections if it is perceived by the median voter as being closest to the median (centre) ideological position. This argument, like Downs’ model of electoral decision making, relies on voters being able to understand the congruence between their own ideological stances, and their political parties’. However, research on voter perceptions of European parties and electoral decision making has suggested that the average voter does not notice when a party changes the ideological content of its manifesto.[12]   Similarly, several studies[13] have found that if individuals have strong positive or negative emotional predispositions to specific parties they tend to exaggerate the ideological similarity or difference between themselves and said party.[14] This undermines the core assumption of informed electoral decision-making of Downs’ model and the arguments of Mandelson and Blair. Busch tests the hypothesis that voters are able to accurately perceive and compare the ideological position of a party with their own using multi-level linear modelling, identifying the individual-, party-, and system-level factors that influence the accuracy of voter estimations of ideological position.[15] Busch finds that voter estimation of a party’s ideological position, and shifts in this position, is generally accurate. Changes in a party’s political ideology around economic policy actually appear to improve accuracy. The greatest source of confusion to voter estimation was multiple parties significantly shifting ideological position simultaneously, which caused a decrease in estimation accuracy. Dahlberg suggests that if parties want to avoid voter confusion about their ideological position they should take distinctive positions, since the further from other parties they are, the clearer voter estimation is.[16] However, successful parties tend to try to have ‘broad appeal’ amongst the electorate by operating under as wide an ideological umbrella as possible,[17] which makes them harder to locate accurately on the left-right scale as ideological positions will inevitably overlap.   The second assumption made by commentators such as Blair and Mandelson is that the distance between the perceived ideological position of the Labour Party and the electoral median position, is greater than the distance between the same median position and the perceived ideological positions of other parties. Ed Fieldhouse considers this claim in a widely republished blog post for the British Electoral Survey.[18] Fieldhouse argues that the overall mean ideological position of the British Labour Party is less important than the difference between its position and that of the electoral median, or whether competing parties position themselves closer to this median. Fieldhouse uses data from the British Electoral Survey—the source from which this study’s data is also drawn—to interrogate the claim made by Tony Blair that the Labour Party moved too far left under Ed Miliband and Jeremy Corbyn,[19] in the wake of the 2015 General Election, where Labour won 232 seats to the Conservatives’ 330. His study is therefore a useful precursor to this paper. Fieldhouse’s comparison of mean voter position on the ideological scale and mean voter estimation of Labour’s position on the same scale showed that in 2015 Labour moved further away from the median voter than any time during the more electorally successful Blair years. This suggests that the received wisdom of Downs’ model—and the arguments of Blair, Mandelson, and other centrists—may be correct. As Labour has moved further from the median, its electoral success has declined. However, Labour’s perceived ideological position was actually 0.6 points to the right of its own voters’.[20] This is a good position for a party attempting to have a ‘broad appeal’ across the electorate.[21] Additionally, Fieldhouse’s study showed that despite the Liberal Democrats being perceived as the party ideologically closest to the median voter’s position,[22] they still suffered an electoral collapse, losing 49 of their 57 seats in 2015. Additionally, while the Labour party was considered left-of-centre, they were still perceived as closer to the centre than the Conservative Party. The modal score of the Conservative Party was 8, compared to Labour’s 3.[23] The Conservative Party’s ideological position was also further to the right of Conservative supporters (0.9 points) than the Labour Party was from Labour supporters.[24] Fieldhouse concludes that there are more important factors in electoral success in Britain than perceived ideological position. This suggests that Labour’s main challenge will be increasing its support by implementing new policies associated with conservative fiscal responsibility, whilst also keeping its established electoral base.   A brief overview of previous studies on voter estimation of ideological positions in the UK and Europe upholds the core assumption of the Downs model—that the average voter can accurately estimate the ideological position of a political party. However, it appears that, in the UK, the ability of voters to accurately estimate party positions does not necessarily mean they set great store by them when making electoral decisions. As Fieldhouse concludes, the proximity of a party’s perceived ideological position to the median is a poor indicator of electoral success.   Method   The following section will lay out the steps taken in the treatment and analysis of data during this study. While the techniques used are simple, they can still reveal significant phenomena concerning voter estimation and electoral success.   Data   This study focuses exclusively on voter estimation in the United Kingdom. While restricting the applicability of the study’s results, this also brings several benefits. The presence of multiple parties within the UK electoral system has been proven to make voter estimations of ideological position more accurate.[25] So has the presence of several established parties which have traditionally been associated with a specific area on the left-right axis.[26] The time frame studied (2017-20) was selected because, within it, multiple parties changed either their ideological position or party leader, and because it largely predates the confounding effects of the COVID-19 pandemic on electoral decision making. The raw data from the study was obtained from three waves of the British Electoral Study 2014-23: Wave 11 (April-May 2017), Wave 17 (November 2019), and Wave 20 (June 2020). The results of each survey were compared to the percentage vote share and number of seats won by four major parties (Labour, Conservative, Green, and Liberal Democrat) in the General Elections they preceded. Data from the Wave 20 survey was compared to YouGov polling on voter preferences carried out between 11 and 12 June 2020. Vote share was taken directly from polling, and the seat count this vote share would translate into was calculated using the online calculation tool at . By comparing mean estimated ideological position to both vote share and seat count, this study can resolve the effects of the first-past-the-post electoral system in the UK, whereby a party with a lower national vote than another may win more seats if its votes are concentrated in a smaller number of constituencies. The raw data was aggregated into a dataframe showing each respondent’s answer to the question, ‘In politics people sometimes talk of left and right. Where would you place the following parties on this scale?’, for each of the political parties listed above, as well as the respondent’s response when asked to give an estimation of their personal ideological position. Scores were given on a scale of 1-10, with 0 being the most left-wing and 10 the most right-wing position.[27]   Statistical test selection   The analysis of the resultant dataset was structured around three questions. Did voter perceptions of the ideological position of each party change significantly over time? Is there a correlation between a particular voter estimation score and electoral success? And finally: If such a relationship exists, could it be adequately modelled using a simple linear model? Having established a set of guiding research questions, the first step in the analysis was to check the distribution of the data using a Shapiro-Wilk test. This found that the data was not normally distributed (see Appendix I in PDF below), and so non-parametric tests were used throughout this study. A Kruskal-Wallis test was used to test whether voter estimations of party ideological positions varied significantly over time, followed by a post hoc Wilcox rank sum test to identify where these specific differences lay. The Benjamini and Hochberg method[28] was used as the adjustment. It controls the false discovery rate rather than the more stringent family-wise error rate, which makes it a more powerful method than alternatives.[29] Following the Kruskal-Wallis test a Kendall’s Tau correlation test was used to identify any cases of significant correlation between ideological position and electoral success amongst each party. Significance level was set at 0.05. Kendall’s Tau was selected as the test, rather than Spearman’s Rho, because it is less sensitive to error and the p-values it produces are more accurate at smaller sample sizes. A power analysis was carried out for each correlation test. Finally, a simple linear model with a fitted regression line was used to model the relationship between vote share or seat count, and voter estimation of a party’s ideological position. A post hoc goodness of fit test was run to check the residuals of this model, with the effect size and test power also calculated.[30]   Results   Results in the first set were from the Kruskal-Wallis test for significant difference between voter estimations of ideological position in 2017, 2019, and 2020. The results are summarised in fig 1. We can see that, in the majority of cases, the perceived ideological position of each party has shifted in between each round of polling. The exception to this is voter estimation of the Liberal Democrats’ position between 2017 and 2019. Respondents’ self-estimations also appear to have shifted significantly, but only between 2017 and 2020. These results allow us to make several statements about shifting ideological positions within different parties between 2017 and 2020. The Labour Party was perceived by the electorate as moving significantly to the left after the 2017 elections, at which it prevented the Conservative Party from winning a majority. However, it was perceived as having shifted further to the right than it was in 2017 after one year of Sir Keir Starmer’s leadership. The replacement of Teresa May with Boris Johnson as Conservative leader and Prime Minister appears to have resulted in a small but significant shift to the right, followed by a sudden shift to the left by around 2.6 points between November 2019 and June 2020. This dramatic shift is probably the result of increased public spending and of the expansion of government regulation and policy into more sectors of public life as a result of the coronavirus pandemic. Other notable shifts include the leftward shift of the Liberal Democrats between 2017-20 (4.19-3.88), and the leftward shift of respondents over the same period (4.93-4.57). In summary, voters perceived a significant ideological shift in all four parties between 2017 and 2019, while shifting to the left by almost half a point themselves over the same period. These shifts are visualised in figs 3-6. Fig 1. Summary table showing p-value for changes between estimated ideological position of parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020. Fig 2. Summary table of estimated ideological scores for political parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020. Fig 3. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Labour Party, 2017–20. Fig 4. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Conservative Party, 2017–20. Fig 5. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Green Party, 2017–20. Fig 6. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Liberal Democrats, 2017–20. Having established that there were significant shifts in perceived ideological positions between 2017 and 2020, we can look to the results of our correlation tests to see if this change was significantly correlated to electoral outcomes.   The overall correlation tests between mean perceived ideological position and vote share or seat/MP count returned p-values of 0.2496 for Mean Score vs Vote Share and 0.1116 for seats won. This indicates that there is no significant correlation between the average perceived ideological position of a party and electoral success. However, a significant caveat to this result is that a power analysis of both sets of Kendall’s Tau tests showed them to be very underpowered (fig 7), with scores well below 0.8, probably being a result of the small sample size (n=12) for the overall tests. The chance of these results being a false negative is therefore relatively high. The p-values returned by Kendall’s Tau correlation tests for specific parties were all non-significant (see Appendix II in PDF below). While their sample sizes (n=3) prevented power tests from being run, it can be assumed that small sample sizes will also have influenced these results. Despite the lack of a significant relationship, plotting our variables by political party still produces an interesting graphic (fig 8). Fig 7. Summary statistics for the Kendall's Tau correlation test of the overall dataset. Fig 8. Scatter plot of mean estimated ideological position of political parties (L0–R10) vs percentage vote share in the 2017 and 2019 UK general elections, and projected vote share in June 2020. Even if we cannot confirm a significant relationship between perceived ideological position and electoral success, the coefficients from a linear model are informative. Fig 9 shows the coefficients and p-values for each linear relationship modelled.   Fig 9. Summary table of coefficients and p-values for linear models of mean estimated ideological score vs seats won and mean estimated ideological score vs vote share for individual political parties and for the overall dataset. While the p-values for our linear models show only four significant relationships, the coefficients indicate several interesting trends. For the overall linear model, the coefficients for both seats and vote share were positive, with every point shift towards the right gaining a party 3.8% of the national vote share, or 38 seats within the UK-wide electoral system. For the Labour Party this trend was more pronounced, with a single point shift towards the right modelled to net the party an extra 52 seats, or 13% of the vote. The Conservative Party, however, was not modelled to profit from any shifts to the right, with a one point shift costing them 4.7 seats and 0.7% of the vote. A heavy caveat to these figures, however, is that neither the Labour, Conservative, nor overall model had a p-value indicating a significant relationship. The coefficients for the Green Party Seats~MeanIDScore model suggest a flat regression line, but the Green Party would only ever win 1 seat, no matter what its mean estimated ideological position was. While this model produced significant p-values, common sense tells us it is implausible. The model for Green Party Vote Share~MeanIDScore appears to be better, indicating that Green Party vote share decreases by 5.9% for each perceived point further to the right. The linear model for Seats~MeanIDScore for the Liberal Democrats was the only model with a non-flat regression line to produce two significant p-values. It suggests the Liberal Democrats would gain 25.8 seats for every perceived point shift to the right, while the model for vote share (p-value:0.585) suggests such a shift would increase the party’s share of the vote by 10.29%.   While the trends outlined above all suggested plausible relationships, even if most were statistically insignificant, there were some coefficient and p-value outputs which indicated that a linear modelling method was not always appropriate for modelling the relationship between estimated ideological position and electoral success. For example, the intercept coefficient for a linear model of Seats~MeanIDScore for the Conservative Party indicates that, if the Conservative Party had a mean estimated ideological score of 0 (as left-wing as possible), they would win 380 seats. This is clearly incorrect. Furthermore, post hoc goodness of fit testing suggests that the relationships suggested by the linear models do not encompass enough explanatory factors. Figs 12 and 13 show the residuals for the overall model plotted against fitted values. The value of the residuals for each model can clearly be predicted based on the fitted values, indicating that the model is missing explanatory information. However, power analysis of the overall models returned values of 0.94 for the Seats~MeanIDScore model and 0.95 for the VoteShare~MeanIDScore model (fig 14), indicating the tests had sufficient explanatory power. This may be because, despite the small sample size and the absence of other explanatory variables, the effect size, calculated as Hedge’s G (see fig 14), was large for both models. Goodness of fit tests, power analyses, and effect size calculation present a contradictory picture of how well linear models can describe the relationship between electoral outcomes and voter estimation of ideological position. Nonetheless, the R-squared and F-statistics (fig 14) indicate more clearly that linear regression modelling with only the mean voter estimated ideological score and an electoral outcome does not sufficiently explain our data. The R-squared statistic for the Seats~MeanIDScore model was 0.286 and 0.192 for the VoteShare~MeanIDScore model. This indicates that the linear models explain only 29 and 19 percent of the variability in electoral outcomes. The F-test p-value was greater than 0.05 for both overall models (fig 14), indicating that neither linear regression modelled a significant relationship. The only party-specific model with a significant F-test p-values was the Liberal Democrat Seats~MeanIDScore model. Therefore, although examining the coefficients of linear models provides us with a number of hypothetical relationships, linear regression modelling suggests these relationships are significant in only a small number of cases. The clearest result from linear modelling is that, in order to improve the effectiveness of this method, more data is needed. It could be gathered either by increasing the longitude of the study, or the granularity of the data—potentially looking at results at a constituency level. Fig 10. Linear model of vote share vs mean estimated ideological score for overall dataset. Vote share attained by political parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020 plotted as individual points. Fig 11. Linear model of total MPs elected (seats won) vs mean estimated ideological score for overall dataset. Seats attained by political parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020 plotted as individual points. Fig 12. Plot of residuals vs fitted values for a linear model of seats won vs mean estimated ideological score derived from the overall dataset. Fig 13. Plot of residuals vs fitted values for a linear model of vote share vs mean estimated ideological score derived from the overall dataset. Fig 14. Summary table of post hoc test outputs for linear models. * Model was a perfect fit because of flat regression line. Discussion and conclusion   Following the above analysis of data from the British Election Study 2014-23, we can draw several conclusions about the relationship between a party’s perceived ideological position and its electoral success. The first key finding was that voter estimations of the ideological positioning of the four major political parties of the UK have shifted significantly between 2017 and 2020, and in most cases (Liberal Democrats excluded) shifted significantly between each set of surveys. This finding runs contrary to Adams[31] and Budge and Klingemann,[32] who suggest that significant shifts are rare. While the applicability of this trend outside the UK is not proven, it does confirm that the electorate perceives ideological repositioning amongst political parties as something that occurs relatively often in the UK.   The following findings, the most important, concern the relationship between these shifts and the electoral fortunes of the parties in question. Correlation testing on the level of both the electoral system and the individual parties found no significant correlation between a party’s perceived ideological position and electoral outcomes. This suggests that, while commentators such as Blair and Mandelson might link the decline of Labour’s electoral fortunes to a perceived leftward shift, there is no evidence in the data to support this. The same was true for the linear modelling approach, which found no statistically significant relationship between mean voter estimation of ideological position and electoral outcomes, except in one case (see fig 9). This study’s most statistically robust results were associated with modelling of the Liberal Democrat party (figs 9 and 14), which suggested that shifting a point to the right could increase the party’s seat count by 25.8 seats. This directly contradicts the centrist mantra that parties should strive to be perceived as closest to the median voter. The Liberal Democrats scored 4.43 on average between 2017 and 2020, by far the closest average score to the average self-estimation by respondents across the same period (4.82) (see fig 2). This trend may illustrate Dahlberg’s argument that parties which adopt more distinctive ideological positions are easier for voters to recognise ideologically, and hence easier to identify with.[33] Further evidence can be found in the modelled results for the Green Party, which lost 5.9% of its national vote share for every point it moved away from its clear left-wing position (2.82 across all three years) towards the centre, where its position would overlap with Labour and potentially the Liberal Democrats.   A methodological issue which prevented more conclusions being drawn from the correlation analysis and linear modelling was the lack of statistical power when testing and modelling at the level of individual parties. This was probably down to two factors: the simplicity of the models, which used only one independent variable, and the small sample size of the data. These factors led to some results being clearly inappropriate, such as the linear model suggesting a far-left Conservative Party would win 380 seats. Similarly, the linear model describing the relationship between the Green Party’s seat count and ideological position was clearly impacted by the Greens’ consistent score of 1 seat regardless of vote share, leading to a flat regression line and a meaningless model. However, as always with hypothesis testing, the failure of our models also points us towards useful conclusions. There are two notable failure-driven conclusions. 1) Perceived ideological position alone is not a sufficient predictor variable of electoral success. 2) Research in this area would benefit from using data on the relative electoral success of parties, either a greater number of administrative levels (council, mayoralty etc) or from a greater breadth of electoral contests (local council elections, mayoral races, devolved-administration elections).   The key finding of this study is as follows: there is no evidence to support the centrist mantra that the party perceived as being ideologically closest to the median voter will have the best electoral outcomes. There is no significant correlation or relationship between how the electorate perceives a party’s ideological position and how well it does at the polls. This confirms what Fieldhouse[34] suggested when investigating the issues facing the Labour party after the loss of the 2015 general election. Instead, it appears that other explanatory factors are of greater importance in determining which parties individuals vote for. These factors account for the 70-80% of variability in electoral outcomes that is not explained by the impact of perceived ideological positions within the linear models (fig 14). These other ‘explanatory factors’ may be valence issues, such as which party has the best leader or is the most charismatic, which are often primed as being significant by the media during election campaigns.[35] While focus by the media on leadership and personality issues does not detract from voters’ abilities to accurately estimate the ideological position of parties,[36] it could very well alter their priorities when it comes to the issues which bear heavily on electoral decision making. In summary, this study’s conclusions suggest that politicians who advocate recreating a party’s ideological position in line with the mythical ‘median voter’ are sacrificing the useful asset of ideological recognisability for little to no electoral gain. Colin Kaljee   Colin Kaljee is an MPhil student in Archaeological Research at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where he completed his undergraduate degree. After the MPhil he will start on the Civil Service Fast Stream as a Generalist streamer. He has excavated at archaeological sites in Belize, Massachusetts, and the UK, and his work on the chronology of Scottish brochs will be published in a volume later this year. [1] Anthony Downs, An Economic Theory of Democracy. (Harper and Row 1957). [2] Ed Fieldhouse, ‘Is Labour really too left-wing to win an election?’ ( British Election Study , 2015) < https://www.britishelectionstudy.com/bes-findings/blog-update-is-labour-really-too-left-wing-to-win-an-election/#.YKz_Q42Sk2x > accessed 28 May 2021. [3] Tony Blair, ‘If your heart is with Corbyn, get a transplant’ The Telegraph  (London, 22 March 2016); Rajeev Syal, ‘Ditch Corbyn’s “misguided ideology” Tony Blair urges Labour’ Guardian  (London, 18 December 2019). [4] ‘Why Progressives Think Joe Biden Is Not ‘Electable’ ( NPR,  17 July 2019). [5] James Adams, ‘A theory of spatial competition with biased voters: party policies viewed temporally and comparatively’ (2001) 31(1) British Journal of Political Science 121; Ian Budge and Hans-Dieter Klingemann, ‘Finally! Comparative over-time mapping of a party policy movement’ in Ian Budge, Hans-Dieter Klingemann, and Andrea Volkens (eds), Mapping Policy Preferences: Estimates for Parties, Electors and Governments 1945-1988 (Oxford University Press 2001). [6] Downs (n 1). [7] ibid. [8] Kathrin Barbara Busch, ‘Estimating parties’ left-right positions: Determinants of voters’ perceptions’ proximity to party ideology’ (2016) 41 Electoral Studies 159. [9] ibid. [10] Blair (n 3). [11] Peter Mandelson, ‘It’s simply a myth that Labour can win from the left’ The Independent  (London, 3 April 2021). [12] James Adams, Lawrence Ezrow, and Zeynep Somer-Topcu, ‘Is anybody listening? Evidence that voters do not respond to European parties’ policy statements during elections’ (2011) 55(2) American Journal of Political Science 370; James Adams, Lawrence Ezrow, and Zeynep Somer-Topcu, ‘Do voters respond to party manifestos or to a wider information environment? An analysis of mass-elite linkages on European integration’ (2014) 58(4) American Journal of Political Science 967. [13] Andrew Drummond, ‘Assimilation, contrast and voter projections of parties in the left-right space: does the electoral system matter?’ (2010) 17(6) Party Politics 711; Donald Granberg and Soren Holmberg, T he Political System Matters: Social Psychology and Voting Behaviour in Sweden and the United States  (Cambridge University Press 1988); Samuel Merrill,   Bernard Groffman, and James Adams, ‘Assimilation and contrast effects in voter projections of party locations: evidence from Norway, France and the USA’ (2001) 40(9) European Journal of Political Research 1999. [14] Busch (n 8). [15] ibid. [16] Stefan Dahlberg, ‘Does context matter - the impact of electoral systems, political parties and the individual characteristics on voters’ perceptions of party positions’ (2013) 32(4) Electoral Studies 670. [17] Zeynep Somer-Topcu, ‘Everything to Everyone: The Electoral Consequences of the Broad-Appeal Strategy in Europe’ (2014) 59(4) American Journal of Political Science 841. [18] Fieldhouse (n 2). [19] Blair (n 3). [20] ibid fig 4. [21] Fieldhouse (n 2); Somer-Topcu (n 17). [22] Fieldhouse (n 2) fig 2. [23] ibid. [24] ibid. [25] Busch (n 8); Stacy B Gordon and Gary M Segura, ‘Cross-national variation in the political sophistication of individuals: capability or choice?’ (1997) 59(1) Journal of Politics 126; Giovanni Sartori, Parties and Party Systems: A Framework for Analysis  (Cambridge University Press   1976). [26] Busch (n 8). [27]  British Election Study 2014-2023: Waves 1-20 Internet Panel Codebook  s l (2020) 303. [28] Yoav Benjamini and Yosef Hochberg, ‘Controlling the False Discovery Rate: A Practical and Powerful Approach to Multiple Testing’ (1995) 57(1) Journal of the Royal Statistical Society: Series B (Methodological) 289. [29] RDocumentation, p.adjust: Adjust P-Values for multiple comparisons  (no date) < https://www.rdocumentation.org/packages/stats/versions/3.6.2/topics/p.adjust > accessed 29 May 2021. [30] fig 14. [31] Adams (n 5). [32] Budge and Klingemann (n 5). [33] Dahlberg (n 16). [34] Fieldhouse (n 2). [35] Busch (n 8); Elisabeth Gidengil, Andre Blais, Neil Nevitte, and Richard Nadeau, ‘Priming and campaign context: evidence from recent Canadian elections’ in David M Farrell and Rudiger Schmitt-Beck (eds), Do Political Campaigns Matter? Campaign Effects in Elections and Referendums (Routledge 2002). [36] Busch (n 8); Danny Hayes, ‘Has television personalised voting behaviour?’ (2008) 31 Political Behaviour 231; Max Kaase, ‘Is there personalization in politics? Candidates and voting behaviour in Germany’ (1994) 15 International Political Science Review 211; Klaus Schoenbach, ‘The “Americanization” of German election campaigns: any impact on the voters?’ in David L Swanson and Paolo Mancini (eds), Politics, Media and Modern Democracy  (Praeger Publishers 1996).

