Creative Economies, Creative Cities
The GeoJournal Library Volume 98 Managing Editor:
Daniel Z. Sui, College Station, USA Founding Series Editor:
Wolf Tietze, Helmstedt, Germany Editorial Board: Paul Claval, France
Yehuda Gradus, Israel Sam Ock Park, South Korea Herman van der Wusten, The Netherlands
For other titles published in this series, go to www.springer.com/series/6007
Lily Kong
•
Justin O’Connor
Editors
Creative Economies, Creative Cities Asian-European Perspectives
Editors Lily Kong Department of Geography National University of Singapore Singapore
Justin O’Connor Queensland University of Technology Australia
ISSN 0924-5449 ISBN 978-1-4020-9948-9 e-ISBN 978-1-4020-9949-6 DOI: 10.1007/978–1–4020–9949–6 Springer Dordrecht Heidelberg London New York Library of Congress Control Number: 2009927463 © Springer Science + Business Media B.V. 2009 No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the Publisher, with the exception of any material supplied specifically for the purpose of being entered and executed on a computer system, for exclusive use by the purchaser of the work. Printed on acid-free paper Springer is part of Springer Science+Business Media (www.springer.com)
Contents
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Introduction ................................................................................................ Justin O’Connor and Lily Kong
Part I 2
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Creative Industries Across Cultural Borders: The Case of Video Games in Asia ............................................................. Ted Tschang
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Creative Clusters
Spaces of Culture and Economy: Mapping the Cultural-Creative Cluster Landscape ............................... Hans Mommaas
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Beyond Networks and Relations: Towards Rethinking Creative Cluster Theory ........................................ Lily Kong
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The Capital Complex: Beijing’s New Creative Clusters ........................ Michael Keane
Part III 7
Creative Economy Policies
Policy Transfer and the Field of the Cultural and Creative Industries: What Can Be Learned from Europe? ........... Andy C. Pratt
Part II 4
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A Creative Class?
The European Creative Class and Regional Development: How Relevant Is Florida’s Theory for Europe? ...................................... Høgni Kalsø Hansen, Bjørn Asheim, and Jan Vang
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Contents
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Getting Out of Place: The Mobile Creative Class Takes on the Local. A UK Perspective on the Creative Class ............. 121 Kate Oakley
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Asian Cities and Limits to Creative Capital Theory ........................... 135 Patrick Mok
Part IV
The Making of Creative Cities
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The Creative Industries, Governance and Economic Development: A UK Perspective .......................................... 153 Calvin Taylor
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Shanghai’s Emergence into the Global Creative Economy ................. 167 Li Wu Wei and Hua Jian
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Shanghai Moderne: Creative Economy in a Creative City? ............... 175 Justin O’Connor
Part V
The Politics of the Creative City
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Urbanity as a Political Project: Towards Post-national European Cities................................................ 197 Eric Corijn
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Alternative Politics in Urban Innovation .............................................. 207 Panu Lehtovuori and Klaske Havik
Index ................................................................................................................. 229
About the Authors
Bjørn T. Asheim is chair of economic geography at the Department of Social and Economic Geography and Centre for Innovation, Research and Competence in the Learning Economy (CIRCLE), Lund University, Sweden. His research interests are in the areas of economic and industrial geography as well as the geography of innovation. He has served as an international expert for OECD, UNCTAD and the EU, coordinated the EU project on “SME Policy and the Regional Dimension of Innovation” and is currently coordinating the European Science Foundation project “Constructing Regional Advantage”. Eric Corijn is Professor of Social and Cultural Geography at the Free University of Brussels. Director of the Centre for Urban Research at the Free University of Brussels: COSMOPOLIS, City, Culture & Society and coordinator of UABrusselsStadsplatform, a platform of Brussels urban studies. Co-director of POLIS, a joint masters degree in European Urban Cultures of the universities of Brussels (VUB), Tilburg (UvT), Manchester (MMU) and Helsinkii (UADH) and of “4Cities”, a UNICA-Euromaster in Urban Studies with the universities of Brussels, Vienna, Kopenhagen and Madrid. Høgni Kalsø Hansen is from the Department of Social and Economic Geography and Centre for Innovation, Research and Competence in the Learning Economy (CIRCLE), Lund University. Klaske Havik is assistant professor at Delft University of Technology. She writes regularly for various magazines and is editor of architecture journal OASE. Her architectural and written work combines a subjective reading of the city with an academic and theoretical approach. Her current research aims at developing a literary approach to architecture and urban regeneration. In Delft, she teaches the master diploma studio Public Realm alongside courses in architectural theory and literature. As part of the Public Realm research group, she is preparing the anthology Architectural Positions: Architecture, Modernity and the Public Sphere, forthcoming early 2009 at SUN Publishers. Hua Jian is researcher at the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences (SASS), and a decision-advisor and consultant expert for the Shanghai municipal government. His research covers many fields, for example, cultural industry, cultural developvii
