Art events can be potent symbols. Decoding them is a shaky science. During the Paris Commune, Courbet led the march to the Place Vend?me which toppled the Roman column. The Italian futurist Marinetti stood beside Mussolini when he proclaimed the birth of his Fascist party. During the Great Depression, Whistler's Mother, painted in 1871, was discovered in the US and exhibited in 18 cities, like a miracle-working image. Now, at the turn of the millennium, the British will open their first national gallery of modern art at Bankside-one of the biggest in the world.
How do we read the symbolism of Bankside? We would expect a new gallery on the scale projected to tell us something about the British and how they see the future. To put it the other way round, it would be strange if 57m people who gave rise to a distinct political culture were to produce something completely different in the field of art. If, for example, it were considered that our political process was itself museumified, with its exhausted debates and set-piece animosities, it would not be surprising to find the same processes at work in our approach to art.
The first thing Bankside tells us about Britain is the depth of our attachment to the past. The Tate says that its new gallery will be "taking up the story of art from where it finishes at the end of the 19th century at the National Gallery." The story is worth telling, but Bankside will be telling it late. The Tate was given the responsibility of forming the national collection of modern art in 1916, but the traditionalism of its directors, John Rothenstein in particular, made it slow off the mark. Roger Fry had trouble getting C?zanne accepted for exhibition, let alone purchase; and Keynes had difficulty persuading the treasury to bid for Degas works when the painter died and they could be bought cheaply.
During the entire 20th century Britain has not possessed a national gallery dedicated to the most innovative and dominant style of the century. New York had Moma; Paris the museum of modern art at the Palais de Tokyo, and later the Pompidou Centre; London had the Whitechapel: a valiant but impoverished gallery with no permanent collection, eccentrically situated in the East End of London, out of harm's way. Even when purchasing policy at the Tate became more enlightened and the gallery began collecting modern art, it remained an adjunct of the gallery: a foreign bird, permanently on the wing.
One reason for this failure of imagination was that modernism was not a British discovery; those who practised it, such as the Vorticists, were sneered at as the provincial agents of internationalism. In rejecting modernist art we behaved like the ministry of defence when it declined to adopt the rifled barrels favoured by its allies because they were not invented here. The fact that rifled barrels shoot straighter, or that modernism's early phase hit the nerve of the century with impact and precision, was no recommendation to the colonels of convention.
To ministers and civil servants the opening of the new gallery will seem futuristic-a daring innovation "putting Britain at the forefront of contemporary art" (one could draft the opening speeches). A century late, we see ourselves as contemporary-even a touch futuristic. Whatever one's view of Bankside or of modernism, the facts are simple: the new gallery will be dedicated to the art characteristic of the previous century, whose principles were laid down before the first world war by artists of greater brilliance and inventive genius than any living today.
We came late to modern art, as we did to sex; we are still a little over-excited about both. To put it gingerly, it has been suggested (by Robert Hughes among others) that the modernist style is no longer in its most fruitful period: "A great deal of painting, sculpture and architecture in today's visual culture seems like a weakly motivated or merely cynical re-run of older prototypes." Yet this is the moment we have chosen to extend the space available to "new" art.
Politically, a plethora of analogies suggest themselves. A re-run of old prototypes takes place daily in parliament, just along the river. As in much modernist art the rhetoric is inflated. Westminster yearns for the days of "House of Commons occasions," of grand speeches or set-piece battles on world strategy or great social causes, even as it debates the pros and cons of privatising Her Majesty's stationery office or adjustments to the national curriculum. Currently on display in our parliamentary museum are fantasies of the second world war, weakly motivated by beef. A more exact comparison with Bankside is our entry into the exchange rate mechanism. After dithering for years we went in with a splash at an over-ambitious rate of exchange, and at precisely the moment when the system was about to crash.
Modernist art will not crash easily, any more than pension funds: there is too much institutional money invested. Moreover, nostalgia in a gallery is more justified, and Bankside will serve the worthwhile function of providing space for retrospectives. True, there have been many already, but to enthusiasts for those brilliantly creative years, there is room for more. To the extent that the gallery (and the Tate itself, which will concentrate on British art) will display original work, it will simply be continuing the traditions of what the Tate calls "non-prescriptive art."