Fig 1. The Danish Palaces Egg (House of Fabergé 1890). James Petts, Wikimedia Commons. . The Russian jeweller Peter Karl Fabergé achieved enduring fame under the last Czar of the Russian Empire, Nicholas II. Fabergé is best known for his eggs, which are better described as objects of opulence and fantaisie  than as pieces of jewellery. In the form of small pendant eggs, these Easter gifts were adorned with gemstones, chromatic porcelain, and Imperial monograms.   Although Fabergé eggs represent only a fraction of the magnificent jewellery the house produced for the Romanovs, they are key symbols of the Russian Empire. Peter Fabergé was appointed jeweller to the Imperial Court in 1886. He was at the heart of Imperial production, and described as the ‘reinventor of Russian jewellery’.[1] In celebration of Easter, Nicholas II’s Czarina and mother would receive a Fabergé egg each year. 52 Imperial Fabergé eggs were produced between 1885-1917. They often took more than a year to complete, and are now exceptionally rare. These Imperial treasures were therefore incredible displays of affluence. However, the significance of Fabergé eggs extends beyond their glittering façade. They were to become symbols of the schism between the Russian people and the Romanov dynasty.   After almost 300 years of Romanov rule, Fabergé eggs came to symbolise the extravagance of the Russian Empire. They were polyvalent, simultaneously reminders of Christ’s death and of his revolutionary resurrection.[2] They would become emblematic of the attempts to uphold the artificial, luxurious façade of the Romanov Empire in Russia, which concealed the discontentment permeating through society. The contrast between actual events in Russia and these lavish gifts is one between violence and beauty, destitution and extravagance. By exploring Fabergé eggs as an insight into the watershed of the 1917 Revolution, I intend to highlight the stark disconnect between the last Romanov Imperial family and their country’s people.   Blinding glory and magnificence   The memory of a previously magnificent Russia would distort the reign of Nicholas II, who was both a deeply religious and absolutist. The Romanovs saw themselves as irreplaceable, each of them being a gift of revelation by God to Russia. Their privilege was perceived as a rightful consequence of their God-given status. Although the jewelled eggs were gifted through an annual tradition, commemorating Easter festivities, they had the political aim of illustrating Nicholas II’s transcendent power, unique to the Czar. Nicholas II’s coronation of 1897 was marked by the ‘greatest’ and most significant Fabergé egg, the ‘Coronation Fabergé Egg’.[3] As Malcolm Forbes put it, ‘one man’s decadence is another man’s creative art’. Forbes characterises the Romanovs’ lifestyle as both excessive and artistically enriching, illustrative of the growing moral and cultural severance of the Imperial court from its nation.[4]   Made of red gold, the egg was covered in yellow enamel and encrusted in a lattice pattern of black Romanov eagles. Drawing inspiration directly from Czarina Alexandrovna’s coronation attire, the colours of the Fabergé egg were intended to evoke power, succession, and the extreme luxury of celebration.[5] The egg opens to reveal an exact replica of the coronation chariot, constructed with remarkable delicacy. The main frame of the carriage is encrusted in diamonds and red enamel. The chariot’s detailing extends to the windows, made of rock crystals, and to the tyres, made of platinum. The chariot alone took 15 months to complete. The jeweller did not spare on materials—these objects were of astounding luxury. This projection of power and expressive visual opulence seems incongruous with the actual events of the coronation in 1897, which the Romanovs may have preferred to forget.   Ambitions to secure a smooth transition of monarchical power from Alexander III were crushed at Nicholas II’s coronation. Whilst an elaborate coronation ritual was orchestrated to reinforce the notions of a positive ‘consensus of a new monarch’, events transpired that became known as the ‘Khodynka Tragedy’. As authorities failed to maintain civic order, a rush to acquire celebratory gifts resulted in a catastrophic crowd crush following the coronation.[6] The repercussions of the event caused approximately 5,000 deaths.[7] Despite the number of lives lost, festivities continued as soon as the Czar and Czarina appeared, suggesting a dismissive element to the Czar’s early governance. Nonetheless, the ubiquity of deprivation—with citizens desperate to receive edible gifts—is symbolic of the dichotomy in Russia at this time. Despite fabricating opulence with the Fabergé traditions, the system of dynastic power was not representative of contemporary life. The precursors of revolution were already occurring in the newly anointed Czar’s Empire. While the Romanovs continued to fund their lavish lifestyles, the Czar was turning a blind eye to the mass poverty and deprivation in his country. Thus, the glorious tradition of the coronation ended up as a blood-stained reminder of the beginning of the end for Russian dynastic rule.   Although these events were not known to the jewellery house at the time of the gifts’ conception, the ‘Coronation Fabergé Egg’ had become a tainted symbol of Nicholas II’s ascension to the throne. The concepts of the Fabergé egg were leveraged from the Empire’s traditional past, characteristic of state ideology under the fatal rule of Nicholas II. Alla Bychkova further encapsulates the significance of historicity for Fabergé: the jewellery house was ‘breaking through all the barriers between the past and the future, between myth and reality’.[8] Although the Empire was founded in ruthlessness and ruin, both jeweller and Czar developed their image by invoking historical power.   The growing divide between Czar and subject was embedded in this dynastic flamboyance. Although they shimmered, the Fabergé eggs also blinded the dynasty to its true situation: a ticking time-bomb which culminated in revolution.   Reality and the dynasty   The contrast between dynastic majesty and harsh reality in Russia was concealed by the scalding grip of Nicholas II. Transfers of power were initially straightforward in the Romanov Empire. However, the throne changed nine times during the nineteenth century, much more often than in any other European state. Following the shooting of Alexander II, initial reforms towards a more democratic Russia were upturned.[9] The Duma had broken down into a number of warring factions. Nicholas II reverted to conservative reform, considering it to be more successful at maintaining social order. The normal ‘metamorphosis from absolute monarchy to democracy’ did not occur. This was one of the many consequences of Romanov rule.[10] Those who celebrated absolute monarchy and political stability were misguided, as revolutions do not simply erupt unexpectedly.   The tercentenary of the Romanov dynasty was marked by celebration across Russia. Culminating in the grand entry of Nicholas II to Moscow—upon his return across the Volga river from Kostroma—the Imperial family were greeted by immense crowds of people wanting to get a glimpse of the Romanov Czar and Czarina.[11] The events of 1897 seemed to have been safely overlooked and cloistered. This momentous event was independently celebrated with the commission of the ‘Tercentenary Egg’ by Fabergé. The jewelled Easter egg’s surface incorporates 18 separate miniatures, one for each Romanov Czar, from Michael I to Nicholas II. Within the Fabergé egg is the surprise of a rotating globe of the Earth. One hemisphere shows the original Empire inherited by Michael Romanov in 1613. The other hemisphere shows the Romanov Empire in 1913, which had grown to a vast 6.2 million square miles.[12] The messages of the egg are Imperial strength, power and, notably, continuity of expansion. The materials of enamel, gold, and precious stones are mimetic of sovereign affirmation, having been extracted from the lands of Romanov Russia. For the Czarina, that there were personal and national celebrations upon their return to Moscow signalled that the rumours of revolution were false. Remarkably, she told her lady-in-waiting, ‘We only need to show ourselves, and at once their hearts are ours’.[13] As usual, the Romanovs perceived their dynasty as the jewel of the Empire. They did not even attempt to understand the real situation of Russia.   The corollaries of the 1912 famine, and increased demonstrations for workers’ rights, were more indicative of the reality of the Empire on the ground. Whilst the Romanovs squandered the nation’s wealth on Fabergé eggs—the ‘Tercentenary Egg’ was valued at 175,000 rubles in 1927—their country lived in poverty.[14] The causes of the 1905 Revolution continued to affect the lives of radicals, trade unionists, and ordinary people. Disastrously, two million deaths followed the 1912 famine, and three million workers came out on strike between 1912 and 1914.[15] A morbid awareness of extreme poverty became widespread as the endemic deprivation created a sense that life was fleeting. Education was seen as the best means to increase the workforce’s productivity, but it had uncomfortable political consequences—literacy rates remained at only 24% at the start of Nicholas II’s reign.[16] This highlights that the regime was more concerned with self-preservation than with promoting education, especially since education could increase actions against their absolutism. Lenin’s vision of a communist Russia was becoming more appealing by comparison with the deeply flawed and archaic actual system. Revolution was in the air and it seemed only a matter of time before the business of 1905 was completed.   The duality of Romanov Russia is manifest in the Imperial jeweller’s creations. The dynasty was resistant to recognise the constant hunger and the dire conditions of their nation’s workers. Fabergé eggs were still produced in the First World War, and even in 1917 epitomised the extreme naivety of the Romanovs. The jewels of the Empire, which seem to speak of eternal life, would come to emblematise death.   Converted symbols of revolution   On the brink of revolution in 1917, these works were still being created. The volatility of the situation did not diminish the extravagant tradition. The production of the ‘Steel Military Egg’ by Fabergé would come to symbolise the destructive force of war and Romanov misfortune. Intended to have a finish of dull blackened steel, with minimal decoration, the Easter egg is supported on four small artillery shells. Hidden inside is a surprise miniature of Nicholas II and his son. The humility of father and son, and the bond between them, are captured in the miniature surprise. However, both were trapped in a politically volatile situation, inside and outside the image. The Czar was unable to uphold his sovereignty and Romanov rule. His son, Alexei Nikolayevich, would never succeed to the throne, because of his haemophilia. In the image, father and son are surrounded by soldiers, who are a poignant reminder of the imminent revolution. Kenneth Snowman described the egg as a ‘banal kitsch’, as its black finish has gradually degraded, symbolising the breakdown of the dynasty.[17]   Eventually, this breakdown was completed. The way forward for Russia, following the 1917 revolution, was the formation of Vladimir Lenin’s communist government. As Tatiana Muntian argues, the Fabergé eggs were a ‘tangible symbol of the destruction of the Russian monarchy’.[18] This interpretation evokes the Romanovs’ ignorance to the Russian people’s plight. The fragile nation and Imperial family became subverted upon revolution, just as the polishing away of the egg’s black finish revealed an artificially glistening metal shell. This destruction is epitomised by the abandonment of the jewels in the wake of the forced abdication and exile of the Romanov family.[19] Fabergé eggs were confiscated and nationalised. Such was the denouement of the jewelled dynastic symbol of Imperial Russia. The remaining Fabergé eggs are a nexus to the times of the Romanovs, a reminder of previous, opulent suppression. As substitutes, pluralist experience and commonality came to the forefront of political symbolism in the new socialist Russia.   The Romanovs were sentenced to death by communist revolutionaries. Thus, the Fabergé traditions of splendour vanished, never to return.   Loose ends of Fabergé   Today, Fabergé eggs are objects of Russian cultural heritage, exhibited around the world. Several Fabergé eggs disappeared during the pillaging of palaces, and 12 are still missing. However, Tatiana Muntian and Marianna Chistyakova have solved the intriguing mystery surrounding a 1917 Easter egg, the unfinished ‘Blue Tsarevich Constellation Egg’, discovered in 2003. This egg represents the final struggle of the Romanovs, who refused to entertain the possibility that their Imperial opulence may have sparked revolution. It represents ‘a scattered [and] incomplete’ façade of the Romanovs, cracking under revolutionary force. The fragments left over from the Easter egg’s construction by Fabergé likewise ‘epitomiz[e] the collapse of the illustrious firm’.[20]   Nevertheless, the eggs originally had a religious purpose: to reflect the resurrection of Christ. These decorative objects remain an insight for the contemporary viewer into the turbulence of the Romanov dynasty. Even though the dynasty collapsed, Fabergé eggs have been revived for the contemporary viewer on view in museums, in keeping with the Easter egg’s religious connotations of revival. Danielle Jump   Danielle Jump is an undergraduate student of History of Art at the University of Cambridge. She is interested in the decorative arts, jewellery, and the ways in which these art forms are reflective of contemporary culture. She hopes to pursue a career within the art industry, specialising in contemporary jewellery. [1] ‘Carl Faberge’ accessed 14 February 2021. [2] ibid. [3] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ ( Fabergé Research Site ) < https://fabergeresearch.com/eggs-faberge-imperial-egg-chronology/ > accessed 12 February 2021. [4] Toby Faber, Fabergé’s Eggs  (Random House 2008) 206. [5] ibid 46. [6] Richard Wortman, Scenarios of Power: Myth and Ceremony in Russian Monarchy , vol 1 ( Peter the Great to the Death of Nicholas I , Princeton   University Press 1995) 89-90. [7] Faber (n 4) 47. [8] Alla Bychkova, ‘Peter Carl Fabergé, Biography, History of the Fabergé House in Russia’ ( La belle epoque ) < https://www.liveinternet.ru/users/la_belle_epoque/post73433488/ > accessed 14 February 2021. [9] Cynthia Hyla Whittaker, ‘The Idea of an Elected Monarch in the 18th century’ (2001) 18 Acta Slavica Iaponica 1. [10] Daniel Gordon, ‘“Public Opinion” and the Civilizing Process in France: The Example of Morellet’ (1989) 22 Eighteenth-Century Studies 302. [11] Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3). [12] Faber (n 4) 95. [13] ibid 96. [14] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3). [15] Fuyuki Kurasawa, ‘The Making of Humanitarian Visual Icons: On the 1921-1923 Russian Famine as Foundational Event’ in Jeffrey C Alexander, Dominik Bartmański, and Bernhard Giesen (eds) Iconic Power: Materiality and Meaning in Social Life  (Palgrave Macmillan 2012) 68;   Faber (n 4) 96. [16] Lenore A Grenoble, Language Policy in the Soviet Union  (Kluwer Academic Publishers 2003) 46. [17] A Kenneth Snowman, ‘Carl Fabergé Goldsmith to the Imperial Court of Russia’ (Debrett’s 1979, as cited in Faber (n 4) 112). [18] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3). [19] Faber (n 4) 129. [20] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3).

The assumption we live in a secularized world is false. The world today … is as furiously religious as it ever was. —Peter Berger[1] Fig 1. Illustration of the opening sequence of La dolce vita (Federico Fellini 1960) (the author 2021). In his seminal work The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics  (1999), Peter Berger challenges the assumption that modernisation means secularisation. Following Berger’s repudiation of the secularisation thesis, a ‘postsecular turn’ has, in recent years, appeared in many fields of scholarship, from political theory and sociology to religious studies and cultural history. Largely popularised by Jürgen Habermas, ‘post-secularism’ seeks to accommodate the place of religion in modern society, rather than occlude one in favour of the other. Although I cannot cover the theoretical nuances of this elusive concept in the space of this article, I wish to stage the question of the secular and the sacred using two Italian films from very different time periods: Federico Fellini’s La dolce vita  (‘The Sweet Life’, 1960) and Paolo Sorrentino’s La grande bellezza  (‘The Great Beauty’, 2013).   La dolce vita  chronicles the colourful spectacle of modern Rome through the world of Marcello Rubini (Marcello Mastroianni), a suave journalist-cum-gossip-columnist, whose aspirations as a writer are ultimately drowned out by the glamorous spectacle of Roman nightlife, Hollywood stars, declining aristocrats, and jaded intellectuals. Marcello descends into bitter, Dionysian revelry and self-serving hedonism.   Jep Gambardella (Toni Servillo), protagonist of La grande bellezza , is not unlike an older version of Mastroianni’s charismatic journalist. We meet Jep at his sixty-fifth birthday. Despite early success in his career, Jep has only written one book. Since then, he too has been seduced by ‘the sweet life’, living, like Marcello, between the dizzying late hours of Roman nightclubs and the lonely, hungover moments of clarity that accompany the light of dawn. Although both characters never quite part ways with their cool cynicism—we may think of La grande bellezza ’s final words, ‘in fondo, è solo un trucco’ (‘after all, it’s just a trick’)—both films end with a possible glimmer of hope. In La dolce vita , the angelic waitress Paola (Valeria Ciangottini) waves on a beach to Marcello, who has just emerged from a night of partying. Though he seemingly cannot understand her, she proceeds to look directly into the camera. Even if she cannot reach Marcello, she extends her mysterious, salvific gesture to us as spectators, and the film fades to black. La grande bellezza similarly ends with a saintly figure and a beach. In Rome Jep meets Sister Maria (Giusi Merli), a missionary nun and proclaimed ‘Santa’ (‘Saint’), unambiguously a parody of Mother Theresa. Jep then leaves Rome and returns to the island where he consummated his first relationship, with a girl named Elisa. In a direct evocation of Fellini’s final shot, Elisa now looks into the camera. It is here, in turn, that we hear Jep read in voiceover the opening of his new novel. As his words spill beyond the film frame through his disembodied voice, they suggest the genesis of a wholly new medium, yet to be written—yet to be told.   Produced during a period of unprecedented Italian economic growth known as the ‘Economic Miracle’ (1958–63), La dolce vita  juxtaposes the secular with the sacred from its outset. In the opening sequence (fig 1), a helicopter carries a statue of Jesus above the peripheral ruins of a Roman aqueduct. It then turns towards the city centre. As this buzzing emblem of modern technology heralds the arrival of the sculpture, the effigy casts its shadow over awestruck construction workers and glamorous sunbathers. When the flying statue finally arrives at the Vatican, we witness, quite literally, a migration of the religious icon into the modern city. Decades later—and arguably now at a time that no longer grapples with the question of the modern but dwells instead in the postmodern—Paolo Sorrentino alludes to this moment in his television series The Young Pope  (2016): in one scene, the camera hovers over the dome of St Peter’s basilica, the humming of a helicopter audible offscreen.   Throughout his works, Sorrentino sets himself in dialogue with Fellini. Sorrentino’s intertextual playfulness is particularly apparent with regards to Fellini’s thematic and formal penchant for repositioning the sacred into the secular. Rather than opposing the religious and mundane worlds as irreconcilable,[2] both directors use stylised tableaux, cityscapes, and panoramas to show how religious icons and rites move into the everyday, urban landscape—how they move, as it were, from the otherworldly sublime into the earthly quotidian. This use of setting is especially evident in Sorrentino’s La grande bellezza  and Fellini’s La dolce vita . The backdrops of both   films, of which Rome is the central one, become the locus for the shift between sacred and secular. Using the city as a metonym for modernity, both Fellini and Sorrentino foreground the figure of the flâneur through an urban, secularised landscape, mapping the shift of religion in modernity through distinct, juxtaposed topologies. By emphasising the geographies of the modern cityscape—and its antithesis in the natural seascape—both Fellini and Sorrentino trace the relocation, rather than the disappearance, of the sacred into the secular.   The narratives of La dolce vita  and La grande bellezza  feature protagonists who correspond to the Benjaminian/Baudelarian model of the ‘flâneur’, the quintessentially secularised aesthetic figure of the modern urban experience. As artist figures who have become creatively impotent over time, Marcello and Jep wander through Rome in a series of loosely connected vignettes. Even the episodic structure reflects a kind of ‘flâneurship’: it is propelled by the meandering movement between accumulative long takes and by non-causal narratives. Aligning themselves with the camera, Jep and Marcello tend to adopt a detached, passive viewership of the city. Significantly, the flâneur is a product of modernity, pursuing ‘the modern only through a fundamental passivity’.[3]   In Walter Benjamin’s terms, the Baudelairean flâneur receives ‘profane illumination’ and ‘materialistic, anthropological inspiration’ through his ‘overcoming of religious illumination’.[4] I propose that the flâneur is a modern-day foil to the pilgrim. Unlike the flâneur, the pilgrim performs an ultimate act of ‘sacrifice’ through movement, as Giorgio Agamben points out, reestablishing ‘the right relationships between the divine and the human by moving…into the sacred sphere’.[5] Though Agamben contrasts this process with the tourist’s ‘destruction of all possible use’, the flâneur—even more so than the tourist, another recurring motif in Sorrentino’s works—aestheticises the world around him in a way that is purely self-serving.   Sequences from both La dolce vita  and La grande bellezza  echo this idea. In La grande bellezza , Jep peruses some of Rome’s most beautiful buildings with Ramona (Sabrina Ferilli), a stripper who in fact offers a much more profound relationship than any of Jep’s friendships with glamorous literati. After attending a grotesque party at which a child prodigy is forced to perform action painting, Jep and Ramona leave with a friend who is entrusted with ‘le chiavi dei più bei palazzi di Roma’ (‘the keys of the most beautiful palaces in Rome’). The three experience a kind of museum by night, and as spectators we are led through a montage of oil paintings, sculptures, and spectacular architectural works. While the wide-eyed Ramona faces the galleries with childlike awe, Jep is more apathetic. He turns away from the paintings with a cynical smile, retreating into the dark shadows of the candlelit corridor. In La dolce vita , Marcello visits a historic castle on an evening revel with the mysterious heiress Maddalena, with whom he has one of several profound yet melancholically doomed relationships. The two hold up a candle to an array of portraits. Marcello comments to a tipsy Maddalena, ‘Che bello, hanno tutti gli stessi occhi, hai visto?’ (‘How marvelous, they all have the same eyes, did you notice?’). Maddalena, though, is more interested in playing with her veil than in examining the paintings.   It is important to note the axial connotations of the flâneur as one who moves horizontally. This meandering direction contrasts with the verticality associated with religion. As S Brent Plate observes, ‘vertical sacred spaces aspire with their spires’, whereas ‘horizontal landscapes are bodies, circuitries that circulate and foster social communication’.[6] Sorrentino juxtaposes Jep’s horizontal movement across the social circles of Rome with the vertical acts of penance performed by Sister Maria. Despite the caricatural vein that inevitably accompanies this postmodern use of the cliché saint figure, Sister Maria’s presence in the final sequence of the film is striking. Sorrentino juxtaposes her penance with the opening of Jep’s novel, spoken in voiceover. On her knees, the ‘Santa’ toils upwards, ascending the stairs towards the altar. Whereas Jep frequently has the advantage of looking down, surveying the convent courtyards from his terrace, the ‘Santa’ looks up towards the final step in a physically gruelling act of humility. Furthermore, this vertical-horizontal axis undergoes a redemptory reversal in the flashback to Jep’s ‘prima volta’ (‘first time’). He often nostalgically recalls the event by looking up at the ceiling of his apartment in Rome. In a flashback, Jep also looks up at Elisa, who stands a few steps above him, filmed from a slightly low angle.   