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ment and cultural strategy. He has participated in dozens of key research projects with a nationwide and provincial scope, and comparative research on cultural investment systems in the U.S., the European Union, Japan, Korea and China. Michael Keane is Associate Professor and Centre Fellow at the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for Creative Industries and Innovation (CCI) at Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane. His research interests include innovation policy and creative clusters in China; audio-visual media in China, South Korea, and Taiwan; and television formats in Asia. Michael is author of Created in China: the Great New Leap Forward (Routledge 2007) and co-editor with Ying Zhu and Ruoyun Bai of TV Drama in China: Unfolding Narratives of Tradition, Political Transformation and Cosmopolitan Identity (HKU Press 2008). Other books include New Television, Globalization and the East Asian Cultural Imagination (with Anthony Fung and Albert Moran, HKU Press 2007), Television across Asia: Television Industries, Programme Formats and Globalisation (eds. Moran and Keane, Routledge 2004), and Media in China: Consumption Content and Crisis (eds. Donald, Keane and Yin 2002). Lily Kong is a professor of Geography at the National University of Singapore. Her work in social and cultural geography spans a range of issues, from religion and identity constructions to cultural economy and cultural policy. Her main expertise is on Singapore, but she is developing comparative research on Chinese cities in East Asia, particularly, Hong Kong, Beijing, Shanghai and Taipei. Jan Vang Lauridsen is from the Department of Production, Copenhagen Campus, Aalborg University, Denmark. Panu Lehtovuori is Acting Professor of Urban Studies at the Estonian Academy of Arts. He is also teaching the module “Urban Interventions” of the Polis programme, the European MA for Urban Cultures, and doing project research in the Centre for Urban and Regional Studies in Helsinki University of Technology. Lehtovuori’s doctoral dissertation, “Experience and Conflict” (2005), presents a new conceptualisation of public urban space, valorises the changes of the use of urban space in Helsinki, and tests a new, experiential approach to planning and urban design. Lehtovuori is co-founder of Livady Architects, a Helsinki-based practice. With his team, Lehtovuori has received several prizes, purchases, and mentions in architectural and planning competitions. He is member of the editorial board of Yhdyskuntasuunnittelu (The Finnish Journal of Urban Studies) and also writes regularly on planning issues in the Finnish Architectural Review. Patrick Mok is a consultant with the Cheung Kong Centre for Creative Industries, Beijing. He was the consultant for A Study on Creativity Index published by Hong Kong’s Home Affairs Bureau in Nov 2005. He was also a speaker at the International Creative Industries Conference held in Beijing on 7–9 July 2005. Li Wu Wei is Professor at Donghua University, Director of the Institute of National Economy, Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences, Director of the Shanghai Creative Industries Association and Vice Chairman of the Standing Committee of the
About the Authors
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Shanghai Municipal People’s Congress. His publications include his book Creative Industry: A New Engine of Urban Development (2005); Creative Industry and Shanghai’s International Competitiveness, Journal of Social Sciences, (Shanghai), No. 1, 2005; and Problems and Perspectives: Development of Creative Industry in Shanghai, Journal of Shanghai Economy, Oct. 2005. Hans Mommaas (Tilburg University, Netherlands) is a professor in Leisure Studies at the Department of Socio-Cultural Sciences and Director of Telos, Brabant Centre for Sustainable Development. His general teaching and research interests concern issues of globalization, regional development and the role of cultural production/ consumption. In recent times he has in particular published work on the leisure industries and the network economy, on the dynamics of cultural clusters, and on the role of culture in spatial development. Justin O’Connor (Queensland University of Technology) has recently been appointed Professor in the Creative Industries Faculty. Before that he was Professor of Cultural Industries in the School of Performance and Cultural Industries, University of Leeds. His previous research as Director of the Manchester Institute for Popular Culture has spanned popular music, contemporary urban cultures, cultural industries and innovative clusters. In particular, he has worked on the historical, theoretical and policy dimensions of the creative industries since 1989, conducting research and policy development in Manchester, the UK, cities across the European Community, St. Petersburg and more recently, Shanghai. Kate Oakley is a writer and policy analyst based in London, specialising in the knowledge economy, the creative industries and regional development. In addition to being a long time Associate of Demos, Kate is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and an associate of Burns Owens Partnership (BOP) a leading consultancy on cultural and creative industries. She is a member of the Advisory Group for IPPR’s Intellectual Property and the Public Sphere Project and a member of FOCI (Forum on Creative Industries). She is on the editorial board of Games and Culture, a journal about interactive media, published by Sage. She is also Adjunct Professor in the Faculty of Creative Industries, Queensland University of Technology, where she is involved in a variety of research projects, currently including a study of arts and education. She is also an international member of the Institute for Creative Industries and Innovation, (www.ici.qut.edu.au) at the same faculty. Andy Pratt (London School of Economics, UK) is a geographer who has written widely on creative industries, and particularly new media. His work on cultural industries production systems is well read and his frameworks adopted for study elsewhere, for example, in Japan and Hong Kong. Calvin Taylor (University of Leeds, UK) specialises in the teaching and research of the ways by which culture and the creative industries contribute to regeneration in the local and regional contexts. He is also a member of the Forum on Creative industries and a Board member of the Creative Industries Development Agency (CIDA).
