Swedish Joint Committee for Literary and
Artistic Professionals presents
World conference on culture
World
Conference on Culture
| Programme
Conference Papers
A Persistent Dilemma
Sigurdur A. Magnússon
| Sigurdur A. Magnusson |
From time immemorial it has been clear to the thinking part of mankind that the creative urge has, more than anything else, been the force that pushed the human race forward, both spiritually and materially. Many of the oldest myths of the world deal with inventive and ingenious individuals who broke away from the stagnant attitudes of their contemporaries and pursued paths that no one had anticipated.
Greek mythology tells of Prometheus, fettered to a rock for having brought fire to humankind, and of the resourceful father and son, Daedalus and Icarus, who solved many a complex problem, but were forced to escape their prison in the Labyrinth by a daring stratagem, trying and succeeding in conquering outer space.
In Nordic mythology the dexterous dwarf Völund comes to mind, not to mention the fickle and unreliable Loki who, with his ingenuity and daring, brought about many useful things, even though his trickiness and unpredictable vagaries have gained much greater attention.
It is tempting to dwell for a moment on Loki, since he has his origins in a Nordic context. From tales about Loki it is obvious that with the passing of time his image changed for the worse, and it may well be presumed that Christian ideas about Lucifer moulded his features towards the end. At the beginning he was not at all so mischievous. He accompanied the gods, being indeed the foster brother of Odin, the chief god, and even though various mishaps could be traced to him, they were rather owing to carelessness or imprudence than evil intent.
However we look at it, we can hardly fail to observe that Loki is the most colourful and interesting personage of Nordic mythology. His character is so complex and his behaviour so diffuse that scholars have to this day had a hard time trying to account for his conduct. He has been likened to Promethus and obviously he has a lot in common with the matchless Proteus who could assume the guise of any creature and was never to be seized or controlled.
When we contemplate life in Asgard, the impregnable citadel of the gods, we realize that it would have been unbearably dull and pale without the numerous whims of Loki. The indolent and unimaginative gods have a striking resemblance to most governments nowadays: no fresh breath of air, no startling idea, no brilliant solution. Loki is charged with the task of finding a solution for every problem arising. In short, Loki is the moving force among the gods, for better or for worse. He is daring, inventive, enterprising - a perfect contrast to the sluggish and powersatiated gods.
With all his contradictions and shortcomings, it may be maintained that Loki is the prototype of the creative individual, whether in the artistic or the scientific field. He is at once enthusiastic and reckless, endowed with an unquenchable spark of life. Indeed, his name is related to the Icelandic word for flame (logi), according to some scholars. Loki is constantly inventing something new in order to spice daily existence and clear away the heavy load of deadened ideas and conventional behaviour, but above all he is in revolt against the interests of the powers that be, and will neither be captivated by those in control nor by petrified ideologies. He is always fresh, ingenious, unpredictable, an uneasy gadfly in a torpid community. In short, Loki may be said to be the very image of those who constantly endeavour to renew both themselves and their environment. Inevitably, his fate was to be fettered for ever by the reigning powers. No wonder that the great Swedish author August Strindberg composed a magnificent ode to Loki!
It is worth noting that original thinkers and creators have rarely been favoured by the reigning order, whether divine or mundane. This is because creativity is by its very nature unruly and insubordinate. Which is anathema to those in power, even if everybody knows that the strength of a society depends on the creative energy and enterprise of its citizens. One of the unsavory aspects of power is precisely its tendency to control its subjects, not only their behaviour, but also their thoughts, if at all possible. This is quite obvious in totalitarian states, but the inclination is also to be detected in democratic societies. It is considered dangerous to give free rein to fantasy, imagination and creative initiative, since that might at any moment endanger the vested interests of the ruling class. Which may explain the sloppiness of politicians of all colours when it comes to encouraging and attending to creative endeavours in society. The prerequisite for creation is free thought, which is odious or at least uncomfortable to politicians.