La dolce vita  frames the reversal of religious, pilgrim-like ascension even more clearly. The religious journey now transforms into secularised sightseeing. One scene was deemed particularly blasphemous by a reader of L’Osservatore Romano  ( The Roman   Observer ),[7] the Vatican’s daily newspaper. In the scene, the film star Sylvia (Anita Ekberg) ascends the stairs of the Vatican. Dressed in a couture version of priestly vestments, her costume further emphasises the culture industry’s desecration of religion and pilgrimage. Sylvia, as the figurehead of the ‘cult of the sex goddess’[8] or ‘cult of the star’, replaces the saint as an object of reverence. She becomes yet another character that, like the flâneur, has transformed the acts of walking, aestheticising, and surveilling into a new modern myth. The enraptured Marcello comments, ‘Tu sei tutto Sylvia! … Tu sei la prima donna del primo giorno della creazione’ (‘You are everything, Sylvia! … You are the first woman of the first day of the creation of the world’). The flâneur is thereby attached to the secular ‘cult of beauty’.[9] La dolce vita ’s Steiner (Alain Cuny) embodies this kind of detached intellectualism. He touts the rhetoric of an aesthetic avant-gardist but, as with Sorrentino’s performance artist Talia Concept (Anita Kravos), this rhetoric masks emptiness. These spatially grounded figures, led by the flâneur, use the city to stage the shift between the religious cult and the modern ritual of secularised aestheticisation, rather than wholly nullifying the former.   Georg Simmel linked the city to modern spiritual anxiety in the early twentieth century, and many have followed suit. We can see Rome as a metonym of modernisation. Zach Zimmermann notes that, in La dolce vita , ‘Fellini presents an image of [a] new Rome in which religion is absent and material and sexual impulses rule’.[10] Yet this assertion overlooks the pervasiveness of religious symbols, architecture, and rites. These still dominate Roman life, albeit in a secular mode. As Michel de Certeau quips, ‘unlike Rome, New York has never learned the art of growing old by playing on all its pasts’.[11] Rather than transforming into a wholly new, urbanised metropolis, Rome preserves its iconographic identity as capital of both Hellenism and Christianity. Jep’s apartment, for example, is surrounded by the courtyards of a convent, but it also has a spectacular view of the Colosseum. Though set in the twenty-first century, Sorrentino’s production shuns modern transport and urban movement in favour of the old model of the ambulatory flâneur. Fellini, on the other hand, juxtaposes Rome’s new and old. Modern transport, in fact, pervades the film. Characters ride cars frequently, Sylvia flies in to the airport, and there is of course the helicopter opening sequence. Yet while Fellini’s helicopter symbolises modernisation, it moves towards a historic destination: the Vatican. Thus, the opening sequence foregrounds the Vatican within the modern-day cityscape. Despite the dwindling religious participation brought by Italy’s 1958–63 ‘Economic Miracle’, the dome of St Peter’s dominates the Roman skyline in La dolce vita .[12] Even today, Rome, as capital of the Catholic Church, cannot completely renounce its religious affiliations.   These religious symbols and institutions coexist with consumer-driven capitalism. This coexistence is the mode of survival for a postmodern Rome that persists today, in which, as Pierpaolo Antonello comments, ‘l’unico ancoraggio simbolico viene dato da una estetica e dalle sopravvivenze del sacro nel contesto di un processo continuo di “profanazioni”’ (‘a symbolic undercurrent only appears through an aesthetic and perpetual process of “profanations” that allow the sacred to survive’).[13] In one episode in La dolce vita , the debauched aristocrats wander through the ruins of a decaying palazzo which, as the smarmy host explains, was originally built for two popes. ‘Due papi!’ (‘Two popes!’) repeats his vapid German girlfriend, seemingly amused by the sacral history of the now-derelict building. Though the architecture survives, it is now a site for pagan séances and nighttime sexual escapades. Modern relics are displaced, even defamiliarised, into mundane settings. In La grande bellezza,  ageing aristocratic ‘principesse’ (‘princesses’) are patrons of   some of Rome’s most beautiful buildings. However, surrounded by Rome’s melancholy historicity, the ‘principesse’ spend their evenings playing cards and drinking whisky. In La dolce vita , miracle trees stand in a halo of cameras. In Sorrentino’s The Young Pope , popes awaken under crucifixes to slip their feet into Havaiana flip-flops. The mise-en-scène of each tableau ironically juxtaposes religious symbols with secular, mundane objects of capitalist modernity.   While the city becomes the main site of modern secularisation, the sea represents its antithesis, a possible site of redemption and true spiritual experience. Andrew McKenna points out that in both La strada  (1954) and La dolce vita , Fellini makes the beach a ‘threshold   space’. It offers symbolic redemption to Zampanò (Anthony Quinn) in La strada  and to Marcello in La dolce vita .[14] Similarly, Jep’s nostalgic flashbacks to his ‘prima volta’ with Elisa take place on the beach of a depopulated island. Jep returns to this site by way of an oneiric ocean edited onto his apartment ceiling, a surrealist image that blurs time—as both a flashback and a diegetically present-tense daydream—and place—Jep’s bourgeois interior merges with the faraway island. The simple horizons of these seascapes mark a formal contrast to the decadent baroque textures featured in both films. When Marcello first meets the angelic Paola at a seaside trattoria, he asks her to turn her head in profile. As a few rays of sunlight form a flat canvas-like background, she resembles a Cimabue cherub or Umbrian angel, and Marcello comments on this resemblance. Paola, as image, presents a stark contrast to the busy textures and depth of field Fellini uses for the decaying Roman palazzi. It is no surprise, then, that her reappearance at the end of the film occurs at the beach. Sorrentino makes an intertextual reference to this scene with Elisa. In a Caspar David Friedrich-like panorama, the sea aligns itself with biblical references and with the figure of the spiritual wanderer, but not with the flâneur. Rather than inviting secular aestheticisation, the seascape solicits self-reflection. The empty horizon has religious connotations and presents both Jep and Marcello with a chance for redemption and ascetic natural contemplation. In Marcello’s case, though, this is seemingly lost. The waterscape is thus a visual, spatial, and (given its premodern simplicity) temporal foil to the cityscape. Read symbolically, the sea is an embodied setting for the Catholic ‘grace’ that Pier Paolo Pasolini criticised in Fellini’s film.[15]   As a result, Fellini and Sorrentino thematise the migratory, modernised identity of religious symbolism through their formal language. They use tableaux to reflect the totalising effect of their modern worlds. Rather than being eliminated, the mystic ritual migrates into empty forms of ‘pure art’ and ‘secular beauty’.[16] Mythical symbols survive in a modern setting by stripping themselves of their spiritual value, becoming objects that offer themselves to the secular aesthete and flâneur. For this reason, Jep Gambardella can proudly declare himself ‘il re dei mondani’ (‘the king of high society’, or ‘the worldly king’). Yet despite the superficial appearance of his aesthetically opulent life, Jep has not found ‘the great beauty’ of the film’s title. Thus, although Fellini and Sorrentino primarily adopt a formal method of juxtaposed coexistence, they use a thematically contrastive approach, mapping spiritual debasement—and rare pockets of hope—through a progression of symbolically imbued loci. Authentic spiritual enlightenment, on the other hand, peeks through as a simple, silent, and uninhabited landscape. The words of a priest in La dolce vita  capture this irresolvable dichotomy, exposing the mundane as cluttered, modernised chaos that occludes possibilities of individual contemplation. ‘I miracoli nascono nel raccoglimento, nel silenzio … non in questa confusione’ (‘Miracles are born in contemplation, in silence … not in this chaos’). Marie-Louise James   Marie-Louise James studied German and Italian as an undergraduate at Trinity College, Cambridge (2016), and is an MPhil student at the Cambridge Faculty of Modern and Medieval Languages and Linguistics. In autumn 2021, she will be begin a PhD with the German Department at Princeton University. She works between film, visual media, and literature and has both written and illustrated articles for Varsity , Polyglossia , and Notes Magazine . [1] Peter Berger, ‘The Desecularization of the World: A Global Overview’ in Peter Berger (ed), The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics  (Eermans Publishing 1999) 2. [2] ‘Mundane’ derives from the Latin mundanus (worldly/earthly). [3] Dimitris Eleftheriotis, Cinematic Journeys: Film and Movement  (Edinburgh University Press 2012) 17. [4] Sigrid Weigel, Body and Image Space: Re-Reading Walter Benjamin  (Routledge 1996) 17. [5] Giorgio Agamben, ‘In Praise of Profanation’ (2007) 10 Log 23, 31. [6] S Brent Plate, Religion and Film: Cinema and the Re-Creation of the World  (Columbia University Press 2009) 68. [7] Tomaso Subini, ‘La lagrimetta negata nel finale di La dolce vita ’ in Raffaele De Berti (ed), Federico Fellini. Analisi di Film: possibile letture  (McGraw-Hill 2006) 65. [8] Andrew McKenna, ‘Fellini’s Crowds and the Remains or Religion’ (2006) 12/13 Contagion: Journal of Violence, Mimesis, and Culture 159, 167. [9] Walter Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ in Gerald Mast, Marshall Cohen, and Leo Braudy (eds), Film Theory and Criticism  (Oxford University Press 1992) 669. [10] Zach Zimmermann, ‘Film as History: Fellini’s La Dolce Vita  as a Historical Artifact’ (2010) 6(2) Elements 42, 49. [11] Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Steven Rendall tr, University of California Press 1984) 91. [12] Peter Bondanella, The Films of Federico Fellini (Cambridge University Press 2002) 66. [13] Pierpaolo Antonello, ‘Rivalità intermediali e destino della letteratura in La grande bellezza di Paolo Sorrentino’ in Denis Brotto and Attilio Motta (eds), Interferenze: scrittori/registi e registi/scrittori nella cultura italiana  (Padova University Press 2019) 163. [14] McKenna (n 8) 171. [15] Pier Paolo Pasolini, ‘The Catholic Irrationalism of Fellini’ (Frank Demers and Pina Demers trs, 1984) 9(1) Film Criticism 63, 70. [16] Benjamin (n 9) 669.

On 11 September 2001, as I walked to the Rome bureau of  The New York Times , I stopped in a café on the Campo di Fiori to see why a crowd had gathered to watch CNN. Just as I edged towards the bar, the second plane crashed into the World Trade Center.   In the silence that engulfed the room, everyone understood that the world had suddenly become a different place. A torrent of thoughts rushed through my head as I imagined seismic geopolitical upheaval, but mostly I stood there, overwhelmed by the enormous and symbolic violence of the attack. Certainly, I did not understand how this moment would, in tandem with the digital charge of the internet, be the catalyst that would change my life as a photojournalist.   Shaking me from numbness, an editor called a few hours later and asked me to depart to Gaza as soon as possible. And so, I duly left for the Middle East the next morning. I saw daily violence between Palestinian youths and Israeli forces, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. After two weeks yo-yoing between Gaza and Jerusalem, the paper called again and asked if I would be prepared to head to Afghanistan. To convince me, they dangled a carrot: a digital camera. I had never seen a physical digital camera, even though there had been models available for over a year. When I had been in Kosovo in 1999, The New York Times had sent one with a photographer who had arrived from the United States, but the day before he was supposed to hand it over to me, he somehow managed to drop it into a river. The editors were almost as unhappy as I was—the camera had cost them $12,000.   Unpacking the box, I looked with equal wonder at the small screen on the back of the camera and the sizeable instruction manual that came with it. I took a plane the next morning to Moscow, and another the day after to Tajikistan. This was the jump-off point for reporters heading into northern Afghanistan, where the base of the Northern Alliance was located. I remember still trying to decipher the manual when I arrived in Dushanbe.   Taking the camera in my hands, I was surprised by two things. Firstly, that the operation was almost the same as using a film camera—though why I had been expecting something different, I am not sure—and secondly, that the camera was so big, and heavy. It felt robust, which was a relief, since I had to take it to Afghanistan.   We have become so accustomed to digital cameras and photographs, that it is hard to imagine what a change this signified for photographers like myself working under deadlines in the field. Starting work as a photographer in 1991 in the Soviet Union, I had left the UK with a couple of cameras and a few boxes of film given to me by The Times . Most of the work that I shot in the early years of my career was for slow-burning feature stories or projects—it was also not particularly good, but that is another story—and the few times that I photographed news events were usually when I had been hired by the Reuters Moscow bureau. Travelling on assignment for them was a technologically complicated business. In addition to my camera equipment, I would depart with a big suitcase that contained a Hasselblad film scanner as well as chemicals and canisters for processing film. Since colour film needed to be developed at 38 degrees Celsius, usually in some cramped Soviet-style hotel bathroom, I also had to take a hand-sized electrical heating coil which, happily, also served for making cups of tea. At the time, it all felt like a perfectly normal way to go about sending photographs from the road but, looking back, it seems nothing other than a huge palaver. So when I could see this image appear immediately on the back of the camera, it was naturally an enormous revelation. I ended up spending three months in Afghanistan in late 2001, starting from the town of Khwaja Bahauddin in the north-east, where Ahmad Shah Massoud, the Northern Alliance commander had been killed, before moving through Kunduz, Mazar-i-Sharif, Herat, and finally flying to Kabul. Without that digital camera, it would have been all but impossible to have worked there for a daily newspaper.   Of course, every war is covered in a different way, depending on access to the battlefield and the country where it is taking place. A close friend of mine and neighbour from London, Horst Faas, was the legendary head of the Associated Press photo operation during the Vietnam War, and both a great photographer and a great editor. He recounted how photographers like himself could head to the military airport in Saigon and hitch a ride to the front on almost any helicopter. Because the roads outside of the city were under constant attack, it was the safest as well as the fastest way to travel. This was a time when the US military was still very open with the press—a legacy of goodwill that remained from positive coverage during World War II and the Korean War—and not at all comparable to the controlled access of today’s embedded journalists. Generally, after a day or two outside of Saigon, he would come back to the city, have his films processed, edited and the photographs sent on the wire.   Afghanistan was a very different proposition, and being digitally connected was not always so simple. At that time most villages in Afghanistan were off the grid, meaning that the only way to have electricity was to possess a generator. But to have a generator work for six hours or more a day required good petrol that wasn’t watered down with water (as it often was to make an easy profit). Not only did one need to power up the camera batteries and computer, one also needed to maintain a constant charge to a satellite modem and telephone in order to transmit the digital images. To complicate matters, the speed with which it was possible to send images depended enormously on the specifications of your satellite phone. I had one rated at 2,400 baud per minute, which was slow even by 2001 standards and laughable by today’s. On average it took 20 minutes to send a 300-kilobyte image—one that is only a fraction of the size of those taken on a modern mobile phone. To the frustration of my editors in New York, on any given day I was rarely able to send more than five photographs.   Then there were the unexpected technical problems that arrived with a digital camera. Specks of fine dust would constantly and infuriatingly find their way onto the receptors of the camera’s matrix, causing the photographs to appear as though they had drops of water on their surface. I remember looking at the instruction manual to figure out how to lift up the shutter to access the matrix, attempting to remove the particles with a soft brush and the delicacy of a Renaissance painter. I had to repeat the process every couple of days, knowing that one false move could damage the matrix and effectively mark the end of my assignment.   On a far deeper and more fundamental level, there came all the ethical issues that evolved from the digital source itself, in particular the temptations that Photoshop, the primary software tool used by photographers to edit images, could offer. Mercifully or not, I have never been very adept at the post-production of images. In my student days ,when I used to print photographs in a darkroom, the results were always very simple, without much toning or dodging and burning. I never had the patience to learn the delicate techniques that the darkroom demanded, but I also understood that whenever I gave a negative to a printer the photograph was transformed. The style might have been darker or lighter, or simply more sophisticated, but it nonetheless appeared, to my eye, to have a different feeling. In most cases this was probably little more than a question of nuance and taste, and a far cry from the intentional manipulation that had existed in places like the Soviet Union, where commissars and generals, who had fallen out of favour or worse with the Kremlin, would be airbrushed out of official images. Those kinds of change required serious know-how and technique. The troubling brilliance of Photoshop lay in the fact that adjustments, such as cloning pixels, could be done with ease.   These concerns weighed on me from the very beginning. Previously, I had worked with digital images that had been scanned from negatives, but when I started dealing with ones created by a digital camera in Afghanistan, I set myself a limit of not spending more than a minute on a single photograph. I would make sure that the image was correctly exposed and the colour precisely rendered if the camera’s white balance had gone haywire, as often happened with the early digital cameras. My discipline was aided by the fact that I was, and still am, digitally incapable of moving heads from one person to another. Nonetheless, I understood that even dedicated and experienced photojournalists could, in the heat of the moment, yield to the temptation. Two years later, when I was travelling to Baghdad with the Allied invasion force, I heard of a photographer from the Los Angeles Times , Brian Walski, who combined two images showing British troops directing Iraqi civilians outside of Basra in order to make a stronger picture. As soon as the photograph was recognised as being manipulated, he was unceremoniously fired. Today, it is rare that a serious newspaper will encounter such a blatant attempt to change a journalistic image, but the prevalence of minor manipulation remains a problem within the photographic community. When my former Director of Photography at The New York Times , Michelle McNally, was chairwoman of the jury for the 2015 World Press Photo contest, the most important competition for photojournalists worldwide, she stated that ‘20 percent of the photographers entering the penultimate round—where images are considered for the top three awards—were disqualified after technicians compared the entries against the unprocessed RAW files.’   This debate arising at the core of photojournalism stems, in many ways, from the lack of a formal code of conduct and ethics. The manner in which a photojournalist behaves both in the field and afterwards during the editorial process remains, very much, a question of personal choice. On the ground, photojournalists have always had to carefully weigh the issues of proximity to a subject and bearing witness to them against being intrusive. Robert Capa’s mantra, that if a photograph wasn’t good enough one wasn’t close enough, has remained a constant whisper in every war photographer’s ear. The intrinsic choices of how to frame a scene demand rigourous visual, journalistic, and ethical judgments. While for most photojournalists it is a process that is generally instinctive, it is nonetheless one that needs to be permanently engaged.   The move to digital cameras also altered traditional photojournalistic practices in other ways, and one significant change was the way in which the editorial process shifted and became increasingly a role for the photographer. Previously, nearly all the important work I had done for The New York Times  and other news magazines had been sent unseen to the photo-editor in charge of the shoot. I remember being based in Kiev and then Moscow, and constantly searching for friends to carry bags of unprocessed films to Paris, London, or New York, which were then picked up by couriers at the airport. Both the initial selection of images and those intended for publication were left entirely in the hands of the editors. In the digital age, it became up to the photographer to edit his or her own work, leaving only the final choice of images for publication to the photo-editor. It was an empowering but weighty responsibility. Editing images is a far more complex process than might be imagined. Not only does one need to judge the journalistic and artistic merits of a photograph, but the process requires enough emotional distance to let one be sure of one’s decisions. Often, at the end of a long, hard day on the frontline, I was very far from being in the right frame of mind to be balanced and dispassionate about the photographs I had just taken and the scenes that I had witnessed.   The digital camera also changed the manner of the creative process. Using films, it was self-evident that there were only 36 frames for a 35mm camera or 12 for a medium format one, but that was, nonetheless, a natural brake on the way that I photographed. This gave a more measured manner to shooting, and one could almost visualise the images taking their place on the contact sheet. Each frame had to show a noticeable, if incremental, difference, rather than the imperceptible ones that occur with the endless space that a digital camera offers. Of course, in the early days, the first versions of digital cameras did have some technical limitations: the cameras themselves were less powerful, the writing speed of the images to the compact flash cards was slow, and the files were small and of poor quality. A little less than ten years later, I would photograph the royal marriage of William and Kate, and in the 15 minutes or so that they stood alongside the Royal Family on the balcony of Buckingham Palace I took over 1,000 frames. The idea of shooting 25 rolls of film during that length of time seems absurd, but the arrival of the digital camera fundamentally changed the way in which photojournalists looked at and captured what was in front of them.   Above all—and the revolution that I had not foreseen that day in Rome—was the freedom that a digital camera gave me to work in the most remote places imaginable. Once the Northern Alliance began their attack on the Taliban and the front began to move, often on a daily basis, my colleague Dexter Filkins—now a journalist with The   New Yorker —and I had to move with it. Creating a mobile bureau was not so much a choice as a necessity. So we hired a driver with a Toyota pick-up truck, and bought a set of mattresses, a generator, and jerry cans to carry petrol. Whenever we arrived in a new village or town, we would rent a hut in someone’s yard to work from and sleep in. To have used analogue cameras and met a daily news deadline would have been unimaginable, so the Nikon D1H camera in my hands was nothing less than a liberation.   In the 20 years since, digital technology has continued its visual revolution for the public at large. As the cost of cameras has gone down, and the quality of photographs taken on mobile phones has continued to improve, so every one of us has effectively become a photographer. The manner in which we document our daily lives has rarely been so incessant and ubiquitous. We live in a world increasingly saturated with images and so, perhaps, we question their place and value. As the power and capabilities of digital photography become ever greater, so with them grow the boundaries of its possibilities both for creation and manipulation. Soon, wars will be photographed by drone cameras, with deepfake images impossible to distinguish from real ones. Just as, 20 years ago, I sat unwittingly on the cusp of a change that would bring a new era for war reporting in particular and for photojournalism in general, so today the incessant march of technology has brought us to the edge again. More than ever, it will be dependent on the desire of each individual photographer to capture the truth with honesty and courage to show and explain the world that we live in. James Hill   James Hill is a contract photographer for The New York Times . After studying History at Oriel College, Oxford, and Photojournalism at the London College of Printing, he began his career in the Soviet Union in 1991. His work, much of it spent in conflict zones across the Middle East and the former Soviet Union, has garnered multiple awards, including the Pulitzer Prize, the World Press Photo, and the Visa d’Or. He is currently based in Paris.