The phrase is suspect. Does it mean that the Tate does not wish to prescribe in advance what it might or might not show? Or does it carry the implication that modernism is by its nature unscripted, whereas "old" art was formulaic? If it is the latter, then we should remember that all new movements in art, not just modernism, are non-prescriptive. It is when styles are in decline that they become prescriptive. Raphael ends up academicised by Lord Leighton. Ingres ends up as Bouguereau. Duchamp ends up as Damien Hirst or the (sadly deceased) Helen Chadwick. Only if we see Hirst and Chadwick as the equivalents of Bougereau and Lord Leighton can we have any perspective on what is going on. If the gallery is looking forward to a long line of Hirsts and Chadwicks it will not take us into the future: it will compound the impression of backwardness, like an ageing woman hoisting her skirts high just when others, bored with the fashion, are letting them down. Neither of these British artists would have seemed out of place in France or Russia 80 years ago: the only thing that would have raised an eyebrow among avant-garde artists at the time would have been the technology, the expense of their procedures, and the laboured way they achieve their effects.
To stipulate the type of art Bankside wishes to display in advance of the gallery's opening is a highly conservative gesture. The prescription is that modern art will remain "non-prescriptive." We know what official opinion means by that: the Tate is saying that the art of the future will adhere to the norms of the past.
at westminster it is the same. We think of ourselves as a modern democracy, yet in their 19th century gothic palace MPs debate and legislate according to procedures which hark back to the previous century. Like pre-first world war modernist art, these procedures made more sense in their day than now; and as in contemporary art, there are few intimations of change. When Tony Blair attempts to shunt things along, trying to turn a Labour movement conceived in the 19th century into a social democratic party serviceable in the 21st century, he is frustrated at every turn-even though what he is doing is not new. Like Hirst and Chadwick, Blair is not forging ahead of modernity, he is merely catching up. So amazed are people at the spectacle that, like Hirst and Chadwick again, he gets rave notices for his novelty.
In chronological terms, the parallel of modern art with Labour politics is perfect. Clause Four of the Labour constitution was adopted in 1918, the year after the Russian revolution, the year Duchamp felt he had exploited the potential of modern art to the full; thereafter he turned to chess. Over 70 years later, when communism had come and gone, the British Labour party was still debating whether or not to maintain a commitment to public ownership of the means of production. On the right, the grip of the old is evident in its increasingly atavistic nationalist agenda.
In politics, as in art, much of the debate in Britain is superannuated and reflexive. In the lobbies of Westminster the little regiments of our politics march to a left-right drum, long after its historical reverberations have faded. So too the discussion about modernism-often of a left-right character itself-proceeds to an antique rhythm. The conflict between opponents and defenders of the once avant-garde is perpetuated artificially. In any division of opinion about a contemporary work, party discipline prevails. Only "ayes" and "noes" are allowed, with no quibbles or abstentions.
At the outset of the 20th century modernism represented a confrontation between old politics and new art, the present and the future. But when Princess Diana is a patron of the Serpentine Gallery and a loyal fan of the Britpack, we do not seem to be on the eve of revolution. Instead we are on the eve of a revolutionary new gallery of modern art.
In 1913 a Rayonist and Futurist manifesto by Mikhail Larionov and Natalia Goncharova contained the words: "The future is behind us. All the same we will crush in our advance all those who undermine us and all those who stand aside. We don't need popularisation-our art will, in any case, take its full place in life-that's a matter of time."
And so it proved. In the publicity material for Bankside we find a manifesto of gushing populism. No one will be crushed. On the contrary: "The atmosphere will be stimulating and friendly. Besides a wealth of art to enjoy (and disagree about!) there will be restaurants, caf?s, gift and bookshops, and pleasant seating areas in the building and its surrounds. Alongside regular schools' and children's events the latest in computer technology will be available, to add to the fun of finding out about art."
The fun, the pleasant seating areas, the promise of art we can "disagree about"-the tweeness of it. The domestication of modern art is finally complete. What the Tate is promising its patrons is not disturbingly new at all. It is a sort of prefiguration of the past, with the nasty bits missed out.
The same prudent concern for precedent and decorum is reflected in the choice of site. Like the House of Commons, Bankside is an imposing riverside structure. The choice is "contemporary" to the extent that there is modernist irony in converting a disused power station into a gallery. Sceptics about modern art will see a double irony in the fact that the Bankside power station, constructed in postwar Britain, is an example of rapid obsolescence. As in art so in technology: modernism ages quickly.