Here we are faced with an age-old and persistent dilemma, which Plato solved by outlawing the artist from his utopian state. That dilemma is that every artist wishes to serve his nation and if possible humanity at large on his own terms, but in order to be able to do so he has somehow to make a living, which in most cases is almost impossible without some official support, since the much praised market is essentially hostile to any kind of original or worthwhile artistic contribution. At the same time, any artist worth his salt refuses to take orders from those in power or serve their interests; he refuses to be "owned" by his state in return for the official support he needs for his projects.
Is this an insoluble dilemma? In many countries around the world it certainly is at present, but in other cases a kind of modus vivendi has been attained by a wise compromise whereby a certain number of artists are provided with limited support, enabling them to pursue their course without having to subscribe to official policies.
Iceland, with only 270,000 inhabitans, is a kind of microcosm where changes in any sphere of life tend to be drastic and easy to detect. With regard to the economical status of the artist, we have recently had interesting experiences, which are perhaps worth telling about here, although they are no doubt familiar to artists in the other Nordic countries. What is possibly unique in Iceland are the sudden and sweeping results of a new way of responding to the persistent dilemma of the artist versus the state.
Until 1974, there were two separate writers' associations that were divided along political lines and constantly at each other's throat. There was also a committee, appointed proportionally by the four parliamentary parties, that doled out so-called artists' stipends, small sums to each artist that were essentially political rewards and of little value or consequence to the recipients.
Then, in 1974, a union of the two associations was miraculously effected, with the result that, within several months, contracts were for the first time signed with the independent publishers, the State Publishing House, the National Theatre, the City Theatre, the Union of Amateur Theatre Groups, the State Radio and Television, and later with Independent Television. This was a significant step in the right direction.
But an even more important step was taken a year later, when the Writers' Union induced the Govemment to channel some of the money, going to the State Treasury in the form of taxes on books, into a special Writers' Fund which would be controlled by a selection committee of three, nominated by the the Writers' Union under the aegis of the Ministry of Culture. The Fund was later divided into three separate funds to include both composers and visual artists, each fund with its own selection committee of three. A few years later, a special Translation Fund was instituted for supporting translations from languages other than the Nordic ones. A similar fund for translations between the Nordic languages had already been instituted by the Nordic Council.
The effect of these immovations has been truly stupendous over the past two decades or so. For the very first time in Icelandic history, fifteen to twenty good writers have been enabled to devote their energies fulltime to writing, with the result that numerous Icelandic novels are now being translated and published not only in the Nordic countries, but also in Britain, Germany, France, Spain, Italy, and many other countries. We have had an unprecedented flowering of literarture since the mid-1970s, and the same is also true of musical compositions and the visual arts.
The Translation Fund has had a similar effect. Over the past two decades we have had first-rate translations of many of the world's literary masterpieces: all the plays of Shakespeare, all the ancient Greek tragedies, most of the novels of Dostoyevsky, major works by Petronius, Rabelais, Flaubert, Walt Whitman, James Joyce, Marcel Proust, Thomas Mann, and a large number of outstanding contemporary authors in many countries. These additions to our native literature can hardly be overestimated.
It would, however, be absurd to maintain that this has solved all the pressing problems of writers in Iceland. Many of them are dissatisfied, since their applications to the Writers' Fund are either refused or only partially satisfied. Such will inevitably always be the case. But it can unequivocally be asserted that, with our new system of official support of the arts, a kind of renaissance has been effected that would have been unthinkable, if we had succumbed to the notorious laws of the market that seem to be so fashionable nowadays. Of paramount importance is that all political meddling has at long last been excluded from any consideration relating to our supportive system. Creativity is given free rein, the result being exciting, vigorous, many-faceted and unpredictable literary works.
Finally, Loki carries the day, and the apathetic and stagnant gods have decided to leave him in peace with all his stimulating stratagems!
Sigurdur A. Magnusson