1   To become an administrative official in imperial China necessitated following a burdensome path from an early age. To begin with, a student needed to familiarise himself (being born male was a prerequisite) with the classical canon of Confucian philosophy, history, and poetry, encompassing some 400,000 characters. Mastery of the source material was then to be demonstrated during a series of increasingly selective examinations, beginning locally and eventually reaching the imperial level before proceeding to the final palace exam, conducted under the eyes of the emperor himself.[1] Those who succeeded became scholar-officials and were guaranteed lives of wide-reaching influence, material comfort, and social respect among the imperial ruling class.   One aspiring student seeking a place among the elect during the late days of the last imperial dynasty was Hong Xiuquan. Born in 1814 as the son of a moderately prosperous farmer, he showed enough talent that his family made the necessary financial sacrifices to let him undertake further study. After intensive learning in primary school, Hong took the local examination and placed first. Enthralled by this early success, he continued studying in hopes of a great career. Eventually the talented youth attempted the imperial examination—and failed.   Returning to farm work, he continued to hope and study. After still more years of toiling, he failed again. While taking the examination for a third time, he suffered a nervous breakdown during which he came to believe himself to be the son of God. After a fourth and final failure, Hong finally recognised the God of his vision as the Christian God of whom the pamphlets of Christian missionaries told. He finally understood the degradation of idolatrous China and his own mission to preach as a brother of Jesus Christ. Travelling the country he gathered followers. Within ten years he had proclaimed the ‘Heavenly Kingdom’ (‘ Taiping ’) and begun a rebellion that would last for years with a death toll in the millions. Before the rebellion was violently squashed in 1846, Hong had just enough time to implement his own version of the examination system—only with a Christian canon instead of a Confucian one, and with himself on top.   2   Today, in another declining empire, no single exam decides the career of aspirant youngsters. A person of the same calibre as Hong might instead follow the arduous path of admission to selective elementary school, boarding school, outstanding A levels and gap year, and then dreaded university admission to inevitably wind up at an international elite university like Cambridge, where this journal originated. Here the ambitious fresher will seek to distinguish themselves intellectually or socially. They might join a well-connected club like the Cambridge Union, seek professional openings, or join a political party. If they are more finely minded they will try their hand at student writing. They might even found a journal themselves, not entirely unlike this one.   It is one of the curious observations to be made at Cambridge these days that the number of student-run journals has grown vastly. Where once the Cambridge Quarterly ruled supreme in the highbrow segment, a flush of ‘Review of …’s and other obscurely titled magazines now compete for a meagre market share. This surge does not correspond with a rise in total readership. At any given launch event one is bound to find cheap wine and the same artsy people encountered at the last. The new journals serve primarily as outlet for aspiring intellectual types who are finding it ever more difficult to place their writing in established publications. Life is tough when even a student journal will not have you, though this is a good primer on what awaits any wannabe writer on the journalistic and academic job market. Most students know better and care little. They are here not for high-minded discourse but to achieve good grades and attend careers events.   3   The universities best known for producing the leisure class of Brideshead Revisited fame have become hothouses of striving ambition. Where once a privileged few mingled fashionably, now many toil hard. This development is apparent in the total number of students, which has ballooned to more than 20,000 at Cambridge. It has also left visible traces in the architectural disasters that all too often followed the overextension of colleges previously housing nearer 100 than 1,000 students. But complaining about aesthetic escapades leaves a bitter taste. When the students were fewer, they were also almost exclusively white, male, privately educated at public schools, and exceedingly rich. Without the expansion of higher education beginning in the post-war years, the university would not be as open to grammar-school, female, non-white, and international students.[2]   It is perhaps for this reason that it has become so difficult to talk about having too many graduates. The meritocratic opening has given talent at least some  chance to thrive regardless of origin. Yet with upward mobility for select poor, but no downward mobility for the rich, it gets crowded on top. Critique so far has been reserved for humanities students, whose degrees are more openly educational credentials rather than signifiers of hard skills. Further tuition fee hikes could close the gates of merit again and reduce the number of economically useless humanities graduates burdening the national economy by reintroducing feudal restrictions.   But that misses the point: that there has been a vast increase in graduates of all subjects, of whom fewer than ever find appropriate jobs.[3] Deindustrialisation has left few opportunities in the productive sector. Instead there is increased competition for the last remaining bastions of well-paid white-collar work in Britain’s financialised service economy: law, banking, and consulting. As a result, even finance salaries are stagnating and there is a lawyer glut. The meritocrats of today fail slowly: they have nowhere to go.   4   What connects a newly meritocratic Britain with imperial China? Both share a fundamental societal defect. Acceptance rates to elite universities and jobs are sinking today for the same reasons that the pass rate fell below 1% in Qing-era imperial examinations: there are too many applicants and too few places. After economic growth has peaked and elite selection has ossified, societies produce more aspirant elites through their established institutions than they can accommodate in the ruling class.   Such is the thesis of Peter Turchin, the historian who coined the concept of ‘elite overproduction’. His ideas are finding keen readers increasingly worried about decline. He has been given space in Bloomberg  and inspired a ‘long read’ in The Atlantic  as well a Financial Times  piece titled ‘The real class war is within the rich’.[4] A Soviet émigré zoologist turned prophet of history, Turchin makes for a curious figure. Frowned upon in academia, he has crossed the Rubicon of the discipline: predicting historical dynamics of the future instead of just retracing the movement of the past.   Elite overproduction is one key feature of the demographic analysis by which Turchin wishes to quantify the challenges that mount up as a society ages and is overcome by rivals. In books such as Historical Dynamics: Why States Rise and Fall  (2003), Secular Cycles  (2006), and   more recently Ages of Discord  (2016), Turchin draws an image of social determinism. His theories of long-term patterns in demography seek to apply the precision of the natural sciences to history. But just like Francis Fukuyama, the last public philosopher of history, Turchin seems more like a thinker of the big-picture history of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In 1992 Fukuyama proclaimed ‘the end of history’ in capitalist and democratic liberalism. Yet while Fukuyama was reading Hegel and finding history’s eschatology in modernity, Turchin seems rather inspired by Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the West . Turchin’s suggestions of cyclical development   confront us with the question—has history ended yet?   5   Already the resurgence of authoritarianism and great power competition seems to render Fukuyama’s end of history thesis a cruel joke. But Turchin goes further. There is a direction to our historical movement—declining—and there are identifiable causes for this disintegration. After a period of post-war consolidation, Western hegemony is challenged not just from the Far East but also increasingly by internal social unrest. Elite overproduction, for which the late-stage Chinese imperial examination system is such a fitting parable, correlates to social instability. In China, failed candidates would become local teachers for a new generation of students or retreat into ascetic hermitage. But they would remain highly educated, having come close enough to the structures of power to see their functioning, while remaining excluded from them.   Those with the liberty to educate themselves do not integrate well with hierarchical orders. This is a truth well known to realist political philosophers from Hobbes to Machiavelli. No one grasped this better than ancient Chinese legalist thinker Lord Shang, who in opposing the meritocratic Confucianism that would lay the foundation for the later imperial examination system wrote that:   Sophistry and cleverness are an aid to lawlessness; rites and music are symptoms of dissipations and licence; kindness and benevolence are the foster-mother of transgressions; employment and promotion are opportunities for the rapacity of the wicked.[5]   Is it not always members of the disaffected elite who have both the greatest motivation and the means to challenge the existing order? That, in any case, is the explanation most often suggested for the Cambridge Five, the upper-middle-class spies who went on from then-exclusive Cambridge to supply information to the Soviet Union. Bored and ostracised, they did not fit into the ruling class— who could take the bourgeoisie seriously again after dining at high table in Cambridge?—but they did find elite places from which to spy. Elite class traitors are also what the former law student Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov imagined in his pamphlet ‘What is to be done?’. The working classes need to be instructed into revolt by bourgeois renegades who possessed greater insight into capitalism, he insisted, as he began leading precisely that revolt under the name of ‘Lenin’.   6   One does not need Turchin’s historical prophecies or Spengler’s pessimism to appreciate the usefulness of the concept of elite overproduction. In many ways it is not so very distinct from Thomas Piketty’s empirical work on inequality. Piketty showed in Capital in the Twenty-First Century  (2013) that the rate of capital accumulation   has grown faster than even the highest wages. As a consequence, the outpaced managerial elite, whose wealth and status stem from work, is unable to keep up with those who happen to inherit much greater riches. That is the ‘class war among the rich’: Magic Circle lawyers and City bankers who struggle to keep up in London. More recently, Capital and Ideology  (2019) correlated this economic divergence with   political demography and the emergence of the ‘Brahmin left’. Losing out economically, educated voters (read: the meritocratic elites) throughout the Western world now tend to vote on the left, when historically they were firmly part of the conservative establishment.   This should be no surprise. Revenue streams from the British Empire have ended and the value of the UK’s exports has failed to keep up since the 1970s. Economic growth has been sluggish as we stumble from one economic crisis to the next. Real wages are stagnating, while the cost of housing has risen so sharply that home ownership is now well out of reach for all but the highest-paid percentiles or those who can expect inheritances. Those who are forced to rent pay an ever greater share of their income into the pockets of buy-to-let landlords. This culminates in substantial generational inequality, so that for the first time in recent history those in the new generation will be materially worse off than their parents. And this does not even take into account the havoc to be wrought by climate change, with which the next generation will pay dearly for the lifestyle of the last. These are easy times to be unhappy, even as a prospective member of the meritocratic elite better off than the rest of the generation.   7   Elite overproduction is here a small part of a greater picture of economic and industrial developments. As the economic pie shrinks and inequality deepens, elite credentials become ever more important while also losing out against culminated financial interests. This is not to say that conflict broods only within the elites—instead, elite conflict is part of an increasing rift. Intra-elite competition is, then, not so much the canary in the coalmine as the very last stop before chaos. The good people of Workington have learnt to expect little. But if even the Cambridge overachievers struggle, trouble is inbound.   Will the overproduced elites of the new generation turn to unrest, with Oxbridge graduates leading the masses? So far, the tradition of British schooling continues to succeed in leaving its products docile and removed from social action. Instead, it is the establishment upper-class scions on the right who have forged an alliance with some of the left-behind masses: Trump, the Brexiteers, the Oxford graduate Viktor Orbán. By themselves, surplus elites produce little but increasingly shrill newspaper columns.   Elite overproduction and competition are but snapshots of larger conflicts. Still, they incentivise us to reconsider the sort of bold historical thinking necessary to understand such challenges. It is a tautology that a society which produces conflict is not peaceful, but the statement bears repeating. When even the very best have to fear for their place, something is off. Either the Enlightenment promise of education and opportunity for all will be fulfilled and we build a society that accommodates for it, or feudal limitations for the majority will return. Talking openly about our elites highlights this urgency. Unless taken seriously, Turchin’s historical theories may prove to be right, and we may tumble into the end of Western civilisation as we know it, led by some disappointed meritocrat who has failed their final examinations.[6]   Instead, give the young meritocratic elite opportunities to address the challenges of our time—from stagnation and climate change to that other great meritocratic nation in the East, we have enough issues that deserve attention. Give the aspiring elite something to plough their hubris into. Something good might come out of it. At the very least, keep them busy and buy their new journal. Jakob Gomolka   Jakob Gomolka read Human, Social, and Political Sciences at Cambridge before pursuing an MPhil there in Political Thought and Intellectual History. He is currently studying Chinese Philosophy at Fudan University, Shanghai. [1] The content, number, and order of examinations of course varied throughout history. Nonetheless, an examination system existed continuously in its open, meritocratic form from at least from the tenth-century Song dynasty to its abolition in 1905 under the Qing dynasty. [2] This is a Pyrrhic victory indeed. About half of undergraduates at Cambridge and Oxford are still privately educated, and the other half are still unrepresentatively middle- and upper-class. Leaving the EU, meanwhile, will cause ever more international students to be outpriced, with only the super-rich being able to afford the fees three times as high as home fees. [3] Higher education participation rates have increased from below 5% in the 1940s to almost 40% of each new cohort today. At the same time, GDP growth has contracted, and the UK has slipped from being the third-largest exporter nation, in 1970, to being the sixth-largest, in 2019. [4] Peter Turchin, ‘Blame Rich, Overeducated Elites as Society Frays’ ( Bloomberg , 12 November 2016) < https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2016-11-12/blame-rich-overeducated-elites-as-society-frays >; Janan Ganesh, ‘The real class war is within the rich’ Financial Times  (London, 1 December 2020) < https://www.ft.com/content/0bf03db8-c61b-4222-8c76-4fb23988ec13 >; Graeme Wood, ‘The next decade could be even worse’ ( The Atlantic , December 2020) < https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/can-history-predict-future/616993/ > all accessed 1 March 2021. [5] Shang Yang, The Book of Lord Shang . [6] Art school rejects are of particularly dangerous character, one hears.

Identity drives human agency. Who we consider ourselves and the groups we are part of determines the choices we make. This principle is most evident in the political context of democratic elections. Failure to vote in line with rational interests, such as economic gain, does not occur because people do not understand what is best for themselves, but because rational interests are secondary. People vote for their primary interests, but what these primary interests are has been misunderstood. Understanding that identity drives decision-making is essential to understanding choices made. Two emotive responses determine which of the plethora of identities an individual holds has the greatest salience and therefore is acted upon. Titled colloquially for ease, the first of these emotional responses is love : what aspect of ourselves, and which group membership, is most highly valued. Completing the pairing is fear : which identity is perceived to be under the greatest threat. Together these determine the priority given to the multiple identities held by each person. It is also important to note that, in this, perception is reality. Who we consider ourselves and the groups we are part of to be, as well as any threats, are determined by perception. Choices are made based on what reality is believed to be, regardless of whether this perception is accurate or not. Therefore, perceptions of identity and circumstance are the most important factors in human agency, past, present, and future.   This paper seeks to understand the roots of political polarisation in the United States; division rooted in a perception of what is considered to be America and American. In other words: what and who is meant by the opening line of The Constitution, which states ‘We the People of the United States’? Fear amongst an influential proportion of the electorate, over the loss of their nation and who they are, to those not considered to be equally entitled or American, has both driven and enabled political polarisation within the United States. Whilst both political parties (Democrats and Republicans) and traditional ideological groups (liberalism and conservatism) have shifted further away from each other,[1] it is from the ‘right’ that the extremities of polarisation have emerged.[2] It is amongst the adherents of what I term the ‘conservative national identity’ that fear over the loss of ‘America’ is prevalent. The nomination of Donald Trump and subsequent loyalty to him as President is prime evidence for this identity at work and for the power that its adherents possess. Other groups may hold similar sentiments, but they are not in comparable positions of influence and therefore cannot drive and enable polarisation on the scale seen today. This paper is divided into three broad sections: first, highlighting the key components of the conservative national identity; second, exploring how the adherents of this identity enabled and drove political polarisation; and third, briefly considering the identity’s future. Throughout, it argues that human agency is fundamentally driven by identity, to which all else is subservient. In the case of America, choices that have resulted in polarisation stem from a conservative national identity, the adherents of which have been driven by a fear for what they love.   The conservative national identity   Uniting the adherents of the conservative national identity is a fear of the changes they perceive to have occurred to the country they love. ‘Make America Great Again’ perfectly encapsulates the sentiment of the conservative national identity. It places the issue of contention (‘America’) front and centre, whilst appealing to those who identify with it (‘Great’). The salience of this identity, what is it to be American and what is meant by America, is further increased by evoking a sense of loss (‘Again’). Importantly for electoral appeal, it combines this sense of loss with the hope of salvation (‘Make’). In all, it increases the salience of an identity whilst capitalizing on it. ‘Take Back Control’ had the same effect during the 2016 EU referendum in the UK. Both of these slogans directly appealed to powerful notions of identity that had remained largely hidden from view. Donald Trump was the lightning rod for this group. He allowed its members to feel morally righteous and generally superior to those they considered ‘other’ or beneath them,[3] affirming what they already felt: that they were the true Americans.   Race  plays a key, if subtle and coded, role in informing and motivating the conservative national identity. Race has defined America and American identity. It has defined the societal structure and the distribution of benefits in the US since its inception.[4] Yet perceived changes to the racial hierarchy have induced ‘status anxiety’[5] amongst some elements of white America. Race no longer provides a backstop to descending the social hierarchy.[6] The growing belief that the push for equal rights has ’gone too far’[7] reflects the fear created by the erosion of white entitlement. This anxiety is most strongly felt by white working-class Americans, who are increasingly seeing their social and political power decrease[8] to the benefit of those they do not perceive to be ‘real Americans’.[9] There is evidence that the strength with which a person identifies as American goes hand in hand with the exclusion of minorities from their ideal of America.[10] It is the perception that ‘minority groups are, in some way, taking their country away’[11] that has driven a proportion of the American electorate to mobilise and polarise. For many, Barack Obama’s 2008 election was a manifestation of these changes they feared.[12] It is clear that the adherents of the conservative national identity are not merely concerned with maintaining status and power, but are also, perhaps more importantly, reacting against those perceived to be gaining status and power within America—with whom they do not identify and consequently distrust.   Religion  is still prominent in American politics. Yet those who ‘vote for candidates that put the Bible where it belongs’[13] are all motivated by the same emotive responses as the conservative national identity. What they perceive to be America and American is under threat. If polarisation solely stemmed from religious observance, then a wider coalition, particularly as Christianity is increasingly diverse,[14] would be expected. Yet it is amongst white evangelicals that conservative standpoints and Republican partisanship have been adopted.[15] African Americans who regularly attend religious services vote overwhelmingly for Democratic candidates.[16] Polarising issues that are seemingly based upon religious morality, such as abortion or homosexuality, are made subject to the larger conservative national identity. Social and religious conservatism are closely linked to racial attitudes.[17] It is because of this that similarly religiously observant groups, such as African Americans, do not en masse support candidates that espouse these positions. Polarisations supposedly rooted in issues of morality are expressed more explicitly than those concerned with race. This is because the ‘religious’ aspects are more acceptable to the conservative national identity.   Notions of gender, particularly of masculinity , also have a place in the conservative national identity. Trump, the emblem of this identity, consistently enjoys higher support amongst men across all ethnic groups.[18] Robert Self points to efforts in the 1970s to change traditional gender roles as the seminal moment for polarisation.[19] Perceived threats to the traditional dynamic of men being breadwinners have spurred people into action, in the same manner as perceived racial and moral changes. It is the unity in fear for what they consider America and American that has brought these facets together to form the conservative national identity.   Economic insecurity  has catalysed this fear. The growing ‘wait for the American Dream’[20] has made tangible these feelings of decline, loss, and marginalisation. Amid this widespread economic insecurity,[21] the government is viewed as aiding ‘line cutters’[22] over the adherents of the conservative national identity.[23] Yet ‘honour’[24] prevents them from accepting the government aid available. Accepting such support would be tantamount to confessing their fall from grace. The government is therefore perceived as the agent of the very change they fear. Simultaneously, as The Dream has become increasingly unattainable, the importance of ‘being an American’ has become greater.[25] Those who consider themselves to be losing ‘their country’ are the same as those for whom identifying with it is increasingly important.   Enablers and drivers of political polarisation   Because of the perception that the state is no longer benefiting people like them[26] but benefiting undeserving line cutters,[27] distrust of the federal government has grown[28] amongst the adherents of the conservative national identity. In consequence, so has the desire to see its role lessen.[29] This opposition to government intervention is the bond between the various constituents of the Republican Party. The success of any constituent in reducing the scope of government powers is perceived as beneficial to all. It is through groups operating on this premise that political polarisation has been enabled. Political and economic elites and adherents of the conservative national identity can openly pursue their interests without compromising their support from the others.   By letting conservative political and economic elite groups forgo moderation and compromise when pursuing their interests, the adherents of the conservative national identity have enabled  political polarisation. Such unbridled and intransigent pursuit of self-interest is supported because of its perceived benefit: reducing the role of the government. Motivating the adherents of the conservative national identity is the perception that the government is responsible for the changes they oppose. Elites pursuing such policies not only gain support but through their success create a vicious cycle. As the role of the government is reduced, through for example loosening environmental or financial regulation, greater tangible insecurity is created. When experienced, this insecurity compounds the perception amongst adherents of the conservative national identity that change is occurring that threatens their way of life, in turn making this identity even more prominent.[30] Because they place blame for this change on the government, they continue to seek to reduce its role, starting the cycle over again. Without such a point of confluence around opposition to big government, political polarisation would not have been able to occur to the extent seen today. Elite groups would not be able to forsake moderation in favour of polarising self-interest.[31] Nor would the accomplishment of these interests have resulted in entrenched electoral support.   The conservative national identity has driven  polarisation within the Republican Party, thereby within the political system as a whole, because its adherents are the predominant electoral group at the Party’s primaries. Following democratisation of the processes by which Republican nominees for elected positions are selected, power has shifted from party bosses to these ‘primary electorates’. Those seeking nomination are therefore no longer selected for their perceived appeal to the average voter,[32] but on their actual appeal to this more polarised base.[33] Candidates must either reflect or placate this more engaged and impassioned group. Ironically, the Democratic party has a less democratic nomination process which largely prevents this,[34] as does the diversity of its members.[35] The strict two-party system also polarises the primary electorate. Extreme groups that in other countries would have a separate political party[36] are more likely to be engaged in the political process. They are therefore less easily rejected and more able to wield disproportionate influence. Donald Trump’s nomination for President is the most obvious example of this. Other aspects of the Republican Party enable this polarisation. Partisan identity is increasingly important.[37] In recognition of the perceived mutual benefit from electoral success, those who do not adhere to the conservative national identity continue to support the party that its adherents control. Trump’s victory in the 2016 presidential election was due in no small part to the fact that ‘he was the Republican nominee’.[38] The conservative national identity can drive political polarisation on a large scale because of its position of power within the primary electorate of the Republican Party, as well as the continued support of other factions within the party.   Attempts to reduce polarisation through a reform of the Republican Party have failed or not been attempted for two reasons. First, the party has not experienced a loss of political power serious enough to prompt such a reform.[39] Thanks in large part to the federal structure, Republicans have multiple avenues through which power can be acquired and maintained, making the loss of power less absolute than in other democratic systems such as the UK. Republicans also benefit from the non-majoritarian nature of the US political system. In presidential elections ‘in which they narrowly lose the popular vote’, the Republican nominee should be expected to win 65% of the time.[40] Second, there is little incentive for elite groups in the party to pursue reform. Self-serving political and economic elites can openly pursue their interests in collaboration with the adherents of the conservative national identity. Both sets continue to support each other as long as there is perceived mutual benefit. Seemingly inconsistent policies put forward by Republicans do not matter to these groups as long as they do not encroach upon their primary interests, preserving what they consider to be America and American. In other words, why fix it if it works for you? Rather than attempting to contain or reverse the influence of this polarised group, Republicans have sought to accentuate its electoral power through voter suppression and gerrymandering.   The future of the conservative national identity   It is overly optimistic to assume that the defeat of Trump marks the end of the conservative national identity’s power, although hopefully, it marks the passing of its zenith. There are four broad ways through which the polarising power of this group may be reduced. Each of the points outlined below deserves further consideration, but this initial overview should provide a starting point.   1. Constructing an alternative national identity   Providing an alternative national identity means this conservative variation is no longer the sole point of reference for the all-important American narrative. This conservative notion of what is America and American will continue to define the American national identity as a whole if unchallenged. There are two forms an alternative national identity can take. Either, a negative/reactionist national identity, one that relies upon an ‘other’ against which an identity can be defined. Easy to construct, its exclusionary nature could have serious implications when applied to a democratic multi-ethnic-cultural society. Or, a positive/proactive  national identity, one that defines itself by what it ‘is’ not what it ‘is not’. Although significantly harder to construct, the principles it may be based upon already exist (the equal right to ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’).   2. Reducing the prominence of identity   Identity is the fundamental omnipresent driver of human agency, but circumstances can act as catalysts for its prominence, or the polarising nature of its different aspects. Removing these catalysts, the most obvious being economic insecurity, would dampen the extreme polarisation currently seen.   3. Reducing the power held by polarising groups   This may occur through a structural shift  in the distribution of political power. An increasingly democratised political system, free of partisan manipulations, would offer such a structural change, but would also face significant political obstacles. An alternative is a societal shift  in the acceptance of these groups and their beliefs. Either, it is perceived that insufficient mutual benefit is derived from the success of these polarising elements, thereby making support or toleration no longer worthwhile. Or, this polarising expression of national identity reaches such a point of extremism that it threatens the identities of those that support or tolerate it. This may already have started occurring in light of the storming of the Capitol on 6 January 2021.   4. Waiting it out   Demographic shifts and the growing political power of historically marginalised groups mean it is only a matter of time before adherents of the conservative national identity become such a minority that even the non-majoritarian political system can no longer afford them power. However, this strategy is not as well founded as popularly believed.[41] Furthermore, the danger of ‘waiting it out’ emerges when considering how much damage will be wrought to the nation if polarising and exclusive identities continue to define it.   Conclusion   The conservative national identity is founded on the perception that what is considered to be America and American is under threat. Opposition to changes in racial, moral, and gender-based hierarchies has been exacerbated by economic insecurity. Distrust of the government and consequent desire to see it curtailed have provided the basis for a mutually beneficial alliance between the constituent parts of the Republican Party. Afforded disproportionate power by the political system, the adherents of the conservative national identity have enabled Republican economic and political elites to engage in an uncompromising and polarising pursuit of self-interest. In turn, they have found themselves in the driver’s seat of the party, steering it to further extremism. Donald Trump exemplified the power this group held, just as the Republican Party’s support for him exemplified the reluctance of others to constrain polarisation in light of mutual benefit. Resolution and reconciliation require the recognition that it is not merely policy that divides America, but the very identity of people as Americans. Who is meant by ‘We the People’ remains highly contentious. Christopher George   Christopher George is a first-year undergraduate in History at Wolfson College, Cambridge. He previously spent a year as a visiting student at UC Berkeley focussing on Political Economy and Public Policy. [1] Shanto Iyengar, Gaurav Sood, and Yphtach Lelkes, ‘Affect, Not Ideology: A Social Identity Perspective On Polarisation’ (2012) 76(3) Public Opinion Quarterly 405, 413. [2] Arlie Russell Hochschild, Strangers In Their Own Land: Anger And Mourning On The American Right  (The New Press 2016) 7. [3] ibid 228. [4] Joel Aberbach, Understanding Contemporary American Conservatism  (Routledge 2017) 121. [5] Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, How Democracies Die  (Broadway Books 2018) 173. [6] Matthew Desmond, ‘In Order To Understand The Brutality Of American Capitalism, You Have To Start On The Plantation’ The New York Times   Magazine: 1619 Project  (14 August 2019). [7] Aberbach (n 4) 68. [8] EJ Dionne Jr, Norman J Ornstein, and Thomas E Mann, One Nation After Trump: A Guide For The Perplexed, The Disillusioned, The Desperate, And The Not-Yet Deported  (St Martin’s Press 2017) 26. [9] Levitsky and Ziblatt (n 5) 174. [10] Thierry Devos and Mahzarin R Banaji, ‘American = White?’ (2005) 88 Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 447, 463. [11] Aberbach (n 4) 89. [12] ibid 90. [13] Hochschild (n 2) 47. [14] Clem Brooks and Jeff Manza, ‘A Great Divide? Religion And Political Change In US National Elections, 1972–2000’ (2004) 45 The Sociological Quarterly 421, 450. [15] Janelle S Wong, ‘Race, Evangelicals And Immigration’ (2019) 17 The Forum 403, 408. [16] EJ Dionne Jr, ‘Polarised By God? American Politic And The Religious Divide’ in Pietro Niovla and David Brady (eds), Red And Blue Nation? Characteristics And Causes Of American’s Polarised Politics (Brookings   Institution Press 2006) 185. [17] Aberbach (n 4) 121. [18] Erin B Logan, ‘A “man’s man”: Why some Black men are drawn to Trump’s toxic masculinity’ Los Angeles Times  (28 October 2020). [19] Robert O Self, All In The Family: The Realignment Of American Democracy Since The 1960s  (Hill and Wang 2012) 338. [20] Hochschild (n 2) 151. [21] Robert Reich, Saving Capitalism: For The Many, Not The Few  (Icon Books Ltd 2016) [22] Hochschild (n 2) 151. [23] ibid 114. [24] ibid 114. [25] ibid 140. [26] Katherine J Cramer, The Politics Of Resentment: Rural Consciousness In Wisconsin And The Rise Of Scott Walker  (University of Chicago Press   2016) 146. [27] Hochschild (n 2) 61. [28] Cramer (n 26) 152. [29] Aberbach (n 4) 43. [30] Hochschild (n 2) 140. [31] Aberbach (n 4) 77. [32] Levitsky and Ziblatt (n 5) 51. [33] Morris P Fiorina and Matthew S Levendusky, ‘Disconnected: The Political Class Versus The People’ in Niovla and Brady (n 16) 71. [34] Levitsky and Ziblatt (n 5) 51. [35] Joel Aberbach, ‘The Future Of The American Right: Evidence and Questions from the Bush Years’ in Joel Aberbach and Gillian Peele (eds), Crisis Of Conservatism? The Republican Party, The Conservative Movement, & American Politics After Bush  (Oxford University Press 2011) 47. [36] Aberbach (n 4) 112. [37] Dionne, Ornstein, and Mann (n 8) 32. [38] ibid 32. [39] Aberbach (n 4) 113. [40] Ezra Klein, ‘Why Democrats Still Have To Appeal To The Center, But Republicans Don’t’ The New York Times  (New York, 24 January 2020) < https://www.nytimes.com/2020/01/24/opinion/sunday/democrats-republicans-polarization.html > accessed 1 March 2021. [41] Thomas B Edsall, ‘Democrats Are Anxious About 2022 — and 2024’ The New York Times (New York, 10 March 2021). < https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/10/opinion/democratic-voters-anxieties.html > accessed 1 March 2021.