Tired styles produce tired debates. Once the discussion took place on a higher level-for example, the brilliant verbal abstractions of the American critic Clement Greenberg. The rhetoric of contemporary art has become as jaded and gunged with clich? as a political speech. Modernism has also acquired an academic character. There is nothing wrong with academicism: the painstaking study and cataloguing of fossils, for example, has to be done. But no one represents such activities as new and exciting-except to the fossilists. Modernism-a form of art already long in the tooth-is presented to the public as being the opposite of what it is: innovatory and controversial. So, once, were votes for women, but they are now as controversial as a cheese sandwich.
conceived late in the day, in a prudent British spirit, Bankside is not a visionary but an empirical venture. Its future is not difficult to predict. It will be a success, not because it will be new, but precisely because it will have the lure of the familiar. People will go there in the hope of distraction, just as they continue to crowd the Commons, in the hope of seeing familiar figures perform new tricks. In their hearts they may suspect that they have seen it all before, but British tolerance will blunt their critical faculties.
Whatever is put in Bankside-and there will be some fine work from the great period-people will pay to see it in large numbers. Many will go simply to see the museum itself, just as they go to see stately homes with amusement parks attached. Attendance figures will be produced to refute "traditionalist" critics, should any dare to show their hoary heads. It will be argued that the art is good because it is popular. One might just as well say that Lord Archer's sales demonstrate that he is a writer of literary merit, or that parliament is doing a fine job for the country because it is impossible to get a seat in the public gallery at prime minister's question time.
Popularity in art demonstrates little or nothing about the value of the art in question. In the 1870s people flocked to see paintings at the Royal Academy with titles such as Jolly as a Sandboy and Hearts are Trumps, the sentimental being the convention of the time, just as novelty is now. It was contemporary art and the public loved it, though their heartfelt affection did little to improve the quality of the work.
Among the new exhibits at both Bankside and the Tate will be strange-seeming things of an ingenious nature. Technology-discovered by the futurists and others some time ago, and a well-established tradition of modernism-will distract and intrigue the public. Volume will be important. Bankside boasts 20,000 square metres of gallery space, and there will be big areas to fill. The very size of some new exhibits will astound-and will attract favourable comment, as modernism in Britain seeks to make up in space what it has lost in time. Large structures and installations will be conceived and displayed because there will be large spaces in which to display them-just as the fact that the House of Commons holds regular debates means that speeches will be made to fill the hours, irrespective of their quality.
Money will be a problem. Giant installations and suchlike will be expensive, ambition will outrun resources, and the gallery will underestimate its running costs-as galleries do. Income from private and commercial sources, projected to cover much of its costs, will fall below expectations-as such projections do. The gallery will plead for more government cash, citing the special difficulties of the storage and conservation of contemporary works of art, and perhaps flaws in construction work for which it will disclaim responsibility. After its initial generosity with millennium funds (?50m), the government will be niggardly, insisting that the gallery must improve management and seek more private sponsorship.
The numbers attending will be produced in justification of the pleas for more money, just as they were as a guarantor of the quality of the art. There could come a moment when the gallery threatens to close for lack of cash. An outcry will follow. Famous artists will sign petitions. Letters will be written to The Times by American artists wondering how Britain could fail to sustain a recognised centre in this field.
Balancing letters will be printed claiming that the gallery had been a white elephant from the beginning and that any available funds should go to the National Gallery, or to the provinces, where excellent work will be said to be under-exposed and under-reviewed. MPs will be divided on the question. Although they will not care too much one way or the other, most will be anxious to be seen as on the side of modernity and will take the part of the gallery, by which they will be copiously briefed.
There will be "scandalous" exhibitions, some of a saucy nature, which will be duly denounced by those who denounce such things; the question "is this really art?" will continue to be asked and answered by those still interested in the discussion. Should controversy fade, as in our politics, efforts will be made to revive it by artificial means, perhaps by an exhibition entitled: "Is This Really Art?"
one of the least discussed features of modern Britain lies in the growth of nationalism in the arts as well as politics. The strand of patriotic boosterism noticeable in art criticism of British work, old and new, is thickening steadily. It is true that in our admiration of continental artists it is easy to overlook the virtues of, say, Hogarth as an oil painter, or in more modern times the achievements of Sickert, Bomberg, or Kossoff. But things have gone further. Painters as minor as Dora Carrington or as anaemic as Ben Nicholson (if John Major painted abstracts it would be in the manner of Nicholson) are inflated beyond their natural proportions. As for British contemporary art, it is taken as read that it leads the world.
There are examples abroad of art nationalism: the Russian Natalia Goncharova, mentioned above, attacked "contemporary western ideas, mainly from France" and boasted that "the time is not far off when the west will be learning openly from us." British art nationalism is the very opposite: it is soft and plaintive. The theme is not prominent, but it is there-as audible as a low hum of patriotic "hear, hears" in the House of Commons. The tone is one of insecurity and defensive self-assertion.