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Ted Tschang has a Ph.D. from Carnegie Mellon, and is currently an Assistant Professor of Economics and Technology at the Singapore Management University. He has written about information technology industries and researched the video game industry. He has worked at the Asian Development Bank Institute (Tokyo), the United Nations University/Institute of Advanced Studies in Tokyo, and for the U.S. Government. At ADBI and UNU, he coordinated projects on the software industries in India and China, virtual universities, the digital economy, and knowledge management.
Chapter 1
Introduction Justin O’Connor and Lily Kong
The cultural and creative industries have become increasingly prominent in many policy agendas in recent years. Not only have governments identified the growing consumer potential for cultural/creative industry products in the home market, they have also seen the creative industry agenda as central to the growth of external markets. This agenda stresses creativity, innovation, small business growth, and access to global markets – all central to a wider agenda of moving from cheap manufacture towards high value-added products and services. The increasing importance of cultural and creative industries in national and city policy agendas is evident in Hong Kong, Singapore, Taiwan, South Korea, Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou, Australia, and New Zealand, and in more nascent ways in cities such as Chongqing and Wuhan. Much of the thinking in these cities/ countries has derived from the European and North American policy landscape. Policy debate in Europe and North America has been marked by ambiguities and tensions around the connections between cultural and economic policy which the creative industry agenda posits. These become more marked because the key drivers of the creative economy are the larger metropolitan areas, so that cultural and economic policy also then intersect with urban planning, policy and governance. These intersections have given rise to the label ‘The creative city’ – an approach to policy and planning that recognises the urbanistic context and infrastructure within which creative industry innovation and growth take place. If the internationalisation of creative industry policy discourse, particularly its ‘export’ to many parts of Australasia, has given rise to significant debates regarding the need for ‘imported’ policies to be sensitive to different national contexts, then further localisation of creative industries within urban contexts only exacerbates these issues. In short, though the promise of the ‘creative industry, creative city’ agenda has very real appeal, its implementation in the distinct contexts outside of European and North American cities in general is fraught with ambiguities, tensions and ‘mistranslations’.
J. O’Connor () Creative Industries Faculty, Queensland University of Technology, Creative Industries Precinct Z1-515, Musk Avenue Kelvin Grove, QLD 4059, Australia e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_1, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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An example of this last would be the application of Richard Florida’s concept and methodology of ‘the creative class’ in the very different context of Chinese cities – which has been attempted with confusing results, to say the least. This collection draws together 13 substantive essays which focus on Asian and European experiences, in order that differences between varied experiences might be foregrounded, and meaningful comparisons made. The contributions are divided into five sections, focusing on creative economy policies, creative clusters, creative class, the making of creative cities, and the politics of the creative city.
Creative Economy Policies In Part I, we explore the related issues of how very different policy contexts might be meaningfully compared, and some of the difficulties of policy transfer between different contexts. In Europe and East Asia, there have been growing expectations placed on the cultural and creative industries (CCI) to deliver new high skilled employment, stimulate a high-value service sector, provide ecologically sustainable growth, promote urban regeneration, act as catalysts for innovation, and so on. However, as Pratt (Chapter 2) argues strongly here, there is a lack of empirical evidence, confusion as to the potential role of the CCI, and a persistent imprecision as to how exactly we should characterise them. In particular there is ambiguity about the position of CCI between the traditional cultural policy object of subsidised public goods and the ‘free’ market. Given these confusions, Pratt argues that it is highly unfeasible to transfer CCI policies from one context to another. What is required is a closer analysis and understanding of the operation of the CCI and their relationship with the rest of the economy (and society). Tschang (Chapter 3) takes on the related task of trying to plot differences between different CCI contexts, using the computer games and animation industries as a case. In trying to compare the different trajectories and performances of this sector across East Asia, he also runs up against the issues of commercial industry and local cultural context. CCI products take time to emerge from a culture – they cannot simply be created by industrial policy – and they bear the mark of those specific cultures as they are most frequently created first for the domestic market. Tschang suggests that public policy has always been an enabler after the fact rather than an early stimulator; which might indicate that our usual sense of ‘industry’ policy needs to be supplemented by a more clearly articulated notion of innovation policy. Such an innovation policy needs to bear in mind Pratt’s point about the ambiguous location of CCI between market and public provision.