Introduction   Webster’s Dictionary  defines culture as ‘the integrated pattern of human knowledge, belief and behaviour that depends on the capacity for learning and transmitting knowledge to succeeding generations’.[1] Culture, often understood as the sum of artistic creation, is the sum of knowledge of a society and things other than art form an integral part of it, notably science. To exclude the world view of science from culture is as myopic as eliminating the artistic vision from knowledge. The need to create reality or realities from environmental stimuli—all of which are representations and therefore virtual products of our imagination—is fundamental to mankind. It is a form of knowing, attempting to understand, and art and science even in their most primitive earlier forms codified and transmitted it from generation to generation. This process is the same as building models, constructing some limited form or expression of reality from received givens, and making mental pictures from what is perceived by projecting patterns on those givens. We interpret to survive; the need to know is fundamental to life and an expression of it.   Artists reveal the evolution of the psychological environment of their era, often anticipating the changes coming in society. The psychological climate of a place or a time is a very real fact of society and one observable by others as well as the artist, but of particular concern to the artist because it is his or her domain. The physicist Werner Heisenberg described it: ‘The spirit of a time is probably a fact as objective as any fact in natural science, and this spirit brings out certain features of the world which are even independent of time and are in this sense eternal. The artist tries by his work to make these features understandable … The two processes, that of science and that of art, are not very different. Both science and art form in the course of the centuries a human language by which we can speak about the more remote parts of reality’.[2] This again can be called exploring and building a visual space, the continued remodeling of humanity’s imaginary space according to how fundamental human values are expressed in a particular period.   The role of the artist, as the scientist, is thus that of a researcher. At least it has become so in the twentieth century. The artist is a kind of social researcher applying his or her creative intuition to the condition of man in order to discover, as another scientific great of our era, Niels Bohr, described it, ‘the relations between the manifold aspects of our experience’.[3] Through their work artists comment and critique, judge and debate, evaluate the human condition—the analysis of man in his environment from the interior of the individual creator. This is the artist’s role within reality as defined by another physicist, John Wheeler, student of Niels Bohr, who said that ‘reality is the joint product of those who communicate’,[4] a view very much influenced by the Copenhagen School of Quantum Physics, established by Niels Bohr, and its emphasis on the important role of the observer. The artist is an observer and art is communication and thus an important part of that ‘joint product’, communication from the individual to the collective, that is, the sum of individual realities—culture in its anthropological sense as well as transmission of knowledge.   A second and closely related part of the dynamic in the movement from art to culture is the role of the artist as educator of perception (by Marshall McLuhan’s definition). A person relating to the new propositions of a work of art is in fact going through a change of perception, learning to see differently through the differing set of relations proposed by the artist. This is particularly true in regards to new definitions, systems, functions or technologies that will eventually have an impact on our lives that may not be immediately apparent. The subjectivity of perception furnishes each individual with his own form of measurement and the communication of these different points of view defines reality in the sense that Wheeler has proposed, of social convention.   Marcel Duchamp seemed to be anticipating or moving parallel with the scientific paradigm changes in almost everything he did. He dealt intimately with art as process more directly than many other artists. Art is process, first in the act of creation and then in the acts of appreciation and interpretation. The observer forms part of the indispensable interactivity that is art. Duchamp regarded a work of art as having two poles, the artist and the spectator, each equally participating in the definition of a work.   What model of reality is emerging from those points of departure, from the artistic experimentation of the twentieth century? What is the paradigm that art and science are proposing? What will the new visual space of our culture look like? In response to those questions, I think we can honestly say that the artistic and scientific revolutions of the past century are far from finished. The model or models they will eventually propose are still in development but becoming more evident. When that space is finally defined it will provide the schema of how we operate. We have already seen some of the clues coming from both art and science as to what it might look like. That space, like the prior space of the Italian Renaissance, will be our visual space, our communication space, an organisational space, the space of how we imagine reality. It has been anticipated by artists since the Impressionists, defined by science starting with the Theories of Relativity and Quantum Physics, and made habitable by artists again during the course of the century as it has gradually been integrated into our cultural consciousness.   Models as visual space   If we accept the parallel between art and science as two sources of knowlege, looking at them as an ensemble can provide us with complementary information. The models of reality proposed are from radically different approaches. Science is concerned with building concepts from observed facts and artists work from individual concepts to create new artefacts. Science strives to create a model of reality that is all encompassing and objectively arrived at and, eventually, socially acceptable in the sense that society agrees with the proposition and accepts the model as real. Art is quite different in that the reality expressed is uniquely that of the artist, and in it one hopes to see something universal. The role of art is to construct individual models of reality, the artist’s reality, and the symbolic language for communicating it. Each work is like a fragment of a broken holographic plate. Each shard of glass contains the whole object—the worldview of the artist. Each piece of the plate is distinct in itself but each contains the entire image and not a fragment of it. That image/object is the artist and his or her vision, filtering, funneling, concentrating what he or she has pulled from the surrounding world—a personal mythology or ideology. In contrast, science appears more monolithic than art and the scientist more anonymous than the artist. In reality, both must be regarded as an ensemble in order to understand where the search for understanding is taking us and what kind of model is presented by that combined whole.   We can understand this process by imagining the worldview of a society as a visual space, a space in which we see how things work. All of us carry such a vision in our heads. It is a product of our culture and, in that sense, the visual space is a shared space. We understand the world—and by extension the universe—to be operating in a particular fashion and know how we fit into it. This can be a very primitive image, one based on numerous different sources of so-called knowledge. It can be the mythology of early man formed into what we can recognise as a religion. It can be based on scientific information that is later proved to be false. Exchanging and accepting as correct those pictures, those conclusions, is another way of defining culture.   Just as individuals need to make sense out of perceptual information in order to act and survive, by communication they exchange concepts allowing them to live together. Each society constantly recreates itself through communication by continually redefining its collective reality, its culture, its shared space. The sum of our different communication possibilities, all of the ways we converse and exchange information—word of mouth, newspapers, radio, television, cinema, and now the net—form a space in which we see ourselves reflected. It is from that communication space that we learn how to act toward others, where new members learn what society proposes, and where the unspoken rules of society are demonstrated. The domination of this space by the media, and now social media, is basically a twentieth-century phenomenon which we are now finally beginning to understand can have very negative consequences. These are issues which need to be addressed. The communication space, which is very real, is fundamental to how our society operates. What creates and recreates that space is important to how we continue to function, particularly at a time when so much change is happening.   Another way of understanding the space is to consider it as a paradigm, a set of rules governing how things work. It is thus an organisational space as well. We construct the communication space, the visual expression of the paradigm, as a way of comprehending the world around us. By pretending to understand how it works we develop responses to the model in our own individual or collective actions. We act according to how we think things work. That visual, cultural, organisational space becomes a philosophical and psychological space, a virtual representation of what we know and how we act.   When society changes profoundly, one of the obvious manifestations of that change is a new visual space, a new paradigm. When religion was the means used to define the universe it was normal that art was intimately related to religion. It was the ideology that provided the context for the artist, his psychological and philosophical base for interpreting sensory information. The motivation of art and religion was the same, building a visual space to give meaning to the chaotic mass of information received and provide society with an operational base. This was also true for science, and in certain societies that form of investigation was obliged to reinforce the existing worldview of the dominant ideology rather than set out on its own. But science explains how things work, not why. Culture supplies the ‘why’, and when society pretends that this isn’t the case, it usually means that science has been misappropriated.   When Western civilisation accepted science as the exclusive means of defining the material universe, it was natural that it influenced art to a tremendous degree. First, it was a source of new metaphors, but also many of the artistic discoveries of our century did parallel those of science: space-time, interactivity, observer-created reality—art engaged with this material universe, asking the questions about what it means to us and how we fit into it. Since science was dealing exclusively with the ‘how’, much of that artistic production was attempting to go beyond, looking for the ‘why’. Science may define the world but art transmits a feeling for it, and a sense of how we might fit into it, going well beyond science in often intangible ways. In a society which ceded to science the right to define its reality, the material definition of reality is often all that is asked for. In that case, much of what art proposes can seem mysterious, puzzling, and put-offish, yet intriguing and attractive, because of the series of ‘whys’ it may suggest. Fig 1. Organisation of Graphic Motifs II (Frantisek Kupka 1912–13). Courtesy of the Pudil Family Foundation. Anticipating fractal geometry? Benoit Mandelbrot, the inventor of that geometry, introduced me to this painting as an example of a fractal in art. Coming from video, I recognised it as video feedback, the result of a camera filming itself. What inspired Kupka to paint a discovery in maths and art which came 60-70 years later? Network space: Experimenting with the paradigm   Science, and by extension technology, solves problems. Art creates them. Science answers questions, art poses them. The two circle the central questions of a society in different directions making them seem as opposites when they are not. Every mode of communication has at one of its extremes a form of expression we call art. As it is the densest form of expression, art is often the supreme test of any means of communication. Each work of art contains the entire worldview of the artist and, as such, demands of any means of expression the dimensions necessary to express that. Art questions that communication process to find out what it can say about the human condition in relation to the changed environment caused by the new means of communication. Art is the procedure by which we test a communication system, and by doing so, the reality of the relational context it proposes.   The new technologies of the emerging visual environment have always presented a particular challenge to the artist: to adapt these tools to the process of artistic expression, to define their content, to develop visual languages, to construct the new communication space that will be virtual, international, and interactive. It is the role of the artist to help define that space, to make it livable and a part of contemporary culture. The traditional role of art has been to renew the visual environment, to redefine it for each new era, and through doing so, provide society with models of action. It is what Marshall McLuhan and many others have meant by the education of perception by the artist. Simply put, art is a form of questioning and the interface between the public and art is culture. The media may influence culture profoundly, but not in the same sense as art and, unfortunately not in the sense of culture suggested earlier—the integrated pattern of human knowledge. The media are an expression of the anthropological definition of culture—how people act.   But let us step back again in an attempt to imagine what the new visual space will look like. If we could already see it clearly and understand how it functions, we would be through the period of transition and living with the new visual references and the operational schema they represent. We’re not, but it’s beginning to take shape. We have seen many words attempting to define its parameters: ‘space-time’, ‘duration’, ‘process’, ‘the role of the observer’, ‘interactivity’, ‘collective worldviews’, ‘artistic synthesis’, and ‘collaboration’. There is the unique existence of the individual in the new space, but also the individual related to others and finally to the whole we call society, not as a singularity but as a singularity embedded in a network of relationships. The network that we are building today from a synthesis of video, computer, and telecommunication technologies is potentially the model for that space, calling into question many of the values that have been taken for granted in our society. The widespread use of social media has exposed the downside of individualism: that it encourages chest-pounding in the guise of communication, an egocentric exposé rather than genuine interactivity. Many users of the web talk ‘at’ the world and not with it. The broadcast model, with its one-way transmission, is still the predominant model, but now everyone can reach a mass audience. This may be interesting economically, but it is a simplistic view of interactivity and what the network model proposes. In order for real interactivity to take place, a hard look at what it means becomes essential. Very important or unique individuals or institutions remain unique—alone—on the network. The top of the pyramid is a lonely place. If real interactivity is to take place, partnerships are essential. A network demands a minimum of two. Vertical hierarchical organisation gives way to horizontally connected structures.   The profound change in western thought and society that this organisational change represents can be called a new Renaissance. It is a rupture with the formulations of the past equal to that of the fifteenth century, which introduced to our culture the Euclidean space of Italian perspective and its organisational values. That visual space has since become the dominant intuitional space of our culture. In the twentieth century that situation changed radically, first through a rejection of the organisational schema of the mechanical universe, and then with the proposal of a new paradigm still being defined. If indeed we are living in a new Renaissance, what we are currently experiencing is the need for redefining all aspects of our society and reinventing our social institutions. This includes the invention of a new geometry to describe the coming visual space. Happily, in a neat parallel with the new tools of communication, we have a new geometry which allows us to visualise the new space and better understand its functioning in all its complexity: the fractal geometry of complex systems.   In a network, everyone is connected directly with everyone else, on a one-to-one basis, without going through any other point (person). While a signal may travel through several sites and switches to arrive at the desired point, the psychological and sociological reality of connection is direct one-to-one communication. This possibility of everyone being connected to everyone multiplies the number of potential one-to-one connections rapidly, and the addition of any new member increases enormously the number of those connections. As the number becomes larger, tending toward infinity, the pattern slides away from that of a complex line on the surface of a sphere and approaches that of a spherical plane. An infinite number of connections contained in a finite space. The dimension must be spherical, between one—a line—and two—a plane—being therefore fractal. In the network we have, in fact, two geometries superimposed: classical spherical geometry which describes the cabling of the network, and a fractal description of its functioning, the geometry of its use. This may be the same as the operation of the mind with one geometry describing the neuronal connections and another their sum—the mind itself. And just as the human mind is made up of the fractal form of its operation imposed on the classical form of the circuits between its communicating centers, society may be said to be constructed in the same manner. This is an image. By trying to visualise the operation of the network we start to develop an image of network space that is the beginning of what our future visual space will look like. To make that space a part of culture and the intellectual reflex of the individual members of society, an enormous amount of artistic experimentation and proposition is essential.   The social space-time that seems to be emerging from the last 130 years of experimentation—what I call a new Renaissance—is not fixed but one whose evolution is part of its definition. This examination of the art of our lifetimes brings us to realise that both art and science have been labouring with the notion of interactivity. The clues have been persistent and multiple: process—moving away from the object to the process of production; duration—existing in time; multiple points of view; connectivity; empathy; complementarity; systems. Art and science have in fact been defining the new space and establishing it as a governing concept, as a paradigm for action for several generations. The observer as actor and actor as observer. Our cultural reality will be found in the collection and communication of those definitions that will eventually add new dimensions to the Euclidean geometry of the past in the western imagination. Fig 2. Réseau des stoppages (Marcel Duchamp 1914). Courtesy of the Duchamp family. Duchamp created his ‘stoppages’ by dropping a metre-long piece of string from the height of one metre three times, tracing the lines to produce alternative metres, alternative ways of measuring the world. In 1914 he put them in a network ( réseau ) possibly suggesting collective points of view.   Institutional experimentation   Individual artists have been exploring and building the new space for many years, and not always with the full understanding of the cultural establishment. For myself, it has been 40 years of working with art and the telecommunications network as a new space to be experimented with. Art history has often overlooked the relation between art and science, reflected in a remark I heard from a French bureacrat in the 90s when explaining the relation between the two: ‘Monsieur, we are the Ministry of Culture, science doesn’t interest us’. When the issue is discussed at all, it is mistakenly understood as art and technology, that is, the tools and not the deeper meaning of parallel paradigms. It is important to see the cultural transformation in both, side by side, in order to understand what in fact our civilisation has been confronting and where it is going. Now that it is clearer, an institutional mobilisation is essential to integrate this change into our education system and cultural lives, to bring more energy into exploring its implications and potential, and to deal with the transformation in how we see and understand reality even though the process is an open one. I am a network optimist from the 80s, when we saw the cultural potential of the emerging technology, only to see it kidnapped by commerce in the 90s and transformed into the distorting communication space it is today: one based on advertising and identity theft.   It is essential to recognise the new world being created around us and recuperate and redirect the tools of communication to make them a better expression of the best of our culture. The evolution of Western civilisation—and today we must talk rather about world civilisation—is dependent on its communication environment. If we are to have a genuine cultural presence in that environment, based on real knowledge and the accumulated intelligence of mankind, encouraging collaboration from all aspects of society to address the problem, to explore the new communications space together, is essential. Implicit in this is the redefinition of roles and objectives. If we are living a new Renaissance it is normal that we do so. Communication and commerce is what links the individual to the whole, and all players, even in seemingly unrelated fields, must be brought together to understand the critical importance of addressing that change. If culture is absent from that mix, then commerce becomes the culture.   Another parallel may exist with science and provide a key to a better understanding of the process of artistic creativity. We can consider art in the same light as science, with a spectrum of activity ranging from fundamental research to applied research on a continuum containing all the various forms of creativity and artistic practice. Fundamental research could be considered the pure artistic creation of an individual artist or group of artists without any outside direction or imposed objective. It is a response to the need to create as defined above, arising from the need to know, the need to build models of reality. Applied research would be the applied arts, for instance design, a principally commercial application of the creative disciplines for specific clients and a pre-defined objective. Wherever the pointer falls along the line connecting the two is again very subjective for the creator but it is the same line. On the fundamental end there is building of models of reality. On the applied arts end, the translation of those realities into socially useable forms.   Pure artistic creativity is the means by which the language of the applied arts is constantly renewed. The experimentation implied in the idea of fundamental artistic research leads to renewal, to innovation and discovery, which filters down to influence and change other forms of creativity. For people who work in the arts, their personal position along the spectrum is again subjective and the divisions we know today are institutional, not personal. Many artists spend careers sliding up and down, or across the spectrum of creative possibilities, some through personal desire, others because of economic necessity. Even within institutions the frontier between the various divisions is very blurred and often counterproductive and, too often, does not correspond to the desires of the creators themselves. The point is that the applied arts, the commercially viable and therefore more readily understandable aspect of creativity, would not evolve, would not surprise, would not be effective if they were not renewed by the experimentation that takes place in the areas of fundamental artistic research. The changing worldview proposed by the ensemble of artistic experimentation and production of a particular moment is manifest in the applied arts, which help communicate it to the general public. Again, this is one of the ways that artistic ideas get transformed into what we understand as culture.   I created the MARCEL network 20 years ago to explore that potential, to bring artistic experimentation permanently into the network space to try its potential, to learn how to work artistically in that new space, to develop the tools necessary to do so and to learn the protocols. [5] It became very obvious very early on that we would never have the necessary tools from industry, because they are usually not commercially viable. This is why multipoint connectivity was mostly invisible until the pandemic made it obligatory. But connecting is not enough. We need to learn how to use the space and build the tools to let us use it to its fullest. Our goal in MARCEL has been to drive technological evolution through the demands of art and not technological or commercial whim looking for the next fad. Many interesting efforts are being made in the network everywhere in culture—art, science, research and education—but in a fragmented way which needs to be brought together in a coherent fashion. We need a part of the network to be transformed into a non-commercial, publicly owned entity, working for the common good of culture and developing the legal framework for governing it. Again, people are working on this idea, and those efforts need to be unified, the space and its objectives identified and agreed to with a judicial framework for making it a recognised part of contemporary society. We need an economic study of its viability, how it can remain non-commercial while allowing artists for instance to earn a living from it, as all other researchers do.   The spirit of the times is interactivity. There is a general sense that trans-disciplinarity is good, that collaboration is essential, the federation of the means of experimentation, exploration, and production a desirable goal. Science is searching for more interdisciplinary approaches to research, artists for more joint collaboration across specialisations. If I am correct about our living a new Renaissance, we must reinvent our social institutions based on a new operational schema, which is the interactive network. More and more people accept the network format as a structural good. Everyone is looking for the larger picture and it is coming into focus. The important thing is that we keep that ‘looking’ as open as possible recognizing that the outline of the new space must be drawn from all forms of knowledge, artistic and scientific, meaning recognising what those forms of knowledge are and directing resources to permit them to reach their potential.   The manipulation of time and space, process, duration, interactivity, have all become important underlying elements in the art of our times, art using new technologies. They have become an integral part of art just as they had already become the very heart of twentieth-century science. McLuhan described it thus: ‘The serious artist is the only person able to encounter technology with impunity, just because he is an expert aware of the changes in sense perception’.[6] Artists understood the implications of the new systems because they saw their multi-layered application to the human environment, and not a single-purpose tool. In working directly with the new tools of communications they have helped create the new communications space which is the technological representation of the visual space we have been discussing. Because the technology continues to evolve, the artistic experimentation must also continue to evolve.   Technology creates tools for a specific purpose, responding to a specific demand. The artist finds other uses for those same tools by making them do things beyond what they were constructed to do, and in doing so, advances the human application of that technology. Artists socialise machines and technology by discovering an aesthetic use for them, sometimes creating new demands for machines to which engineers must respond. This fact has been demonstrated over and over again in the field of electronics. Artists first entered there in a spirit of play, the safest and surest way of overcoming our natural sense of intimidation towards a complex technology. The second step has been the mastery of the technology through experimentation and production. Finally we find the artist actually inventing, or collaborating on the invention of new systems in order to respond to his or her creative needs.   At this point, artists and their work should become meaningful to the technological evolution of a communications system—and the industry that created it—since, through artistic innovation, the real integration of the technological system into the human environment has begun. It is no longer a passive tool serving predetermined human needs, but an active system evolving as man evolves, an integral part of human culture. This interaction between the creativity of the artist, the evolution of a technological process, and the reaction of the public represents a new form of relationship between these entities, providing new experimental potential for exploring the future of these new systems as we attempt to define them.   In general, the work of many contemporary artists has led us to understand space-time and its potential for interactivity. They have taken us into the new communications space with which we are now confronted and are helping us assimilate it. The synthesis between the performing and artificial arts referred to earlier has become a staple. Music, dance and theatre are space-time and interactive which makes them natural candidates for an interactive network. Dance and theatre reinvented space and pushed to the limits what technology could add to that space and they are still doing so. The fact that the exchanged image is digital means that all elements can be manipulated, reworked in evolution with the performance, and the entire physical, virtual, audio-visual experience must be considered as a complete ensemble in total collaboration. We have arrived at a point today where the representation of space is both live and artificial, permitting experimentation in real time with all the dimensions of space-time.   The emerging network paradigm will entail changing definitions, new roles and professions, new organisational structures, and new visions of our environment. This is the still fuzzy image that will eventually replace the perspective of the Renaissance in which we have lived up to now. The network as interactive space will become the metaphor for our civilisation, much as the clockwork machine was for that earlier era. Its geometry will be what the Euclidean geometry of the Renaissance has been for us, the visible form of our imagination. Don Foresta   Don Foresta is a research artist and art theoretician who incorporates new technologies in his art. He holds a Sorbonne doctorate in Information Science and is a Chevalier of France's Order of Arts and Letters. [1] ‘Culture’ ( Merriam-Webster Dictionary ) < https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/culture >. [2] Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Beyond  (George Allen & Unwin Ltd 1971) 109. [3] Niels Bohr, Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature  (first published 1934, AMS Press Inc 1978) 18. [4] (1985) 37 Johns Hopkins Magazine 5. [5] ‘Welcome to Marcel’ (Multimedia Art Research Centres and Electronic Laboratories) < http://www.mmmarcel.org/ >. [6] Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media  (Signet 1964) 33.