Nationalism of any description seems especially misplaced in modern art, but there is no mistaking those little growls of contentment at the thought that the Pompidou Centre could be fitted into Bankside with room to spare. The new gallery will "raise London's profile and generate international recognition as a world leader in the field of modern art..." This officious puffery is identical to that of a department of trade and industry press release talking up the investment advantages and subsidies available in a derelict area, which, as it happens, Bankside is.
The fact that art nationalism arises independently from politics does not mean that they are not related. The Times newspaper, increasingly jingoistic, recently brought the two themes neatly together. Asserting in a leader apropos of nothing very much that English mediaeval art was "pre-eminent" in Europe, it concluded that the knowledge of this preeminence should give heart to modern British artists. Quite apart from such questionable judgement, the idea that artists of the refinement and intellect of Lucien Freud or Howard Hodgkin had been ignorant of the extent and value of their heritage, and that, buoyed by this revelation, will now go to work with a will, is a wondrous conceit. Phrases such as "keeping Britain at the forefront of contemporary art" are false on every level, just like ministers saying that "Britain is at the forefront of technology" when they open factories. We are not at the forefront of technology, though we once were, and have never been at the forefront of modern art. Yet we feel obliged to say it. Why? What is the matter with us?
the idea that contemporary art is all about social and political subversion is another fond conceit. Art and the state have long since come to a democratic settlement, whereby modern art has been declared not simply permissible, but the official style. Bankside will be financed largely through the millennium commission, chaired by the heritage secretary, which is to say that the government now underwrites its own subversion. The sums are worked out between arts bureaucrats and the treasury. And Bankside accepts the money without compunction. After all, the government finances the Labour front bench. Contemporary art, too, has become part of Her Majesty's loyal opposition.
Art and politics have reached a grand convergence, a Victorian stasis. The British polity is still, despite everything, one of the most civil in the world. Art is now an arm of the state, a recognised part of the economy, a job-creation scheme in itself. As the Tate's promotion material puts it: "Estimates suggest that 2,400 permanent jobs could be created, and the economic benefits to London will be in the order of ?50-90m a year. The project will bring great environmental benefits to the local community." These are facts, and the benefits to the community must be welcomed. Yet I have heard the same arguments advanced in parliament on behalf of the construction of armaments factories.
Predictability is the price we pay for our civil society. What makes us a stable democracy makes us highly respectful of continuity when it comes to art. From time to time we make mutinous noises but little comes of them. Tony Banks and Ken Livingstone (keen supporters of Bankside) were once thought of by many of my constituents as dangerous revolutionaries. Since they became institutionalised in parliament, fears about their intentions have declined. They have become amiable entertainers, always ready with a witty remark. Many a Tory is a secret fan of Tony Banks. Bankside should be welcomed in the same spirit. While respecting the conventions it will add fun to the proceedings.
At the end of the 20th century, art has become a right, our democratic due. Equally, we have a democratic right to creative genius, just as other epochs had theirs. Like hip joint operations or security in old age, art is no longer for the few. We have paid for it-and do not expect to be made to feel inferior simply because we know nothing about it. The mass, democratic nature of art is stressed on every occasion and, as in statements of government policy, imposing statistics are quoted: 20,000 square metres of display space, 2m estimated visitors, 150,000 children, 2,400 jobs, and so on. As for its rhetoric, like populist MPs seeking to reach as wide an audience as possible, art will tend to speak a language that is shockingly confrontational, filled with tremendous irony. Above all democratic art will, as Alexis de Tocqueville predicted 150 years ago, be vehement and direct.
"Do we make art in order to make money and keep the dear bourgeoisie happy?" asked the Dadaist Tristan Tzara in 1918. The answer, 70 years later, is: yes, Tristan, on both counts we now do. The bourgeois today may be fitted out in jeans and sneakers, but his mind is grey-suited, top-hatted convention.
I am in favour of Bankside, which will make a fine gallery, and would vote money for it in parliament, were more to be needed. I daresay that, should I take foreigners to see it, I shall feel a twinge of pride. I am as little attracted to abandoning the project on the grounds that much of what it will display will be less new than it pretends, as I would be to the proposition that the House of Commons should be blown up on the grounds that its methods are antiquated. In both fields I have hopes of something new and better, though I have no idea when and how it will come.
I look forward to visiting Bankside. I will attend the exhibitions of modern classics just as I would hurry to see a Poussin retrospective. As for contemporary work, despite my forebodings I shall keep an open mind. But I fear we shall only have true creativity in our art, as in our politics, when we discard pretence and take an honest view of ourselves.