Creative Clusters These issues are taken up in some detail in Part II where we look at creative clusters. Mommaas (Chapter 4) starts with a comprehensive overview of the conceptual and policy origins of the term. Located in a triangle of culture-economy-space, he
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argues that the notion of cultural or creative clusters has given rise to an appealing policy agenda but at the same time hides ‘a confusing and tense complexity’. He argues for a much clearer differentiation of cluster types, with concomitant clarity about development agendas and criteria of success and failure. This detailed exploration of the concept and the unearthing of ambiguities and conflicts can also be seen in Kong’s chapter (Chapter 5), which looks at cultural clusters in Singapore. Different histories, different agencies and different objectives all make it difficult to lump all these initiatives under one developmental rubric. A more nuanced approach is called for, one where the cultural dimension is to play a significant role alongside the ‘industrial’. Finally Michael Keane (Chapter 6) takes up the cluster agenda in China. The PRC, after a late adoption of the concept, has forged ahead and created scores of different cultural and creative clusters in the big cities across China. Keane shows the provenance of the concept in the ‘top down’ model of China’s industrial and latterly, high-tech development policies, now being used to promote the creative industries. Keane shows how Beijing has used the notion of creative cluster as part of its modernisation policy, driving through many clusters whose size dwarfs such development in the West. Yet there is little understanding of the new challenges creative clusters present to policy and management, and some real problems with the wholesale imposition of a singular model on a diverse set of economic and cultural activities.
A Creative Class? Alongside ‘creative cluster’, the notion of a ‘creative class’ is one of the most significant forms of direct policy transfer seen in the last few years. From its use by US academic Richard Florida as a form of statistical civic boosterism tacked onto some loose claims about the ending of industrial society, it has gone on to enthuse urban politicians and planners across the globe. In Part III, we look in detail at how this idea has been received in the UK, Europe and East Asia, and the problematic nature of this easy policy transfer. All three find the idea seriously wanting in conceptual clarity. Hansen, Asheim and Lauridsen (Chapter 7) test the applicability of Florida’s thesis in the European context by a close empirical investigation of the relationships between talent, technology and tolerance relationship across 445 European regions. They seriously question that any easy conclusions can be drawn from the application of such a (for some) politically attractive guiding ideal. It is these conceptual and public policy questions that occupy Oakley (Chapter 8). Using particularly the case of Britain, she questions the very notion of a ‘creative class’ as well as the assumptions that it hides within itself – in particular the notion of a mobile labour force always ready to relocate – and the implicit endorsement of the gentrification of urban centres and its social consequences. Mok (Chapter 9) takes up some of these issues in his case study of Hong Kong and Macau, whose governments have become very much attracted to the notion of ‘creative class’ in recent years. However, Mok shows how economic development in these two cities has taken a very different development path than that assumed by the Florida thesis, and that
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the notion of ‘creative class’ plays very differently in this context. However, he ends by identifying some common policy outcomes of the adoption of creative class rhetoric, including the further socio-economic polarisation of the urban spaces of post-reform China.
The Making of Creative Cities In Parts IV and V, we widen the view from creative clusters and classes to the notion of the creative city as such. In Part IV, we look at the resources available to particular localities for the mobilisation of the creative capacity of the city. Taylor (Chapter 10) notes the increasing popularity of the notion of creative industries as a new kind of local (city) economic development strategy since the arrival of Britain’s Department of Culture, Media and Sports (DCMS) in 1998. However, he argues that this popularity might have come at a price. Reviewing earlier policies around cultural industries and local economic development, he argues that questions of governance involved not just technical or industrial but wider political issues. As other authors in this collection have argued, to ignore the wider political and cultural policy issues is to ignore the contextual reality within which notions of creative industries must take their place. While Taylor focuses very much on the North of England, in the following two chapters, we examine Shanghai. Li and Hua’s (Chapter 11) account of Shanghai’s strategic vision shows how the creative industries have become central to its aspirations to become a leading global city. This provides the empirical context for O’Connor’s chapter (Chapter 12), which attempts to problematise the creative industries agenda as it is transferred from the West to Shanghai (Chapter 12). Through a critical engagement with Hutton’s The Writing on the Wall, he attempts to place the creative industries agenda in China in the wider context of theories of development, modernisation, anti-imperialism and post-colonial thought.
