Built-in Obsolescence 

(Independent Art School Conference, Hull, 20/10/00)

What brought us together today is an experiment which the organisers of this conference call the New Hull School of Art. In my argument, I will follow the syntax of their title and will take the "new" as my starting point.

The "new" is the hallmark of modernity. The Big Idea of the twentieth century is innovation - the founding idea of modernism and the guiding spirit and light of what we do and how we do it. In all fields of social and economical life, in technology, commerce or administration, innovation is the driving force. But in modern art, and consequently in art education, it seems to have become a kind of a self-perpetuating vortex. There is an inescapable contradiction. In the guise of the historical avantgardes, innovation has been the very condition of modern artistic practice. But the practice of innovation has been entirely conditioned by challenging the future rather than responding to the challenges inherited from the past. In other words, the "new" in art is that which seeks validation on the basis of its inevitable future obsolescence (or, in the words of Monica Ross' paper, "obsolescence is all that the system assures"). Unlike in most other fields, where innovation generally means an expansion of existing knowledge, technological standards, or working methods and seeks to provide the foundation and tools for future developments, in art, in the avant-garde sense, innovation means speculation on the condition of the future, as it single-mindedly pursues the (contradictory) avantgarde tradition of antitradition while trying to re-invent itself ahead of its time.

It goes almost without saying that the practice of artistic innovation is incompatible with the culture of educational institutions. Yet in higher art education as we know it, the avantgarde pedigree of artistic innovation has been nevertheless claimed by the institutions and the avantgardist discourse has been thoroughly absorbed. As a result, the built-in innovation only seems to work when it works - or is made to work - against itself.

British art education survives on a paradox: the academic system devised some thirty years ago is, in the main, obsolete - but it is precisely its obsolescence that accounts for its occasional successes. It seems to act as a catalyst for some of the best motivated, most independently minded students who feel compelled to find ways of working against the system - and so to make it work. They explore and exploit the gaps created by departmental tribalism, the bureaucratic segmentation of art into disciplines or "media", the inflexible designation of space, the arbitrary diversions of modularisation, the oppressive hierarchy of "year groups", the antiquated regime of "professional" rules, codes and conventions, and, indeed the pitfalls of perpetual "innovation". Every school has a few such students who always discover the freedom of nonconformity even within the constant drifts of "re-structuring" and "development" - a symptom and a feature of the system's obsolescence - with which institutions simultaneously acknowledge and try to ignore the need for a radical change.

The question is how to imagine a system imperfect enough so that it continues to inspire those who seek new alternatives, but also one that provides viable opportunities for a meaningful engagement of all who work in it.

One way of addressing the question is to imagine a model art school which would be everything that the established art school is not. It would be a non-hierarchical open space - constitutionally, spiritually and physically - where ways of thinking and working evolve from flows and collisions of ideas and interests among peers. There would be no departments or year groups, no competitive admission requirements, assessments and degrees, and no hierarchy of staff. Instead, the school would be formed organically as a focus of interaction within a community of students and artists, who would also share the responsibility for its running. The co-operative form would, in itself, provide the key educational content. It would do away with the despotic rule of professional managers, administrators and maintenance staff (although those wonderful people variously known as janitors, porters or "house staff" may remain indispensable as they are, in my experience, in the present system). Their jobs - from mopping the floors to controlling budgets - would be shared among students. Some might be undertaken by everyone in rotation, others by temporary elected committees or representatives, but there would be no concept of "full-time" study or employment. Artists and experts from other fields would be invited by student groups to contribute their skills and knowledge, to participate in students' work or to carry out their own projects. They would be paid for their work at the same nominal rate as the students, and all appointments would be limited to, say, two years. The school would offer the use of its facilities and expertise to other educational organisations and groups in exchange for access to their courses and specialist services. It would be a public place, open twenty-four hours a day, with good workshops, well-stocked library and an excellent bar.

This model, in all its imperfection, is a realistic one. Various single aspects of it do already exist and function well in some art schools and academies around the world. It could work and should be tried. But even such a new open art school should only be seen as an interim step towards a radical reform of the whole educational environment in which art schools as separate, isolated entities would be no longer needed: where art is part of all learning so that it may become a part of all social life.

And here we are faced with a difficulty. What makes my somewhat anarchic, somewhat utopian model "realistic" is the way in which ideas proposed by artists fall within the conventional expectations, and indeed requirements, of "art" in the modern(ist) society. The idea makes use of the identity of art as a paradigm of creative, expressive and even civic freedom, and of artists as providers of alternative, individual visions, who occupy a discrete domain reserved for them alone and operate under a special "artistic licence". This not only allows artists to envisage, present and, within the boundaries of the "artistic domain", follow alternatives unconstrained by the priorities of economic realism or political expediency, but it also makes it their job to create visions and propositions which stand apart from the everyday concerns of politics, commerce or material production or the production of knowledge . The price that artists pay for the privileges of the "licence" is. then. the lack of effectiveness of their ideas and visions as instruments of a structural change in the social destination of art.

These limitations become more obvious when we consider two inter-related (but not quite inter-dependent) conditions which parallel the concept of the "artistic licence" and which affect the relationships between the broader "social world" and the artists' own specific environments, the "art world" and the "academy". The first is the concept of a "professional mandate"; the second is the one of "academic qualification".

Both of these, individually and jointly, have a bearing on the ways in which, and the extent to which, your use of the "artistic licence" is socially, economically and politically effective. It is quite clear that from the perspective of the profession (any form of participation in the "art world" - or anything you are likely to do as artists), you do not need academic qualifications to pursue your practices and goals. And conversely, from an academic point of view, the concept of the professional mandate, derived from the conventions of career rather than expertise, is (or should be) quite irrelevant. You do not become an artist by having graduated from an art school. Academic qualifications do not entitle you to a "professional" career or success, nor does such a success necessarily enable you to make a meaningful use of your qualifications. But, in practice, the established model of art education nevertheless aspires to the condition of the professional mandate and such notions as "professionalism" often underpin the achievement of academic qualifications in art.

While academic qualifications do not lead to the professional mandate, their very irrelevance (or vanity) reinforces the power of the "professional" on the public perceptions of the role of the artist. Consequently, the current qualifications-based model of art education only further restricts the already limited contribution that artists, perceived as "professionals", can effectively make to the transformation of the society. This is true at least in so far as it can be said that the society needs creative people more than it needs professional artists - and that for whatever creative contribution you might make to the society, you don't need a degree. (In fact, you don't need much more that the ability to read, write and interpret information.)

If we look at it this way, the question of what kind of art education we need becomes largely redundant - or at least secondary to the question of educational needs in general, not just in terms of institutions but in the sense of the whole "educational complex".

The task of the artist/reformer becomes then that much greater: where do you start? The good news is that you can start almost anywhere. It is feasible to create small scale alternative models, as long as they can function precisely as such and do not fall into the trap of thinking of themselves as specific solutions. It is feasible to work from within the existing institutional structures, as long as we can use them as flags of convenience and sail clear of the treacherous currents of arbitrary institutionalised "innovation". And it is possible to work from within the "art world" or any other professional destination, as long as we remember that the destination of our efforts lies elsewhere.

But from wherever you start, you must remember that every "new" has its own in-built moment of obsolescence and that the realisation of that obsolescence is the true goal of innovation. Working towards your own obsolescence is a noble mission - and something quite different than becoming obsolete through a lack of vision.

PAVEL BÜCHLER