Death by a thousand cuts

I find it fascinating how in the short time since I graduated from my university’s Diploma of Languages in 2016 and its PhB Bachelor of Philosophy (Arts) in 2017, both programs[1] have been scrapped.[2]

Yet while I was somewhat shocked to hear the news, I can’t say I was surprised. Australia is perhaps dubiously unique in the pride it takes in undercutting arts and the humanities within its own culture and society.

The university I attended – the Australian National University – is recognised for its academic excellence both nationally and internationally, and I am grateful for the time I spent there. It’s Australia’s top-ranked university; and, while this achievement is due in no small part to postgraduate research, the ANU offers good opportunities for undergraduates. These include ready access to leading academics, generally smaller class sizes than those at other major universities, and a wide range of courses, particularly within the College of Asia and the Pacific.

I was delighted to be accepted into the ANU. The PhB Bachelor of Philosophy (Arts) program, with its high entry score and underpinnings of prestige, enabled me to essentially study an arts degree without being socially shamed for it or pestered about why I didn’t study law. Moreover, the fact the degree existed – along with its aim of developing high-achieving arts students into future researchers – led me to believe arts and the humanities might be held in higher regard at university than in wider Australian society. At the very least, they would surely be less denigrated.

I was wrong.

Over the course of my degree, despite enjoying my classes, learning from engaged academics, and growing both intellectually and emotionally, I never felt the fields I studied were especially valued by the broader university. Around 2013, for example – my first year – nearly half the teaching positions at the School of Music were[3] axed[4] at approximately the same time a state-of-the-art chemistry building was constructed near the heart of campus. As I quipped at the time: “But if you’re really strapped for cash / Then why’s that Chemistry place so flash?”

Flippant? Yes. Valid? Also yes. At some point, the reputation of the ANU Music program[5] was weighed against that of its chemistry facilities, and there’s no prize for guessing who drew the short sitar.

Granted, I’m not privy to the decision-making process regarding funding which goes on behind the scenes at universities. That said, however, I know a trend when I see one. The ANU Arts Centre, in which I performed in a play in my second year, was demolished by my fifth. My first semester of Portuguese involved Skyping our teacher each class, because she lived in Bloomington, Indiana. The A.D. Hope Building where I studied English Honours was full of cramped, windowless tutorial rooms which sometimes lacked furniture. I later learnt this was a situation far removed from that of other Honours cohorts: in the Fenner School of Environment & Society, for example, each Honours student has their own desk and a key to the cohort study room and communal space, set aside just for them.

Yet despite this catalogue of old gripes, I’m not here to sink my fangs into the breast of my alma mater (translatable from Latin as ‘nursing mother’, in case you were wondering). I loved my time at the ANU, and no amount of missing furniture could have changed that.

But if there is one thing I cannot stand, it is the hypocritic denigration of arts and the humanities in wider Australian society – denigration both reflected in and propagated by the modern university.

In Australia, cuts to arts and the humanities – whether they be funding cuts or cutting remarks – have long been common and normalised. Funding-wise, this is evidenced by cases like the ANU’s Diploma of Languages being first to go[6] when the university needed to tighten its belt.[7] Never mind that the university had long prided itself (and still does[8]) on its language programs. There was also the time in 2018 when former education minister Simon Birmingham blocked $1.4 million in arts research[9] which had already been approved by the Australian Research Council, because his gut told him the project proposals lacked national benefit. This subjective judgement then led to discussions about introducing a ‘national interest’ test[10] to determine what research should be funded.

Somehow, a test allowing politicians veto power over funding for progressive academic research doesn’t sound great to me.

What’s even more concerning is that these examples are not isolated incidents, but rather part of an ongoing cultural ambivalence towards the arts and artistic endeavour in Australia. As explored, Australia has a propensity to cut funding to arts and humanities programs at political, governmental, and institutional levels – but we also rip into the arts on a more insidious, daily basis. Never mind that a Bachelor of Laws doesn’t qualify one to be a lawyer, or a Bachelor of Science, a scientist. People question and make fun of arts students, and we question and make fun of ourselves. But laughing along does wear one down after a while, especially when one sees how even some arts academics talk down the value of what they do. Self-deprecate enough, and anyone can begin to question their own worth.

And the arts’ worth matters. Arts study pushes students to question norms and imagine better ways of living, both individually and collectively. It inspires engagement with ethical and moral issues facing human society. It demands that those who study the field develop critical thinking skills, coupled with a rounded ability to consider, evaluate, and communicate multiple facets of an argument.

These skills may sometimes be termed ‘soft’ – but in the current era of increasing conservatism worldwide, it’s time we recognised that the ability to be questioning, measured, and empathetic might be well worth fostering. After all: doesn’t the very fact that we devalue and deride such skills indicate they are in short supply?

What’s more, understanding others and employing this knowledge – for better or for worse – shapes societies. Intuition for what makes a convincing argument can strengthen or weaken social narratives, persuading people one way or another. The skills and ideas explored in arts study can drive social movements, tear up obsolete laws, and make or break leaders. They can decide our elections. And still we belittle them.

Yet it doesn’t have to be this way.

Late last year, I travelled to Ireland for an academic conference and became rapidly aware of the sheer presence of arts-related businesses, events, and general volume of artistic output there. Bookstores – including independent ones – were far more numerous and visible than in Australian cities. Musicians were out busking in droves despite the cold in every town I visited. I came across huge, spray-can graffiti portraits of famous Irish authors on a brick wall in Cork. Indeed, Ireland is world-famous for its tradition of writers, both past and present, despite only having 4.8 million inhabitants. People there evidently take pride in their literary and artistic heritage, and repeatedly told me that Ireland was a nation of storytellers.