The Politics of the Creative City O’Connor’s chapter leads us to the final section which interrogates contemporary notions of the city and urban spatiality. Corijn (Chapter 13) situates urban governance within a post-national political and cultural space. Urban governance, he argues, ‘cannot be legitimised in the same way as representation (representative democracy) within a national context’. Culture, in the sense of the ‘imaginary constitution of society’ and the ongoing ‘production of social bonds and interactions’, therefore becomes central to urban governance. Here we find some responses to the questions raised by Pratt, Taylor, and others in this volume, as to the wider questions of urban governance within which any creative industries policy needs to be understood. Finally, Lehtovouri and Havik (Chapter 14) take
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us down to the sub-urban level, to the interstices of urban innovation. Using case studies in Helsinki and Amsterdam the authors show how new forms of spatial management are being used to promote creative spaces in European cities. These spaces are deeply embedded in the complexity and diversity of urban actors and dynamics, folding in marginal and temporary uses alongside the more mainstream and economically powerful institutions. In this way, the final section begins to flesh out Pratt’s call in Chapter 2 for an empirically situated creative industries policy which is aware of the wide range of factors and interests involved in the production of urban cultures.
Part I
Creative Economy Policies
Chapter 2
Policy Transfer and the Field of the Cultural and Creative Industries: What Can Be Learned from Europe?* Andy C. Pratt
Introduction There has been an increased interest by policymakers in the cultural and creative economy1 in recent years, in part due to the success of developing reliable empirical measures of activity, and in part due to the anticipated economic and social benefits that such growth might bring. These benefits are partially based upon empirical growth (KEA_European_Affairs 2006), and partially reinforced by information society theories that suggest the creative industries are the leading edge of the next long-wave of economic development (Garnham 2005). Developing nations have been quick to see both the possibilities of the creative industries, and the way that they might be used to ‘upgrade’ their position within international production chains (Pratt 2008a). However, such interest and expectation has been difficult to resolve with a range of policy tools, or without an in-depth understanding of the CCI.2 There is clear evidence of confusion as to the role and potential of the CCI, a problem that is further obscured by imprecision concerning the core concepts that underpin the CCI. At the same time, there is much ‘hope’ value in policy making in this field, some of which is patently aspirational rather than practical. For some, the CCI represent the * An initial version of this chapter presented at ‘Creative Cities, Creative Economies Conference, Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences’. October 16, 2006. Thanks to the participants for comments and discussion. 1 I will use the terminology Cultural and Creative Industries (CCI) in this chapter to refer to both the notion of Creative Industries and the Cultural Industries. As I have noted elsewhere, the precise terminology has specific political connotations. CCI has been increasingly adopted as an ‘umbrella’ label to cover a range of debates (Pratt 2005). 2 This is further compounded by the tendency to see cultural and creative industries policy as synonymous with cultural policy. The argument here is that CCI policies have more in common with industrial policies. However, as will be noted, we argue against the use of generic industrial policies for the CCI. A.C. Pratt () Department of Geography and Environment / LSE Centre for Cities, London School of Economics, Houghton Street, London WC2A 2AE, UK e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_2, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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leading edge of the information society and hence offer a promise of development associated with leading technologies. For others, engagement in cultural production offers a potential means to ascend the value chain. So in the field of CCI policy, the stakes are high, and the pressure to do what somebody else has already done or to mimic policies adopted in other sectors is attractive. However, this begs two questions: does generic policy work with respect to the CCI, and, can policy be simply applied in different social and political conditions and have the same outcome? There is much interest in CCI policy and in the evidence that might support it. Whilst there may not be an agreement on precise policies, there does seem at least to be consensus on information gathering, although seldom with shared or even wellarticulated conceptual and definitional frameworks. The recent development of a UNESCO cultural statistical framework, and UNCTAD’s recent work on the creative economy and development, both of which share many common concepts, perhaps bodes well for the field (Burns Owens Partnership et al. 2006; UNCTAD 2008). Policy makers have turned to what they perceive as the ‘best practice’ (in terms of evaluation and context) in the field, or at least more usually the first movers, and seek to emulate them. This is what Peck (2005) terms ‘fast policy.’ In so doing, policy makers are presented with huge challenges on how to select ‘best practice’ and how to apply this to their particular national regulatory, cultural production, cultural policy and industrial environment. Consequently, the most common form of policy making has been what I term ‘Xerox’ policy making, that is, direct replication, and it is this tendency that I want to challenge in this chapter. Following this, I will question the notion of a unitary European experience or indeed, to name the most popular ‘model’ – the UK, on whether there is a clear notion of what models are available to be considered for such a process. Given these two problems, I will question whether it is possible to learn from the European experience. Indeed, is the notion of an ‘EU experience’ sustainable? Accordingly, the chapter represents a cautious attempt to consider what (if anything) can be learned from the experience of other countries in the field of CCI policy. The chapter will begin with a discussion of the very notion of the CCI, following which it will review debates on how to analyse the CCI. This will be followed by an outline of some of the problems and challenges of the idea of policy transfer. Following that, I take up the case of the CCI in Europe by outlining the varied experiences of information gathering, conceptualising and policy making for the CCI. I conclude by returning to my initial question on whether it is possible to ‘learn from Europe’ in relation to CCI policy, and if so, what can be learned?