Fig 1. Returning (detail of SYNTERESE (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020, mosaic)). Akropoli-Strovolos. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. The theologian serves the Church and, at the same time, he is a teacher. He is an iconographer of the sanctity of the human face.   Special importance is attached to his work in schools, as young souls are prepared to become acquainted with the deeper relationship between man and his fellow man and God. He focusses on the shaping and development of the temperament of young people on the basis of Christian virtue.   Up until half a century ago, there were only a few theologians in Cyprus. Since then, there has been a significant increase in the number of theologians in Cyprus, both in the clergy and in the laity. Thus, our martyred island benefits from a more complete service to the Church and pedagogy based on the modern spiritual requirements and educational needs. Fig 2. The occupied monastery of Apostle Barnabas, founder of the Church of Cyprus (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2017). Nicosia. Around the middle of the last century, theologians in western countries usually came from the clergy, while in Hellas and Cyprus theologians came mainly from the laity. This is why the Theological Schools of Hellas established the Department of Pastoral Theology, as they aimed to provide clergymen with a theological education. Respectively, the Theological School of Cyprus, ‘Apostolos Barnabas’, which has operated since 1948, established a new two-year Advanced Course in 1968, while in 2015 the Church of Cyprus founded the Theological School of the Church of Cyprus so as to provide both the clergy and the laity with university-level theological training.   Orthodox theologians, whether clergy or laity, are considered as primarily serving the Church, because their mission in both cases is always to promote the purposes of the Church with regard to the transmission of the Divine Word and the supremacy of Christian ideals. In this sense, the theologian, either as a clergyman or layman, as a preacher, as a missionary, or as a teacher, is the Church’s instrument of teaching, the bearer of the Christian sermon, the teacher and the educator, whose mission is sacred and high, and his work is diverse and difficult.[1] Fig 3. Saint Kassianos (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2016). Nicosia. Theology is neither strictly a theoretical nor an exact science. In fact, the theologian is not a scientist in the sense of having a lot of knowledge that he will use to formally achieve his work. The theologian is mainly an apostle. In addition to the encyclopaedic knowledge, there are many other qualifications and qualities that are actually required for the theologian to succeed in his mission. For this reason, iconography par excellence explains the sanctity and the inviolability of the person with an austerity that possesses the richness of thousands of words.   ‘Follow me and I will make you fishers of men’, Christ said, calling His first disciples and apostles.[2] Through these words of the calling of the first apostles, we can define the work and the mission of the theologians. They are ‘fishers of men’, ‘fishers of souls’ in the stormy sea of life.[3]   Man, as a person, is a divine creation. The image of man is a primary concern of the Church. After all, Christ lights the spark of Christian life in our psychic world. However, the task of preserving the spiritual life falls upon our shoulders as well, so that we may ensure that we have preserved Grace and be glorified when the Lord calls us to depart from this world, having kept the treasure of the ‘life in Christ’ safe and sound.[4] We always need the strengthening from the Grace of God, which is faithfully reflected in the Holy Icons, and these have a very rich theological content. The ancient icons are evidence of the piety of our ancestors who, through struggles and often with sacrifices, have bequeathed to us the faith and the path of salvation.   Fig 4. Christ and the apostles Peter and Andrew (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2015) High School of Empa, Paphos. Moreover, the Holy Icons, in what the iconographer had in mind and in what is accepted by faithful Christians, are a practical manifestation of the inner experience of the Christian faith. Very often, they were painted by anonymous iconographers and prove the artistic power of the Christian religion, which has no equal in the entire history of man, primarily because it possesses a spirituality enlightened by the Triadic God. That is the reason why the Holy Icons have a leading role, since through their spiritual teaching and theology they constitute a testimony of faith and art at the same time. They are a tangible proof of the piety of our ancestors here in Cyprus. Fig 5. The occupied Metropolitan Church of Arhangelos in Kyrenia. Photograph: Stavros Mihaelides. Since the Turkish invasion in 1974 to this very day, almost 37 per cent of Cyprus has been occupied with the aid of the Turkish army. There remained 23,000 ecclesiastical icons found in the 520 occupied churches of Cyprus that date from the twelfth century to the twentieth.[5] The Greeks of the Republic of Cyprus became refugees because of the primitive violation of the fundamental principles of morality, clearly expressed with the violation of human dignity. Almost all the ecclesiastical treasures were looted or destroyed, while works of ecclesiastical art and of great spiritual value were destroyed or crushed down to the size of a few centimetres.[6]   Fig 6. The occupied Church of Agios Mamas, Syghari. Photograph: Stavros Mihaelides. The Church of Cyprus, through the peaceful diligence of its flock, is fighting for the restoration of morality and justice, and is ready to reconstitute artistically what was lost during the barbaric Turkish invasion and the ongoing occupation.[7]   The ecclesiastical mosaic SYNTERESE  depicts the theme of the 520 occupied Cypriot churches in a border area like Cyprus, but where there has never been a religious confrontation or war, at any time in the turbulent history of the island. The interpretation of the mosaic titled ‘Theological Restoration in Memory of Andreas Mitsidis’, which we made at the Second Technical and Vocational School of Education and Training in Nicosia in 2018, is a key landmark for theology in Cyprus’s struggle for survival.[8] Fig 7. Detail of SYNTERESE (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020, mosaic). Akropoli-Strovolos. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. Fig 8. Father Demosthenes Demosthenous pictured with his ecclesiastical mosaic SYNTERESE (2020). Akropoli-Strovolos. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. The art of charity   ‘Τέχνη φιλανθρωπίας’ (the ‘art of charity’) is a theological phrase especially loved by Saint Maximus the Confessor in his correspondence to Marinos, a seventh-century Bishop of Cyprus. Saint Maximus expresses himself in the triptych: Triadic God; man; will. In this way he interprets the divine ingenuity with regard to salvation, so that man, with his personality crushed by sin, may move towards the work of restoration leading to the deeper recognition of sanctity and the inviolability of the human face. Here, too, Byzantine iconography is a pioneer; this was a century and a half even before the Second Council of Nicaea. With regard to the personal human being   The liberating character of Christianity is seen in liberation from egocentrism through the observance of the Divine Law.   Vanity repels the wealth of justice, while humility disperses the multitude of passions, but if we lead our lives with humility, then, our Savior, help us to have the fate of the Tax Collector.[9]   During the period of Great Lent, we experience the preparation for the great Despotic Feast of the Passion, the Crucifixion, and especially the Resurrection of our Christ. Drawing lessons from this helps shape experience in favour of virtue, intertwined with law on the basis of respect for ethics. We call upon our memory the parables of the Tax Collector and the Pharisee, and of the Prodigal Son by Luke the Evangelist, and we connect these with the difficulties of daily life. Freedom is a gift from God and a natural right, which no one can deprive us of in Cyprus, as it includes a moral spirit and moral values, expressing the sound principles of our culture, which is based on peace and the ancient tradition of the Cypriot craftsman.   In March 1983, the first exhibition of such icons was held at the Centro Internazionale Giorgio La Pira, in Florence. 50 works and icons, painted in the traditional style by Father Demosthenes Demosthenous, became the first breath of the re-creation of those Holy Icons destroyed during the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974. As these are experiences of modern religious and national life, this presupposes the ideals of justice and freedom. It’s necessary that law and freedom are expressions of harmony between man, his fellow man, and God.[10] Furthermore, political and spiritual life is developed based on the loving coexistence and the uniqueness of each person as sacred.   Moral freedom liberates us from sin and takes on unimaginable extensions in the world of knowledge and art in imitation of the divine-human art of charity. In response to the universal request of the moral man, we attest in the Church that the use of hymn and psalm together with iconography is a real expression of recognition of the image of God and His Grace as a unique original.   Any historic disturbance of equilibrium is temporary, because equality between human persons (one person, one vote) is restored through Christianity. Because, with the preaching of the God-man, the parallel pair, the twin pair of the principles of justice and freedom is irrevocably placed on the basis of love. As a criterion and guide of our actions, the God-man commands love.[11] Fig 9. Ελευθερία ’38 (Freedom ’38) (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2016, mosaic). High School of Palouriotissa, Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. That is, love and respect for God and for man. In the spirit of such consensus, the concepts of justice and freedom are inherent as an anxious state of vigilance and struggle when these elements are absent. Love without justice is inconceivable. Accordingly, justice without freedom cannot exist. This is identified with the character of Christianity in relation to the Orthodox life and practice that extends between the Byzantine Orthodox culture and the corresponding Russian.[12] Fig 10. Painter-iconographer Andreas Chrysochos gives advice on the realisation of a work. Second Technical School, Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous.  As St John Chrysostom argued, God created man not to be a slave but free.[13] That explains the law of moral conscience and the Christian ethos of peaceful restoration.   The Christian faith is primarily interested in freeing man from the bondage of sin, in liberating him internally, but does not remain indifferent to his overall freedom.   Therefore, the foundations of modern Greek society are divine justice and human freedom.[14] They maintain the intact and immovable component in the universal consciousness, which does not wish for the power of supremacy seen in the works of Machiavelli and Nietzsche, but for the consistency in managing the challenge for a clearer picture of the future, based on pure vigilance so as to preserve the testimony of origin and its revitalization through art.[15]   Under conditions of blackmail, hostage-taking or captivity (as in the consequences of the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974), abandonment of sought material goods may be understood. But the abandonment of moral principles and rights is dishonourable and unacceptable.[16] That explains the prestige of Byzantine iconography with its timeless spiritual dimension. This is especially true under conditions of struggle for freedom. Such a struggle has the vote of God and a lot of moral support for the enslaved people by the spiritual people, who largely guide the course of the stand for freedom, in a peaceful and peace-making way. An example of this is the school of painting that was developed in Cyprus, especially after the establishment of the Republic of Cyprus in 1960, with one of the protagonists, Andreas Chrysochos, who studied the art of painting in England.   The dream retains as its characteristics the impossible and at the same time the tangible, accessible reality. In a time of slavery or incomplete freedom (such as the continuation of the invasion and occupation from 1974 until today), the only option left to us is the remembrance of the sacred and holy elements of our civilisation and our 520 occupied churches.   Respect for our parents and ancestors alone is not enough. It is urgent to practise at all times the customs, the morals, and the traditions kept by our parents and our Holy Fathers with the assistance of the Church and our language, in an unceasing and uninterrupted continuity since the very last day of life before the arrival of the invaders.   As an example, we state the case of the Diassorinos family, and especially Iakovos Diassorinos (in the thirteenth-sixteenth centuries).[17]   The ideals remain active in the psychic world of those fighting, especially when they are alive and cultured. They offer a clear and critical look at the constant challenges posed by the invaders for concessions and discounts from freedom and intimacy with one’s own character, which are components that affirm the value of every struggle for freedom. As long as they persist, blackmailing remains; and the lack of freedom is oppressively extended towards darkness. Fig 11. The Occupied Holy Monastery of Agios Paneleimonas, Myrtou (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2018, mosaic). Second Technical School, Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. However, the human soul does not compromise with this, since the lack of freedom is an insult to the unbreakable continuity of culture and to the natural relationship with our parents and ancestors, which is understood through the purity of soul, thought and mind. Therefore, it is an indisputable destiny: first of all, it’s necessary to believe in the moral principles given to us by the minds of those who fought before us for the same purpose of freedom. The refugees of Cyprus, during their exile within their own country, died and were buried (without wishing for such a development) away from their ancestral homes, the occupied cities of Kyrenia, Famagusta, or Morphou. Most art and painting exhibitions after 1974 have dealt with this tragic situation with representative icons.   Fig 12. First page of the Gospel of the Cathedral of Cyprus (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020). Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. It is an experience that constitutes a national heritage, which has been threatened since the summer of 1974, when the Turkish troops landed, violating all forms of law in Cyprus, along with violating every principle of morality. This is clearly confirmed by the deprivation of worship and any contact with the 520 occupied churches of our parents and ancestors.[18]   Fig 13. ‘The Calling of Matthew’, Folio 15 of the Gospel of the Cathedral of Cyprus (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020). Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. Since the establishment in 1983 of the Laboratory for the Restoration of Ancient Icons, Paintings, and Manuscripts of the Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus, the Director, Father Demosthenes Demosthenous, DDr, has witnessed the receipt of destroyed or irreparably damaged ecclesiastical icons and sacred objects, which had remained intact until the events of the 1974 Turkish invasion. These sacred objects, although in poor condition, attest to the descriptive speech of Archbishop Makarios III at the United Nations in October 1974.[19] They include a Holy Chalice with cast metal handle from the occupied area north of Nicosia and pieces of an iconostasis from the area of Morphou. Unfortunately, the invaders never cooperated honestly in the matter of the origin of the destroyed relics, which ended up through various ways in hands of the Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus, mainly with the assistance of the Police of the Republic.   The restoration and promotion of the ecclesiastical heritage of Cyprus includes the following as well: calligraphy and miniature iconographies, included in the art of the Gospel of the Cathedral, which was made by Father Demosthenous and commissioned by the Blessed Archbishop of Cyprus Chrysostom II. The manuscript, written on a parchment measuring 50 x 70cm, with 80 miniature representations and about 400 decorated chapters and chapter titles, was completed in 2020 in memory of Father Spyridon Demosthenous—Good Samaritan—and of the 520 occupied churches of Cyprus. Fig 14. Iconography of the Dome (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 1998). Church of Agios Makarios, Nairobi. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. We, the refugees, in this long-term effort for the justification of Cyprus and the completion of its freedom, keep as a model in our minds the struggle of our saints and ascetics, such as that of Saint Sozomenos in Potamia, an abandoned village located within the Dead Zone, which in fact bears the name of the saint and in the past was mixed (that is, it used to be inhabited both by Greeks and Turks of Cyprus). In the kekragaria  (ecclesiastic hymns) of the saint we read:   [Y]ou lived in the cave, flying in the silence, defeating the passion with the efforts of temperance and hard work, showing patience against the temptations and perseverance against the various circumstances.[20]   When the hymnographer mentions the word ‘circumstances’, he means the adversities caused by the arbitrariness of the conquerors.   And elsewhere below, we read in the next troparion :   You shone like the sun in the cave, Saved (Sozomenos), illuminating all those who ran to you and invoked your help, oh Wise one.   The intercession of the saints of our Orthodox Church offers an unexpected spiritual strength to the claim for restoration of the occupied churches of Cyprus. Repentance on our part, along with spiritual exercise, makes us follow Christ, having a warm mind, as did Saint Sozomenos, who is now on the throne of the omnipotent God and intercedes for all of us who invoke him, so that we may receive help and assistance from God. Kathisma  (ecclesiastic hymn):   With your words you decorated the Church of Christ, with your works you honoured the fact that you were created as an image of God, oh Saint Sozomenos, as your wisdom shone in the world with the grace of healing, in the radiance of faith, and therefore we honour your memory with much affection.    The hymn clearly reveals the inseparable relation of spirituality to the national consciousness, together with the respect for moral principles. The ancient frescoes, probably of the eighth century AD, preserved in the cave of Saint Sozomenos, in the village having the same name, are proof of the spiritual wealth that pilgrims gain. Whether they are literate or illiterate, they all have the same spiritual benefit and education. Such is the power of iconography—an iconography that continues to serve in its mission up to this day.   In 12 missions of iconography and its teaching between 1995 and 2008, courses of theory and technique of Byzantine Iconography were delivered at the Patriarchal School of Archbishop Makarios in Nairobi, Kenya. The iconographies in the Church of Agios Makarios were painted by Father Demosthenous and students of the School.   The true exponent of the truth is the one who serves it with freedom and justice. It gives meaning to the words that in the mouth of others, even orators, seem misguided and unrealisable, when the latter are vested with neither bravery nor virtue, nor spiritual power.   The proper exponent reaches up to the realisation of the restoration work. Thus, his virtue and bravery are proven, as a continuator of his origins and ancestry—that is, to be a servant of the moral spirit and moral values.[21]   In fact, such virtue guarantees the natural continuity of the spiritual civilization, and not only on the basis of the law of origin; these are elements which need special preservation.[22] What we say, in the moral law of the Gospel, is perfectly natural. In the minds of the media, perhaps this is seen as simply normal. The love for consistency with the ancestry of the Person on the basis of His origins is identified with the religious awe; while the emotional superficial resemblance to beauty is subjective, a preference that expresses the conquest of self-extension that is being attempted is not.[23]   The iconographies that Father Demosthenous painted in Agios Dimitrios of the Acropolis (1983-2021), in Agios Andreas, Via Sardegna 153 in Rome (1981-96) and elsewhere, are just small examples of the spiritual militancy and vigilance of the population which is the Greek Orthodox Christians of Cyprus, waiting until they can live freely in the 520 churches of their parents and ancestors, which are occupied and date from the era of Constantine the Great. Fig 15. Christ Pantocrator (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 1982). Church of Sant’Andrea (Via Sardegna 153), Rome.Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. Father Demosthenes Demosthenous   Father Demosthenes Demosthenous, Archpresbyter, is a theologian, conservator, and iconographer. He is Director of the Restoration Laboratory of Ancient Icons of The Holy Archbishopric of Cyprus in Nicosia. [1] Nearchos Nearchou (ed), Άπαντα Αρχιεπ. Μακαρίου Γ ( The Complete Works of Archbishop Makarios III ) vol 8 (1965) 127. [2] Matthew 4:18-19 (English Standard Version 2007). [3] Nearchou (ed, n 1). [4] St Nicholas Cabasilas, Η Χριστιανική Ζωή ( The Life in Christ ) (Nicosia 2008) 56. [5] Father Dionysios Papachrystoforou, Report as Director of the Restoration Centre of Ancient Icons, Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus in the Holy Monastery of Saint Spyridon of Tremetousia  (Archives of Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus,   March 1975). [6] Father Demosthenes Demosthenous (speech to the European Parliament, April 2007). [7] 8 Συντήρηση-Εικονογραφία-Τέχνη (R estoration-Iconography-Art ) (2018) 8. [8] ‘Theological Restoration in Memory of Andreas Mitsidis’ (2020) 19 Συντήρηση-Εικονογραφία-Τέχνη (Restoration-Iconography-Art) 17. [9] From the orthros  for the Sunday of the Tax Collector and the Pharisee. [10] Nearchou (ed, n 1). [11] Konstantinos Sathas, Μεσαιωνική Βιβλιοθήκη  ( Medieval Library ) 2 (Venice 1873) 1-2; Andreas Mitsidis, Σύντομη Ιστορία Εκκλησίας Κύπρου  ( Short History of the Church of Cyprus ), (Nicosia 1986) 43, citing Neophytos the Recluse, ‘Περὶ τῶν κατὰ χώραν Κύπρον σκαιῶν’ ( On the shadows over Cyprus ) in Ecclesiastical Letters during Francocracy . [12] Arnold Toynbee, A Study of History  (London 1934-54); Theodoros Papadopoulos, Presentation (1958); Arnold Toynbee, ‘The Theory of the Genesis of Civilizations’ in Tribute to Konstantinos Spyridakis  (Nicosia 1964) 159. [13] St John Crysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of John  (written fourth century, John Henry Parker 1848). [14] ibid 160. [15] Marios Begzos, Δοκίμια Φιλοσοφίας της θρησκείας ( Essays on Philosophy of Religion ) (Athens 1988) 21. [16] Andreas Mitsidis, Άπαντα Αρχιεπ. Μακ. Γ  ( The Complete Works of Archbishop Makarios III ) 8 643 (1965, Nicosia 1997). [17] Fighters who maintained the Greek Byzantine Tradition, seen for example in the frescoes of the Diassorinos in the Medieval Church of Arhangelos in Pedoulas. See Theodoros Papadopoulos, Ιστορία της Κύπρου-Μεσαιωνικό Βασίλειο  ( History of Cyprus-Medieval Kingdom )   D’-A’ (Nicosia 1995) 537. [18] Reverend Demosthenes Demosthenous DDr, The Occupied Churches of Cyprus  (Nicosia 2000) 6. [19] Reverend Demosthenes Demosthenous DDr, The Occupied Churches of Cyprus  (Nicosia 2001). [20] Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus, Κύπρια Μηναία ( Monthly Cypriot News ) 3 (Nicosia 1996) 192. [21] ‘And our King, those letters which they considered as dead, he himself carries them out with strength and vitality, projecting through his own power, the true and brave valour, not the false one … Virtue and valour was perhaps the father for his child and the child for the father, good for the good’ in Paul Gautier (ed), The Letters of Theophylactus of Ochrida  (Thessalonica 1980) 217. [22] ‘[T]his state of good heart did they have and, thus, defeated not only the enemies but also time’ Paul Gautier (ed), The Letters of Theophylactus of Ochrida  (Thessalonica 1980) 219. [23] Andreas Chrysochos, Κείμενα για την Τέχνη  ( Texts on Art ) (Nicosia 2006) 51.