Storytellers! Imagine saying that in Australia, where we define ourselves as a nation obsessed with sport. Frankly, this self-definition has been embraced not least because we’re too fragile in our macho cultural identity[11] to explore alternative identity options – a pity, considering our Indigenous cultures are the oldest living cultures in the world and possess extraordinarily rich oral storytelling traditions. If any nation could boast of being a nation of storytellers, you’d think it would be us. But hey – such ‘un-Australian’ conversation is just not cricket.

We can do better. More: we have to do better.

We pride ourselves on possessing a national identity of being fair, honest, and hard-working – certainly not two-faced or hypocritical (or at least, so the cultural narrative goes). Yet in what concerns the arts, we are hypocrites to the extreme. Our celebration of the underdog means we celebrate people who have endured hardship and gone from zero to success; however, our tall poppy syndrome insists we cut down those with the ambition and the self-belief it actually takes to become successful. We love our world-famous, established cultural and artistic figures – Hugh Jackman, Cate Blanchett, Sia, Tim Minchin, Tim Winton – but with our increasingly for-profit universities and institutions, we are not willing to invest in the development of younger, more emerging creatives. Our nation is enriched by the contribution of the arts sector, but we’re continually keeping that sector poor and under heel because – so the logic goes – one can’t guarantee returns on investment in such hopelessly fanciful, mercurial individuals and their endeavours. Yet our lives benefit from the efforts of these people every day.

No-one ever became a national treasure or even a solidly contributing member of society in any field without support. That support could be emotional or financial; it could involve parents, mentors, teachers, society’s enthusiasm, or government funding. But it must be there, at some level. Success requires trying, often failing, and then trying again regardless. And currently, studying and working in arts and the humanities is so derided that the responsibility for one’s success falls almost entirely on the individual, and their capacity to achieve despite lacking support.

The irony is that if this individual works hard enough, gives enough of themselves, and endures years of derision, maybe – just maybe – Australian society will begin to see value in them, and eventually claim them as a figure of national pride. But until that point, the cultural environment around arts and the humanities sends students and workers a constant, erosive message. Why bother? it asks. None of what you’re doing matters. Stop embarrassing yourself. Just give up.

At this point, it’s worth questioning what it is about these fields that inherently makes our society so averse to valuing them. What are we so uncomfortable about?

Well, the arts have feminine connotations, and with femininity comes associations of frivolity; impracticality; lack of worth. Women dominate certain arts and humanities fields such as publishing, and are often both highly skilled and desperately underpaid.[12] This isn’t a coincidence: if the arts sector is underpaid, it’s not least because it’s perceived as feminine and has large numbers of women working in it, which practically ensures poorer working conditions, exploitation of labour, and being valued less. It’s a fact that as women move into a field, the earnings in that field go down.[13] Besides, our national image is built on hyper-masculine, macho histories and values: we don’t have time for faffing around with women’s work.

Valuing arts means valuing their culturally associated femininity; and, by proxy, women. That is why we haven’t achieved this egalitarian milestone yet. To appreciate and invest in the arts is to challenge our own fragile self-image as a country, and frankly, we’re not tough enough to handle it.

And so the depreciation of arts and the humanities – and of those who invest in them and are associated with them – continues. We feed into this spiral of depreciation by undervaluing these fields, then underpaying those who work in them, and then undervaluing the fields further because they’re underpaid. They’re also dominated by women – both a cause and an effect of lower salaries and prestige – making them touchy-feely feminine endeavours and therefore valued even less. This means parents steer their children away from arts subjects and interests, sometimes without even thinking about it. Teachers emphasise STEM, which isn’t bad in itself but becomes problematic if STEM can’t be lauded without the arts being put down. Young adults gravitate towards courses more likely to lead to high-paying jobs. Funding goes elsewhere, and the cycle continues.

And then we wonder why we say things like “I don’t really like Australian films”; or “Do I even know any Australian films?”

Or instead, consider how many books you have read that are set in Australian cities – and have you ever read a book written by an Indigenous author?

How much Australian music do you listen to?

How much do you listen to for free?

There are exciting Australian creatives out there, as well as intriguing, valuable research being done in arts and the humanities at universities. But we don’t value, support, or learn from these achievements and explorations enough – if we did, maybe we’d stop having to steal New Zealand’s cultural icons and envying their empathetic, articulate leaders.

I’m going to end this essay with universities, however, because that is where it started, and that is also arguably where the issue of devaluing the arts began. After all, haven’t universities always prided themselves on being at the forefront of critical thinking and research, moulding the societies around them to truth and tolerance? Modern universities purport to be thought-leaders, game-changers; gatekeepers of cutting-edge, socially challenging and progressive thought. If that’s the case, therefore, perhaps these universities have a responsibility to take arts and the humanities more seriously. If universities really are leaders, lead.

Because currently, when it comes to how arts and the humanities are valued within Australian society, we are all part of a larger, systemic problem. We could use some leadership; a good example set on an institutional level. Those of you in positions of power and authority, for instance, could start treating the arts sector with the respect you accord to other areas within our society.

Scrapping your arts programs, on the other hand? That just doesn’t cut it.