CCI and Policy Transfer The Cultural Industries: Concepts There is a commonly assumed coherence to the notion of the cultural industries or the creative industries. The following section outlines the contested history of the terms and their linkage with theory and policy. In the case of the cultural
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industries, there exist three main lines of thought. The term Culture Industry was coined by German writers Adorno and Horkheimer (1977; original 1944). Associated with the Frankfurt School of critical theory, these authors sought to react to a mass society where they felt culture was becoming banal. For them, culture (and meaning) played an essential role in the enlightenment as an emancipating force. The culture industries, they argued, removed this emancipating potential. They also reacted against the cultural industries’ practice of extending the capitalist realm into leisure time. In the 1980s, French writers, especially Miège (1987, 1989), began to discuss the cultural industries. They pluralised the ideas as, contra Adorno and Horkheimer, they saw the Cultural industries as diverse and different from one another. Moreover, they viewed the cultural industries as contradictory but not all bad. In the late 1990s, there are two major inflections of the Miège line of thought. One prioritises the production of texts, and how meaning is shaped by ownership and production (Hesmondhalgh 2002). The other views the cultural industries as industries and seek to explore the particularities of their organisation across production, distribution and consumption (Pratt 1997, 2004b). Policy debates about the cultural industries can be linked to the work of UNESCO on communications inequalities. From this came an influential report by Girard (1982) that sought to create a framework of measurement. This approach influenced both the Canadian and Australian governments to measure cultural industries. Borrowing from Miège’s work, Garnham (1987, 2005) was influential in adapting notions of the cultural industries to industrial policy making in London, a notion that was also explored in other ‘Old Labour’ run metropolitan areas of the UK. Here the cultural industries were used in part as political mobilisation of the youth, and in part as contributions to job creation in the de-industrialised cities. With the election of a centrist ‘New Labour’ in 1997, the cultural industries were elevated as a national policy. However, due to their associations with ‘Old Labour’, they were re-branded the ‘creative industries’ thereby linking them to the ‘knowledge economy’ (Garnham 2005; Pratt 2005). The first UK ‘mapping’ document that sought to measure the economic role of the ‘creative industries’ had a huge impact spawning a number of similar reports around the world (DCMS 1998). Despite the popularity of counting employment and output, it is debatable whether a deep understanding of the creative/cultural industries has been achieved. There remain a number of problematic relationships that have not been fully understood, namely, public and private, formal and informal, production and consumption, arts and cultural industries, as well as the differences between the individual industries. Nevertheless, the policy juggernaut carries on, the latest concern being with ‘cultural clusters’ (Mommaas 2004; Pratt 2004a). Often, as commentators have noted, these are sites of cultural consumption rather than production. Moreover, the objective of these and other cultural initiatives are more often than not instrumental; they seek to achieve social cohesion or urban regeneration rather than cultural excellence.