Victoria Broackes is Director of the 2021 London Design Biennale. Previously she worked for the Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A): as Senior Curator for the Department of Theatre & Performance, and as Head of the London Design Festival (2009–18). At the V&A she co-curated the exhibition ‘David Bowie is’ (2013) and curated the exhibition ‘Pink Floyd: Their Mortal Remains’ (2017). She is an Alumni member of the Court of the Royal College of Art and an Assistant of the Goldsmiths’ Company.   CJLPA : You have a large ‘Design in an Age of Crisis’ gallery, which showcases responses to a global call for submissions issued with Chatham House. How did you decide on this theme? And can you give us some examples of design helping minimise or prevent crises?   Victoria Broackes : Yes! This is a special exhibition and it came as a direct result of the pandemic. Actually, the London Design Biennale was supposed to take place in September 2020. But when we went into lockdown we became aware of the amazing stories of creativity that were happening behind closed doors, with snorkelling masks being turned into ventilators, and ways of opening doors without touching them, things like that. It seemed, therefore, in line with our mission for this great exhibition to do something different. Fig 1. From the ‘Design in an Age of Crisis’ gallery. Credit: Ed Reeve 2021. We were talking to Chatham House about how it would be interesting to bring together the design profession and people of the sort they talk to more—academics, policy makers, governments, and so on. We came up with four themes: work, society, environment, and health. We created briefs to go out to the world with and see what came back. In fact, we were absolutely inundated with responses, which was exciting, but it changed the direction of the initiative. Initially, I had thought, ‘Let’s see what these ideas are’. But when they came back from all corners of the world—we had one from Togo—it suggested a story that very much chimed with our thinking: that design thinking is something which everybody can get involved in and contribute to. So the special exhibition is really a celebration of people thinking about things, and getting involved, and putting their ideas forward.   In terms of design minimising or preventing crises: there are loads of examples to see in the exhibition itself. As an example historical starting point, though, you could consider Joseph Bazalgette’s sewers, which addressed the cholera problem of the time through good design and are still in use to this day. Another example is the wind-up radio that was designed during the AIDS crisis, literally to drop out of helicopters in remote areas of Africa where no news was getting through because there was no power in the villages. The wind-up radio meant you could bring news to places that had no power.   CJLPA : Your Artistic Director Es Devlin has chosen ‘Resonance’ as this Biennale’s theme. Does this tie in with your focus on solving global issues?   VB : It very much does. The theme was set before the pandemic, and of course we all feel that many things have changed and become spotlighted during the pandemic or as a result of it. ‘Resonance’ has been really interesting. I think when Es put it forward as a theme, her focus was on how gestures and actions and designs are not single things, but reverberate outwards and around the world, and also through time. When one thinks of throwing things away, or one just puts them somewhere else—those kinds of issue, or the effect of a butterfly flapping its wings on the other side of the world.   That kind of resonance has come through very powerfully at this time. Our global awareness has been acutely heightened by the basic fact that, if you read the news at all, you are forced to look outwards and become aware of other countries, just as a result of the pandemic, even if you hadn’t been before. That’s a key, interesting thing to have come out of it. We’ve been viscerally reminded that we are one world. You could say ‘We’re not all safe until everyone’s safe’ until you were blue in the face, but now we know it’s true.   CJLPA : Cambridge University’s Centre for Natural Material Innovation has an installation at the Biennale. Could you tell us about this, and about how you perceive the importance of scientific innovation to design?   VB : We’re really thrilled that Cambridge is part of this year’s Biennale. It is certainly a major part of it, partly because we have fewer international pavilions than we would normally have, for obvious reasons, but also because we have a lot of amazing innovation on our doorstep. We have a number of art schools and universities taking part in the area. The Cambridge installation presents a method of folding wood, and encourages us to think about wood not only as a sustainable material but also as a building material with great strength and practicality. They will be showing that on quite a scale—you can walk through and around the installation—and I think it will be a wonderful showcase for it.   A lot of the international pavilions relate to environment and sustainability. The addition of the Cambridge entry is super. One of the things that this international Biennale does is allow people to experience things that they might read about or see on TV. But there’s nothing like an exhibition, because of the physicality. You can move and touch and feel and imprint on your brain what you’ve seen and sensed. Certainly, I find that some of those things stay with you for years and years, in a way that just reading about them in the news or a book does not.   CJLPA : I was going to ask you about that. This question is particularly relevant given COVID, of course. How important do you consider it to see objects in person, as opposed to digitally?   VB : I consider it really important, and not just because I run a Biennale! Actually, I think we’ve seen unbelievably amazing things digitally over the last year. We’ve also seen things that have been a little disappointing. I think the jury is out. We will not know for a bit which ones stick, or which ones we never want to hear of or see again.   In terms of distanced meetings, a big American lawyer I spoke to a few weeks ago said: ‘Gone are the days when I travelled 24 hours to attend a meeting. I am never doing that again!’ And you just think, ‘Well, of course! Why would  we have all done that?’ I should think he was doing it all the time, and that’s just bonkers. When it comes to art and culture, and this kind of conceptual design and installation, I think there’s no substitute for seeing things, and for seeing things with other people. In terms of what it is to be human, I think we need that.   It may be beyond the scope of this interview, but I’m really interested in where the digital is attached  to the physical, rather than in place  of the physical. I was at the Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) for many years, and have done quite a lot of exhibitions where there has been a digital element. I feel that the digital is brilliant at enhancing  the physical. But sometimes, for this kind of thing, if it’s   just it on its own, it doesn’t have the same impact, even for people who only see the digital version. The fact that the physical version exists is important.   CJLPA : On the topic of design more broadly: how serious a prospect do you think it is that, to some extent, design and similar processes will be automated in the near future?   VB : That’s really interesting. Considering the automation of parts of the design process: I suppose parts of the process of making things have been automated for centuries. There may be further to go with elements of that. But overall, I’d say that design, and design training, and creative thinking training, are areas that are less likely to be affected by automated processes. And that’s one of the reasons it is so important that we carry on doing them in our schools and universities, because they can’t be automated. Fig 2. POAD (Pavilion of the African Diaspora). Credit: Ed Reeve 2021. CJLPA : So as with exhibitions, do you have in mind a system where humans are aided by and working with, but not replaced by, AI?   VB : Yes, I do. I’m no expert on that aspect, but I think it’s really interesting. We know you can get a computer to compose like Chopin. Perhaps you can get a computer to design like Gropius. But computers haven’t got there yet, and one would not assume that that would hit the spot, just as the next Chopin waltz by a computer might not hit the spot either. So it’s fascinating. I’m all for creative training, and creative thinking, on how important it is to address all the things that we need to address now in the world, but also on the future of work.   CJLPA : Staying on digital, but on a less frightening note… Does the Biennale feature digital as well as physical design? Or at least part-digital design?   VB : Yes, it does, in a number of ways.   Firstly, we have some fully digital pavilions. Six of our international pavilions have gone digital because they couldn’t get here, or had great challenges to production or travel. That’s a first for us. I would pay tribute to them, for how tough it has been to organise an international event this year. That is testament to how important people consider it to be here in person.   Secondly, our whole public programme, which previously would have been viewable in person, is going to be broadcast and streamed digitally, much of it recorded on site. The interesting thing about that is that we used to be concerned about whether 30,000 people were coming to Somerset House or 40,000, but the fact is that, whether it’s 30,000 or 40,000, there’s a much bigger audience out there that we’ve become aware of, particularly over the past year. However many thousand people come, we’re never going to have all the people who are interested in this conversation. The digital allows us to properly be international, and to have this conversation with a much broader base.   Thirdly, a lot of our physical pavilions are in part digital, with digital components as parts of their displays.   CJLPA : The Biennale is very international. 33 countries, territories, and cities have pavilions, and ‘Design in an Age of Crisis’ has 500 projects from over 50 countries. Are there global trends in styles and preoccupations that you can see at the Biennale, or do these vary significantly between designers and countries?   VB : There are global trends. It sounds glib, but it’s true that this year climate change, social inequality, migration, and so on, which were already big subjects, have become bigger. They have become focal points for all nations to think about. But there are countries and designers and nations that are focussed on those in terms of the bigger picture, but also use national examples to tell much broader stories. Fig 3. La Rentrada (Venezuela pavilion). Credit: Ed Reeve 2021. For example, Venezuela’s pavilion this year is focussed on recycling avocado stones into interesting products. On the face of it, it’s quite a simple project. You think, ‘Oh, I didn’t know you could do that with avocado stones.’ But actually, behind that is a fascinating story of Venezuela’s dependence on fossil fuels, and how catastrophic that’s been for the country’s GDP and people. The avocado stone is a metaphor for how using something more core to the place, and more useful, could have brought about a very different outcome. The designer is not proposing that you make things out of avocado stones, just saying that you could, and that you certainly shouldn’t have put all your eggs in the fossil fuel basket. So that turns a local story into something we can all connect with.   We also have this again and again in ‘Design in an Age of Crisis’. Somebody will be talking in their alleyway or the social housing that they’re living in in Asia, but you can read about it and see that it could also be in the outskirts of Birmingham, or anywhere. So there are specific examples that are local but may have national or even global usefulness.   CJLPA : You have curated several notable exhibitions about musicians, like ‘David Bowie is’ at the V&A. What made you move to design, and how has your past experience shaped your work on the Biennale?   VB : Music was a great passion, but I actually started at the V&A as a design person. It was luck that I found myself in the theatre and performance collections, where there was a great music collection that hadn’t really been used. It had been assembled by brilliant curators who’d seen how musicians used design to present themselves visually—design and fashion and graphics, these kinds of thing. It had been collected since the 1960s, but it had only been shown in a design context, so it was an opportunity, it seemed to me, to connect something that I was really interested in with something that everybody was really interested in. Design, though, seemed a more closed world. That was a fantastic coming together of interests and the brilliant work of other people. It was a great honour and opportunity to do three big exhibitions at the V&A. It wasn’t easy. It’s quite a competitive process there, and music seemed to be a good focus for those years. But the V&A covers so many subjects, and people move on.   I think the thing that ties these together is that I am quite passionate about opening up areas of culture to more people. What I mean by that is that I actually think more people are interested than realise they are. You need to make it easy to get a foot in the door. I also feel that design can sometimes be a bit up itself. A lot of people feel that it’s a bit highfalutin and maybe not their thing. With something like ‘Design in an Age of Crisis’, I like the idea that, if you’re communicating well through design, you’re not looking at the design, you’re feeling the feeling, or getting use out of the thing if it works. The thing becomes what it does. So I hope that people will come to this Biennale, and that there will be something interesting for everybody, all the family. It’s important stuff that relates to us all. It’s not just about design aficionados and imposing creative brains.   CJLPA : I’m interested in your belief that people find design highfalutin. You can live a life without ever seeing a painting, but you can’t avoid design. Does that not make design easier to engage with?   VB : I think it absolutely does. It’s not as noxious. Art history is ‘keep out’. People might think that a design biennale is going to be about beautiful chairs that cost a fortune. But I’m not interested in that. This type of design is something different. It takes philosophy and ideas, things that people care about, and puts them into a physical space. It’s not entertainment exactly, but I want people to come and have a great time. If design’s working, it doesn’t have to be hard work. It may not always be jolly and happy, but I hope the Biennale will be a great experience, and that everyone will come and see that.   CJLPA : What is London’s role in the history of design? You gave Bazalgette’s sewers as a good example. What is distinctive about London’s design scene today?   VB : I’d also mention the Great Exhibition out of which the V&A came, the first great world exhibition. It launched a series of world expos, world’s fairs, and so on, many in Paris, where people went to see the latest innovations but also travel the world. London has a great history in that sense, but also, in the present, it is a fantastic place for designers and creative people to live, train, and work. It’s a very precious thing that I don’t think we should take for granted. We are very lucky to have that. But I do think that if we do the right things we can hang on to it.   I was talking to a designer from New York this morning. She said, ‘London is the centre of the world for design.’ I’m not saying that’s absolutely true, but we certainly have a place at the very top table. We need to deserve that, and to keep working hard to make London a great place for creative people.   CJLPA : Do you think that, if we do, we can pull through the two shocks of Brexit and COVID-19?   VB : I certainly hope so! Otherwise we’re in desperate trouble, because it’s something we’re really good at, and there aren’t so many things that we’re really good at now. We need to make the most of those things. Joseph Court, the interviewer, is an Archaeology graduate from Trinity College, Cambridge, who placed first each year and specialised in the ancient Near East. He is interested in the very new as well as the very old: tech law and policy, Wikipedia editing, and film.