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The Creative Turn Alongside this emerging policy concern lie a number of academic debates. The term ‘creative’, as an adjective applied to processes, is relatively new. It has certainly received two quite distinct boosts in the last decade. The first of these occurred in 1997 as the UK government turned its focus on policy making in relation to the cultural industries (Pratt 2005). For a variety of reasons, the term ‘creative industries’ was used instead of cultural industries. However, the same elements of the economy (film, television, design, high fashion, publishing, architecture, the visual and performing arts, new media and computer games, and advertising) were indicated in practice. The publication of data on employment and output surprised many by the scale of its general contribution to the economy. Searching for an explanation of the economic growth indicated by cultural mapping surveys, many sought to conflate the creative economy with the information/knowledge economy (Garnham 2005). The latter notion draws upon the work of Bell (1973), in particular his work on ‘post-industrial society,’ which others have sought to restyle as ‘the knowledge economy.’ Details aside, this has positioned the creative economy as the cutting edge of post-industrial knowledge economy. In other words, it was the ‘new thing.’ Bell argued that the developed nations were increasingly dominated by people involved in the manipulation of ideas rather than things. Moreover, he argued that scientists, and what others have called the symbolic analysts (Reich 2000), would add value to products; in fact, they would be the key element in future production. Following this line of argument, ‘creativity’ is the source of competitive advantage in the post-industrial economy. Hence, it is understandable that policy makers should seize upon the ‘creative industries,’ both as a label and as a panacea. We can of course find creative activities outside the ‘creative economy’ (in the car industry, in administration, etc.). Clearly this makes the concept unwieldy. At a government level, this has led to the exploration of the ways in which creativity can be promoted through policy within the education system (NACCCE 1999). The notion quickly travelled across Europe and around the world as policy makers sought some of the ‘magic dust’ of creativity. It was an idea that made all the right connections. There is an irony in the embrace by the global South and East of a global North and Western concept of culture by cities that were in other ways seeking to stake out their separateness and individuality. A second and significant rise in the popularity of creativity can be noted in the use of creativity as spectacle and entertainment or to put it simply, as a means of attracting visitors and customers to a place. The notion of creativity as a selling point draws straight from business studies, namely that of the entertainment economy or experience economy, The classic example is the redevelopment of Baltimore harbour (Hannigan 1998; Pine II and Gilmore 1999). Retailers and city managers have caught on to the fact that a good experience helps to open people’s wallets. In part, this is a response to the fact that shops and malls are increasingly similar. What differentiates them, as proposed here, is ‘the experience.’ Such a notion is very attractive as it arguably requires no latent resources, and with investment in
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the right labour force and setting, it could succeed anywhere. An early version of this spectacle is embedded in the idea of urban tourism, where the unique assets of a city – its heritage – are the attraction, and hotel bed-nights and consumption are representative of the benefit gained. In recent years, attempts have been made to attract the ‘cultural tourist’ to cities with the hope that they will be well-off and well-behaved, in contrast to the archetypical ‘sun and sand’ tourism (for example, Barcelona in comparison to the Costa Brava) (Pratt 2000). Both cultural tourism and the entertainment economy have been used to justify investment in urban cultural infrastructure. This has extended to the creation of new architectural icons to attract visitors and investors (the classic example being Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim art gallery, Bilbao).3 The more controversial such schemes are, the more they attract publicity. Cities have long competed against one another for foreign direct investment; the nature of environment, or the cultural attractiveness, are heavily implicated in such promotion (Harvey 1989). Not surprisingly, a number of indicies have been developed that rank cities on liveability or even creativity. The latest and most explicit linking of these aims can be found in the work of Florida (2002). Richard Florida has argued that the three drivers of the creative class are technology, talent and tolerance. That is, cities that score highly on these become magnets for high-tech investment and growth (based upon the notion that the hightech sector is the current touchstone of economic growth). Florida’s study of US cityregions offers the following top five: San Francisco, Austin, San Diego, Boston and Seattle. Florida’s point is that it is not creativity, but the presence of creative workers (the widely drawn notion of the ‘creative class’) that makes a successful city. These workers themselves then become a magnet for high technology and high growth firms seeking to employ them (see also critiques of Florida’s thesis by Peck 2005, and Pratt 2008b). From the viewpoint of the argument developed in this chapter, a central point about all of these insights is that they are about consuming culture, and not about its production. As noted above, the new mapping studies of the cultural sector have pointed out that it is a growth area in its own right, and are not simply entertainment ‘candy floss.’ Florida’s creative cities are not about innovation (product or process) nor are they about cultural production (or creativity). A trio of less publicised but nonetheless important perspectives on creativity and the city have been discussed and deployed as the basis for policy making. The first of these concerns creativity being used in a socially instrumental manner in cities. The argument is that the pursuit of creative activities can be distracting and engaging, as well as a means of building understanding and mutual respect. There are many examples of socially innovative projects that use creativity to reinforce social cohesion (Bianchini and Santacatterina 1997). Those evaluations that have taken place point to significant success (in terms of social cohesion) (DCMS 1999). Another related use of creativity has been in social problem solving. The work of
3
The success, or otherwise, of many such urban cultural extravaganzas is not conclusive. In particular, Bilbao, as the iconic example of the ‘art gallery that regenerated a city’ is a much disputed case (Plaza 1999, 2000a, b, 2006).