Art historians and psychologists alike have long been fascinated by the tentative relationship between art and mental illness. A number of well known artists have grappled with severe mental health issues, which has led others to question whether there is a link between psychopathology and creativity.[1] The emergence of Expressionism, a movement characterised by an externalisation of the artist’s inner psyche, in the late nineteenth century seemed to crystallise this concept of a ‘mad genius’.[2] It was decided that those who suffer from psychological illnesses are inherently more creative than those who do not. Whilst commonly accepted as fact rather than theory, relatively few studies have evaluated this relationship.[3] The most cited studies to this effect were conducted by Nancy Coover Andreasen[4] and Kay Redfield Jamison[5] in the late 1980s. Both identified significant overlap between creativity and mental illness in their participants, and therefore imputed causality. However, Judith Schlesinger’s extensive review confirms that both studies lack the sample size and scientific rigour necessary to prove a causal link.[6] Despite this, Schlesinger acknowledges that a large number of creative people have suffered from mental illnesses, citing Albert Rothenberg’s three-decade investigation into the ‘Creative Process’.[7] In such cases, the mental illness of an artist can be seen to have a considerable influence on their art. We will examine the work of Tracey Emin (1963-) and Edvard Munch (1863-1944) in this light to better understand the symbiotic relationship between art and mental health.   Despite being separated by a century, Emin and Munch are united by their contributions to Expressionism. This relationship was recently laid bare in the ‘The Loneliness of the Soul’ exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts. Both artists demonstrate a ‘shared commitment’ to revealing unfiltered emotion in every piece.[8] To do so, many of their works draw on their own experiences of mental suffering. Emin has spoken openly about her experience with alcoholism, depression, anorexia, and insomnia.[9] In 1998, she had a major depressive episode that would later inspire one of her most famous installations. By contrast, Munch’s account of his mental health issues uses less explicit diagnoses. However, extensive analysis of Munch’s diary entries indicates that his ‘nervous crisis’ and subsequent hospitalisation in 1908, was brought on by anxiety, alcoholism, and agoraphobia. Munch was intensely agoraphobic, particularly in situations where he saw no means of escape.[10] He is also thought to have suffered from Bipolar Affective Disorder, evidenced by his turbulent mood swings, paranoid delusions, and intermittent hallucinations.[11] Ultimately, both artists’ mental health issues can be attributed in part to their childhood trauma. At a young age, Munch lost both his mother and sister to tuberculosis. He was only 15 when his sister begged him to save her from a slow death by fever.[12] Similarly, Emin was 13 when she was raped,[13] and only 19 when she underwent a deeply traumatic abortion.[14]   The artwork of Munch and Emin often reflects these traumatic experiences of mental suffering, and thus highlights the significant influence psychopathology can have on creative output. In Munch’s case, perhaps the best example of this is The Scream (1893, fig 1).[15] This painting is not simply viewed, but experienced. The distorted contours of a bleeding sky drag the viewer into a place of unease, so that they too feel as though they’re spiralling out of control. In this way, the piece communicates Munch’s own experience of a ‘psychotic break’, detailed in his diary:   I was walking along the road with two of my friends. Then the sun set. The sky suddenly turned into blood, and I felt something akin to a touch of melancholy. I stood still, leaned against the railing, dead tired. Above the blue black fjord and city hung clouds of dripping, rippling blood. My friends went on and again I stood, frightened with an open wound in my breast. A great scream pierced through nature.[16]   Fig 1. The Scream (Edvard Munch 1893, oil, tempera, and pastel, 91 x 73.5cm) Nasjonalmuseet. Wikimedia Commons. . In his attempt to embody such an anxiety-provoking hallucination, Munch used expressive, frenzied brushwork and scribbles of oil pastels. Furthermore, he emphasised the heightened sensitivity to his surroundings through the stark contrast between the muted central figure and the vivid, oversaturated primary colours of the sunset. The painting thereby indicates Munch’s mental turmoil during the late nineteenth century.   Contrary to popular belief, Munch’s diary entry suggests that it is not the figure screaming, but nature itself. This personification of the environment is best illustrated through Munch’s bold lithograph print of the same scene (fig 2). The absence of colour spotlights the swirling lines of the background, thought to represent ‘the waves of sound he heard in nature’.[17] The unsteady quality of the lines also gives us the impression nature’s scream is vibrating through the print. Turning to the central figure, we can see its amorphous body is bent over, as if recoiling from the surroundings. And yet, this shape echoes the oscillating lines of the background, which in turn suggest the figure is ‘inextricably bound to his environment’.[18] Munch stresses this through his use of a vertiginous perspective. Our attention is directed to the bridge, which seems to stretch out indefinitely and offers no route to safety.[19] Furthermore, the homologous depiction of the figure and its surroundings seems to encapsulate Munch’s fear of dissolving into the sky.[20] In this respect, we would agree with Anne McElroy Bowen that the painting was predominantly influenced by Munch’s own agoraphobia.[21] However, the viewer does not need to share in Munch’s specific anxieties to engage with the piece. Instead, they can identify their own concerns in the figure. In this way, Munch demonstrates how an artist’s personal experiences of mental illness can be distilled into a universal symbol of inner turmoil. Fig 2. The Scream (Edvard Munch 1895, lithoprint, 44 x 25cm ). Munchmuseet. Maurizio Pesce, Wikimedia Commons. . Tracey Emin’s autobiographical My Bed  (1998, fig 3) exemplifies how an artist’s own suffering can be transformed into a captivating piece of conceptual art. Despite facing significant controversy when first exhibited for the 1999 Turner Prize, the readymade quickly became one of the most iconic works of contemporary art. The installation preserves the entirety of Emin’s dishevelled bed after her four-day long depressive episode that same year.[22] The depiction of her surroundings is candid, littered with empty vodka bottles, used condoms, tissues, dirty clothes, and an overflow of cigarette butts. Devoid of context, this collection of objects could be misconstrued as a vulgar shock tactic. However, as Jonathan Jones explains, the contents were not ‘contrived to shock but really were what surrounded her bed. She was putting a personal crisis on display, as manifested by her most immediate and intimate physical surroundings’.[23] Each object was made meaningful through its interaction with Emin’s depression. In this way, My Bed  is an exemplary readymade: it simply redefines ‘found objects’ with intrinsic value to the artist and presents them as art. Because of the conceptual nature of this style, we would argue that understanding Emin’s experience is valuable for appreciating her bed as art. Like The Scream , what is most compelling about the unguarded exhibition of My Bed  is its ability to connect the viewer to the universality of suffering. Fig 3. My Bed (Tracey Emin 1998, mattress, linens, pillows, and objects, 79 x 211 x 234cm) at Tate Britain. Karen Bryan, Europe a la Carte (). . However, the compelling nature of suffering as a subject matter can often distract the viewer from the contextual influences that contribute to a piece’s ingenuity. In his historical analysis of ‘Art and Mental Illness’, Anthony White identifies a tendency in literature to overemphasise the ‘internal worlds’ of artists, and consequently isolate their work from ‘the wider artistic, historical and cultural context in which it was produced’.[24] It is paramount that our analyses of The Scream and My Bed  consider the contexts within which the artists worked. Munch was not living and working in a vacuum, and a range of influences are present in his artwork. For example, aspects of The Scream  that are thought to be symptomatic of his fragile mental state, such as the pulsating perpetual motion of his brushwork, or the bird’s eye viewpoint, build on the Impressionist tendencies of the time.[25] Similarly, My Bed  is in keeping with both the introspection of Expressionism and the conceptual innovation of the Young British Artists. Emin and her contemporaries were challenging the notion of ‘fine art’ through their shocking use of alternative media.[26] Emin’s My Bed  uses this novel approach to breathe new life into the twentieth-century Expressionism that first inspired her. Therefore, Emin and Munch are not simply disturbed geniuses, but creators who responded to and influenced contemporary movements in art.   Additionally, the relationship between mental illness and art is made more complex when we consider how an artist’s creative output might enable their recovery. Both Emin and Munch, albeit to different extents, used their art as a therapeutic mechanism for processing their childhood trauma.[27] Emin in particular, has been incredibly vocal about the ‘purgative and healing’ power of making art.[28] Throughout her career, she has returned to scenes of her sexual assault to let the adolescent girl within her scream.[29] Perhaps the most poignant example of this can be seen in her monoprint Beautiful Child  (2009). The simple print consists of a young naked   girl, representative of Emin at the time of her assault, and a bodiless penis. The expansive white background seems to emphasise the isolation of her childhood self. However, what is most striking about the piece is the rough castration of her attacker. It seems that the physical act of pressing paper onto the ink surface and sketching let Emin take back control over her experience. In this way, Beautiful Child  supports Christine Fanthome’s argument that the immediate   and inalterable quality of the monoprint made it an ideal medium for Emin to process the emotions associated with her trauma.[30]   Similarly, we would argue that the physical act of painting offered Munch some relief from his anxieties. Like Emin, Munch returned to the scene of personal trauma: he depicted his sister’s death at least six times. Interestingly, the first and fifth versions of the The Sick Child  series (1907, fig 4) have scratch marks on the surface of   the canvas, which Munch attributed to scraping and repainting the scene ‘countless times’.[31] It is likely that this physical process was necessary to work through his residual feelings of anger and guilt surrounding the subject matter. The painting itself shows a frail girl clasping the hands of her grieving companion. Contrary to many of his other pieces of an autobiographical nature, Munch does not include himself in this scene. Instead, he paints what he remembers. Michelle Facos argues that Munch’s vertical brushstrokes let the viewer see the scene as he once did, through ‘tears or the veil of memory’.[32] Perhaps Munch’s absence from the painting is also symbolic of the powerlessness he felt when his sister begged for him to save her life. That said, in the same way Emin used her art to castrate her attacker, Munch seems to have given his sister the inner peace he could not offer her on her deathbed. However, unlike Emin, Munch almost obsessively repeated the exact same composition each time he revisited the scene. While it is likely the act of painting provided Munch with temporary relief, his rigid depiction of the memory seems indicative of his inability or unwillingness to fully process his trauma. Fig 4. The Sick Child (Edvard Munch 1907, oil paint on canvas, 118.7 x 121cm). Tate Britain. Wikimedia Commons. . The prevailing narrative of the ‘mad genius’ in the late nineteenth century is likely to have shaped Munch’s sense of identity as an artist and influenced his willingness to engage in recovery. He once said: ‘Without anxiety and illness I am a ship without a rudder … My sufferings are part of myself and my art. They are indistinguishable from me, and their destruction would destroy my art. I want to keep those sufferings’.[33] This suggests that Munch’s fear of losing his creativity, spurred on by the ‘mad genius’ trope, outweighed his desire to recover. In this way, Munch seems to exemplify Perpetua Neo’s argument that the relationship between art and mental illness is often self-fulfilled.[34] While Munch is known to have experienced some form of recovery,[35] he never fully overcame his nervous disposition.[36] His continued struggle with mental illness is reflected in the subject matter of some of his later self-portraits, like Sleepless Night. Self-Portrait in Inner Turmoil  (1920, fig 5). The scene depicts Munch in old age, his fists raised, as if at odds with himself. In contrast, Emin’s more recent explorations of mental suffering are inspired by an image of herself that is ‘out of date’. Emin has recovered from her mental struggles, whilst still drawing creative inspiration from the memory of how she once felt.[37] This engagement with recovery suggests that Emin does not consider her creativity to be contingent on her suffering. In this way, Emin has likely benefited from the dismantling of the antiquated ‘mad genius’ trope that inhibited Munch’s own recovery.   Fig 5. Sleepless Night. Self-Portrait in Inner Turmoil (Edvard Munch 1920, oil on canvas, 150 x 129 cm). Munchmuseet. Wikimedia Commons. . The lives of Edvard Munch and Tracey Emin exemplify the symbiotic relationship between art and psychopathology. Their experience of mental illness has clearly inspired their subject matter and enriched their creative output. This in turn has let them evoke feelings with which the viewer can identify. Furthermore, both Emin and Munch demonstrate how the creative process can help an artist work through and recover from their mental health issues. While Munch’s art alleviated some of his symptoms, he was ultimately held captive by the concept of the ‘mad genius’, and thus never able to fully break free from his sufferings. In contrast, Emin’s own account of her recovery suggests that she has not fallen into the same cycle. Moreover, the undiminished relatability of her recent work proves that this distance from her lowest emotional state has not inhibited her creativity. Emin demonstrates that the recovered artist can still access the intensity of feeling required to convey the most troubling aspects of the human experience. Amelia Bateman and Lucy De-Rhune   Amelia Bateman is a third-year undergraduate in Social Sciences at the University of Bath, with a particular interest in psychology. Alongside her studies, she is the Founder and Chair of Bath’s first Sustainable Fashion Society. She is also an avid, albeit amateur, painter and writer.   Lucy De-Rhune is a third-year undergraduate in History of Art and Modern Languages at the University of Birmingham. In 2021 she will undertake a study exchange in Granada, Spain and Florence, Italy, furthering her interest in Spanish and Italian art, language, and culture. She is the former head of art and exhibition coverage for the Birmingham University Radio Network, and has produced a weekly show for the network about fashion and sustainability. [1] Anna Abraham, ‘Editorial: Madness and creativity—yes, no or maybe?’ (2015) 6 Frontiers in Psychology 5. [2] Anthony White, ‘Art and Mental Illness: An Art Historical Perspective’ in Art and Mental Illness: Myths, Stereotypes and Realities  (Neami Splash Art 2007) 24-9. [3] Judith Schlesinger, ‘Creative mythconceptions: A closer look at the evidence for the “mad genius” hypothesis’ (2009) 3(2) Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts 62. [4] Nancy Coover Andreasen, ‘Creativity and mental illness: prevalence rates in writers and their first-degree relatives’ (1987) 144(10) American Journal of Psychiatry 1288. [5] Schlesinger (n 3). [6] ibid. [7] Albert Rothenberg, Creativity and Madness: New Findings and Old Stereotypes  (Johns Hopkins University Press 1990). [8] Rosemary Waugh, ‘The enduring connection between art and mental health’ ( Art UK , 4 November 2020) < https://artuk.org/discover/stories/the-enduring-connection-between-art-and-mental-health > accessed 24 March 2021. [9] Tracey Emin, Strangeland  (first edn, Sceptre 2005) 200. [10] Anne McElroy Bowen, ‘Munch and Agoraphobia: His Art and His Illness’ (1988) 15(1) RACAR: Revue D’art Canadienne/Canadian Art Review 23. [11] VY Skryabin, AA Skryabina, MV Torrado, and EA Gritchina, ‘Edvard Munch: the collision of art and mental disorder’ (2020) 23(7) Mental Health, Religion & Culture 570. [12] ibid. [13] Emin (n 9) 24. [14] ibid 153. [15] Skryabin, Skryabina, Torrado, and Gritchina (n 11). [16] Reinhold H Heller, Edvard Munch: The Scream (first edn, Viking Press 1972). [17] Giulia Bartrum (as quoted in Alexander Smart, ‘The radical prints of Edvard Munch: New ways to express moods and emotions’ ( Christie’s , 9 April 2019) < https://www.christies.com/en/stories/the-prints-of-edvard-munch-e079de7b78634b228aa38bf8717bd6e5 > accessed 25 February 2021). [18] Campbell Crockett, ‘Psychoanalysis in Art Criticism’ (1958) 17(1) The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 34. [19] McElroy Bowen (n 10). [20] Stanley Steinberg and Joseph Weiss, ‘The Art of Edvard Munch and its Function in his Mental Life’ (1954) 23(3) The Psychoanalytic Quarterly 409. [21] McElroy Bowen (n 10). [22] Tate Britain, Tracey Emin's My Bed at Tate Britain ( YouTube , 30 March 2015). [23] Jonathan Jones, Tracey Emin: Works 2007-2017 (first edn, Rizzoli 2017) 8-33. [24] White (n 2). [25] Rachel Sloane, ‘Edvard Munch. Chicago’ The Burlington Magazine  (London 2009) 151(1274) 347. [26] Tate, ‘Young British Artists (YBAs)’ < https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/y/young-british-artists-ybas > accessed 25 March 2021. [27] Christina Blomdahl, Birgitta Gunnarsson, Suzanne Guregård, and Anita Björklund, ‘A realist review of art therapy for clients with depression’ (2013) 40(3)The Arts in Psychotherapy 322. [28] Miguel Medina, ‘Tracey Emin: Life Made Art, Art Made from Life’ (2014) 3(1) Arts 54. [29] Turner Contemporary, ‘BBC HARDTalk with Tracey Emin’ (2012) < https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=og5FqDxPUKg&t=116s > accessed 23 March 2021. [30] Christine Fanthome, ‘Articulating authenticity through artifice: the contemporary relevance of Tracey Emin’s confessional art’ (2008) 18(2) Social Semiotics 223. [31] Mille Stein, ‘Patterns in Munch’s painting technique’ in Gary Garrels, Jon-Ove Steihaug, and Sheena Wagstaff (eds), Edvard Munch: Between the clock and the bed  (first edn, Yale University Press 2017). [32] Michelle Facos, An Introduction to Nineteenth-Century Art  (first edn, Routledge 2011) 339. [33] C Marcelo Miranda, C Eva Miranda, and D Matías Molina, ‘Edvard Munch: disease and genius of the great norwegian artist’ (2013) 141(6) Revista médica de Chile 774. [34] Lindsay Dodgson, ‘Creativity and depression don’t go hand in hand, but it can seem like they do — here’s why’ ( Insider , 27 July 2018) < https://www.insider.com/the-link-between-creativity-and-mental-health-2018-7 > accessed 21 February 2021. [35] Russell R Monroe, Creative Brainstorms: The Relationship Between Madness and Genius  (first edn, Irvington Publishers Inc 1992) 73. [36] Garrels, Steinhaug, and Wagstaff (n 31) 17-9. [37] Jones (n 23) 8-33.

Sharon Ament is the Director of the Museum of London, and inspiring passion in the capital and its museum is her goal. Sharon joined the Museum in September 2012 to steer the world’s leading city museum through to the next phase of its development by inspiring a passion for London and reflecting the capital’s energy and dynamism. Throughout her career Sharon has been driven by the simple aim of ‘turning people onto great ideas and causes’. This started early with her work for a number of social causes in Liverpool. Thereafter she became involved in wildlife conservation and worked with the Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust, moving from Lancashire to Slimbridge to oversee a national portfolio of wetland centres. In the 1990s she worked at the Zoological Society of London and from there joined The Natural History Museum.   CJLPA : What role does the Museum of London play in London? How do you want this to develop?   Sharon Ament : Putting it simply, the Museum of London tells the story of what I consider to be the greatest city in the world and its people. It’s also a complex city with a long and rich history containing every positive and negative aspect of urban life and one that lives with a legacy of being at the centre of an empire. Central to our identity as a cultural institution is the idea of openness. London has always been an open city—open to all people, faiths, cultures, perspectives, and conversations—and it’s in that spirit that we tell London’s story. In the next few years, we’re recreating the Museum of London in West Smithfield, an old marketplace that has lain untouched for 30 years and been an important trading place for many centuries. We’re saving this remarkable building for society and breathing a different sort of cultural life into the City of London as a result. We will be London’s shared place: smack bang in the middle of the story, open for all, and created with Londoners who’ve joined us along the way. Post-pandemic our project has more meaning than ever before.   CJLPA : Like all cultural institutions, the Museum has struggled in the COVID-19 pandemic, having only been open for 13 weeks between March 2020 and 2021. Do you see any upsides to COVID-19?   SA : The past year has been a real struggle for the whole culture sector in the UK, but what has been front of my mind is the impact the museum and gallery closures are having on young people. In my opinion, these young people have to be at the heart of our efforts to rebuild cultural institutions. Creating a new museum in the aftermath of the pandemic provides a special opportunity. It’s a time when we can really step back and think about what social history museums should be now and in the future. Who are they for? Who should they represent? What stories should they tell?   In terms of the area of the City that the new museum is located, it’s also a great opportunity for cultural regeneration. The old general market building has been derelict for some time. By transforming this extraordinary heritage space, we’ve been able to save the building from commercial development in the form that is familiar with office buildings and give it to the people of London. I want Londoners to feel that they belong here, that it’s their space. The new museum will be a ‘museum wrapped in a high street’ with space for independent businesses, restaurants, and cafes. The museum itself will be like a marketplace: you’ll be able to walk straight through it on your way to work, you’ll be able to walk your dog through it—or stay and watch performances, see community-curated exhibitions, or delve into the deep history of London. It will truly be a new type of museum, built for the times in which we live. And we have a train running through our Past Time Galleries.   CJLPA : Do you think museums will be important in keeping city centres thriving and lively after COVID-19?   SA : Museums have a huge role to play post-COVID in enlivening city centres as well, of course, as being part of the cultural infrastructure alongside libraries, parks, galleries, and other social spaces. We may find that after the pandemic the pace of change in city centres has increased dramatically. That might be because people choose to work from home more often, or because retail businesses that have struggled during COVID do not survive. Museums don’t just give people a reason to visit their city, but it also gives space to reflect, consider, and explore. Museums are trusted places and the flow back after lockdown to our museums and galleries shows that people want to visit.   The City of London, where we are based, has felt the effect of the pandemic very harshly. Footfall has plummeted and will take some time to recover. That is why the City of London Corporation have put culture front and centre of their COVID recovery plans, announcing a Culture and Commerce Taskforce, as well as investing in major cultural infrastructure including the Barbican and of course the new Museum of London.   CJLPA : You will have opened on 19 May 2021 with the exhibition ‘Dub London: Bassline of a City’. Could you tell us about the exhibition and how it fits into bigger plans for the Museum?   SA : From its roots in Jamaican reggae to how it shaped communities over the last 50 years, our new display explores not only dub music, but also the cultural and social impact it has had on the identity of London and its people.   Dub has had a far-reaching impact across the music industry and the history of the capital. It has influenced multiple genres from drum and bass, garage, and hip-hop to even mainstream pop, and played an important role in the early days of the city’s punk scene with bands such as The Clash and The Slits drawing on its unique sound. The story of dub culture in London is a fascinating one and one that hasn’t been told this widely in a museum setting before. Through getting out into the places and speaking to the people who have been instrumental in the dub scene, we’ve been able to hear stories of how London was central for the emergence of dub in the UK. Even though most of this music originated in the Caribbean and Jamaica, London quickly became important to dub reggae: dub record labels were started in London, and dub music was produced in London and exported to the rest of the world. With London still being home to one of the largest collections of dub reggae record shops outside of Kingston, Jamaica, this display will be a unique and impressive way to tell the story of how dub culture has shaped the identity of the capital and us as Londoners.   The museum is passionate about connecting to Londoners, cutting across multiple scenes, times, and genres. Our past experiences with ‘Punk London’, ‘The Clash: London Calling’, and now ‘Dub London: Bassline of a City’, show us the music runs through London’s veins and is crucial to a Londoner’s identity. It’s a theme we’re exploring for our new Museum of London in West Smithfield.   CJLPA : The Museum recently produced a wide-ranging report on the experiences of Generation Z Londoners. Did this inform your plans for the Museum?   SA : Absolutely. We worked with the Partnership for Young London on the largest survey of Gen Z Londoners of its kind. Over 3,000 young Londoners took part, and told us what mattered to them, about their concerns and hopes for the future. I want young Londoners to play an active role in the creation of the new museum and to see their experiences reflected in its displays and ongoing programming. Young people told us that they didn’t always feel welcome in cultural institutions. I want the new museum to make young Londoners feel comfortable, valued, and inspired. This research will help us place young people front and centre of the new museum and will inform our plans as they develop.   CJLPA : What prompted the move to West Smithfield, away from the current Brutalist site on London Wall?   SA : The current site at London Wall is simply too small for our ambitions to reach every schoolchild in the capital and tell the stories of London and Londoners past, present, and future—no longer a museum fit for twenty-first-century London. It’s also very a tricky location, with access via highwalks and no ground-level entrances. In fact, it would be fair to say we are invisible behind the walls of the roundabout that shields us. The new museum at West Smithfield will be situated at one end of the City’s Culture Mile and is directly opposite the new Crossrail station in Farringdon. We like to say that the new site is two stops from Paris! Situated within beautiful, historic market buildings designed by the inimitable Sir Horace Jones, they’re the perfect new home for a museum for London: not shiny new buildings or a grand old palace, but very special market structures grounded in the working and trading history of the city. We are aiming to attract two million visitors in the first year, compared to our current footfall of around 800,000, and the project will be a key part of London’s post-COVID recovery.   CJLPA : The new site has an interesting plan centred around different types of ‘Time’. Could you tell us about this, and how it came to be?   SA : The ground floor of the General Market, ‘Our Time’, will be a hub for London events. With gatherings ranging from festivals, markets, and performances to talks and discussions about urgent local matters, it will become a new space for Londoners and visitors to the city to come together. Even when no event is on, it will simply be a new, welcoming space to meet friends or just spend time amid displays and activities which explore London’s lived experience—the London of our own living memories.   Beneath the General Market, ‘Past Time’ will be a spectacular underground space, home to the rich historical galleries of the museum. Here we will showcase the unrivalled breadth of our London Collection, made up of some seven million items. Content will range from skeletons to dresses, vehicles to art and photography, and include the exquisite jewellery of the Cheapside Hoard in the Goldsmiths’ Gallery. There will be theatrical, sensory, and interactive displays, full of 10,000 years of human drama.   A live train line runs alongside this space, which was once a huge goods depot for the Great Northern Railway. At the far end, in the old salt store, visitors will be able to watch the trains rumble by as passengers peer in—a visceral reminder of the connectedness of these buildings to the city in which we are rooted.   CJLPA : You have spoken well on how you want the new Museum to tell the stories of a wider range of Londoners. What role do you see for the more traditional elements, like the Tudor and Roman collections?   SA : Before London, there was Londinium. Our Roman story is crucial in telling the story of our city and its people with, as we know, remnants still around today. These iconic London ‘moments’, including the Romans, the Great Fire, and the Suffragettes form the foundation of our museum and city alike. These core pieces of the narrative will be told in full in our new museum galleries, in a space we’re currently calling ‘Past Time’. They’re also key curriculum topics and, with our vision to reach every school child in London, will form vital elements of our learning programmes. In essence we will be illuminating London across time in a way that is both familiar and very, very different. We can’t tell the story of London and miss out the Great Fire, but we can draw out new narratives, new voices, new insights that come from looking at London from the perspective of 2021.   CJLPA : How will you be growing your permanent collections?   SA : We are actively collecting in three ways, adding to our collections through archaeological finds thus building an ever more comprehensive London Archaeological Archive. Secondly, we are adding to our collections through contemporary collecting programmes such as ‘Collecting the Pandemic’. When a compelling reason to record a moment that is happening now becomes apparent, we get collecting. The last time we undertook such a large-scale contemporary collecting programme was during the war, when we collected what people were wearing—particularly clothes that were designated as utility wear. Finally, we continue to collect historic objects in the traditional ways from donations to purchase. Some examples of these would be Daphne Hardy Henrion’s Festival of Britain sculpture and Pierre Prévost’s 1815 Panorama of London  , which came up for sale in 2018. These objects become part of the London Collection, which is more than seven million items strong.   CJLPA : You have plans to use digital technology to get people around the world thinking about important cultural issues. What exactly do these plans entail?   SA : Being truly 24/7, live-streaming data from London, broadcasting from the Museum, just to name a few activities. But it would be fair to say that this, as for every other cultural organisation, has become a more significant focus. Watch this (digital) space!   CJLPA : How important do you consider it to see the Museum’s collections in person versus digitally?   SA : More than ever, the last year has shown us that we cannot be complacent and rely on physical visits alone (although we can’t wait to welcome back our much-missed visitors!). How we’ve developed our digital offer has been nothing short of incredible and we must continue to build on this progress. We have seen the appetite is there. From our Great Fire livestreams beaming directly to thousands of school children in summer last year, through to our digitising former exhibitions such as ‘Disease X’ and turning our blockbuster exhibition ‘The Cheapside Hoard’ into the ‘Tweetside Hoard’—just some of examples of our recent digital work—we have a great foundation to build on. The story of London and Londoners isn’t confined to within the M25; it transcends borders and has national and international appeal as one of the greatest cities in the world, so we have an obligation, as well as a passion, to share our content as far as possible. We’re thinking hard about how to apply this mentality to the new Museum of London where we have the opportunity to shape our digital presence, both physically within the buildings but also online, from the ground up. We’re adding to our collections all the time; most recently we’ve acquired a host of COVID-related objects to make sure this unreal time is captured— we’ve collected people’s experiences of Ramadan in lockdown, the sounds of London’s silent streets during the pandemic, posters, flyers from protests, and much more.   Our role also extends beyond our collections and our ‘stuff’. Museums are increasingly becoming spaces for important debate, relearning, and exploration of hard-hitting subjects that affect us all. Of course, our role will always be rooted in history, but we have a voice and must use it. Joseph Court, the interviewer, is an Archaeology graduate from Trinity College, Cambridge, who placed first each year and specialised in the ancient Near East. He is interested in the very new as well as the very old: tech law and policy, Wikipedia editing, and film.