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Charles Landry (2000) is a testament to the possibility of innovative and socially embedded problem solving through the use of local social and cultural resources. Inter alia it achieves social cohesion, and sometimes produces artful outcomes as well. A striking example of this is discussed in Landry’s book, the Emscher Park in Essen, Germany. This is the case of a run-down coal mining region that was developed into an eco-tourism area and design centre. It is a remarkable example of lateral thinking, social and economic regeneration. Thus far, we have the dominant notion of creativity as a magic bullet that leads to competitiveness, followed by creativity as a ‘honey pot’ to boost consumption and attract investment, and creativity as a new cultural resource for problem solving. A final application draws upon a different conception of creativity, one that concerns the creative industries themselves, that is, one concerned with cultural production. As noted above, the notion of the creative industries does itself cover a wide range of industries. Those that have been commonly focused on as providing economic growth in themselves, as well as providing important input for other areas of social and economic life are high fashion, design, new media and advertising. These and other creative industries are unevenly distributed in cities around the world. Considerable advantages are conferred by their location although it is not clear precisely why they are located where they are (see for example, Scott’s 2005 work on the film industry and its shifting locational dynamics). The work of Becker (1984) and Peterson (1976) challenges the individualist reading of creativity as well as the dominant reading of consumption and culture (Pratt 2004a, b), and offers an alternative in the identification of an institutional framework that stresses the interconnections and feedback between processes of production, referred to elsewhere as the production system or chain (Pratt 1997).
The Problem of ‘Travelling Policy’ There is a substantial literature on policy transfer. On the one hand, the literature presents the diffusion model, whereby policy begins in one place and ‘trickles down’ to others. The implication is that there is a temporal lag or more seriously, a transformative or translation effect in the process. On the other hand, there is a more historically rooted literature that emphasises the political processes that lead to policy transfer. There are a number of classic studies in urban policy. In particular, they highlight as much forgetting as they do remembering or perhaps more precisely, they point to a degree of oversight as policies are copied and re-copied. In both strands of work, there is an assumption that there is a coherent policy that gets ‘lost in translation.’ I want to question this whole notion of a portmanteau policy. In much of cultural policy, normative notions of policy making and transfer are used. There is not space here to review this normative policy literature and its critique in detail. However, this section highlights a number of significant challenges
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to the normative agenda emerging from the disciplinary fields of urban studies and political science (James and Lodge 2003; Stone 2004; Wolman et al. 1994). This position is used as a foundation to re-construct an analytical framework for cultural policy. Normative debates about policy are framed as lying between two poles, that of lesson drawing and policy transfer. The former is usually presented as one of a formal rational choice of key characteristics. The latter is commonly presented as one of implementation failure or time lag; the notion of diffusion of policy ideas is common. In the last decade or so, a body of research has examined alternative conceptualisation of the policy process and its comparative dimensions (Evans 2004, 2006; Evans and Davies 1999). One dimension of this debate has dealt with the relationship between political power and policy, for example in discussion of ‘regime theory.’ Another has examined the diversity of economic institutional settings for policy processes (Hall 1993; Hall and Taylor 1996). This work takes us away from the functional, rational and disembedded practices as represented by normative theory. In particular, writers have sought to develop the variation of state practices and forms, notable examples being the work of Esping-Andersen (1990) on the welfare state, Duncan and Goodwin on the local state (Duncan and Goodwin 1988) and Hall’s economic organisational varieties of capitalism (Hall and Soskice 2001). More generally, there has been an argument to shift away from formal and limited notions of Government towards broader ideas of governance (Jessop 1998). Returning to the field of cultural policy, and cultural and creative industries policy, we can note that much of the recent concern of policy-makers has been met by normative analyses of policy resulting in ‘Xerox’ policies, that is, policies that are simply copied with little or no variation from one place to another with no acknowledgement of the different social and economic contexts, and little attention to the policy object. The former point is well illustrated by work on arts policy and in particular, arts funding. Schuster (1985), for instance, highlights that simply comparing arts expenditure does not tell us much about policy or its effects. The work of Toepler and Zimmer (2002) indicates an application of the work of Esping-Anderson to cultural policy making, a point that has been further developed by Pratt (2005). By contrast, the popularisation of the work of Florida (2002) can be seen as a case in point of ‘Xerox’ policy making. The latter point – the definition of the precise object(ive) of policy – turns on regardless of whether the cultural and creative industries, and hence cultural and creative industries policy, can be rendered as generic policy (as for other sections of the economy or society) or whether there are significant differences that require specific policy responses and formulations. At least in Florida’s work this is salient as he argues that the creative class requires specific policies to attract and retain them. Thus, in order to open up discussion of policy for the creative and cultural industries, we need to be clear not only of what the ‘object’ of policy is (the cultural and creative industries) – and how unique they are – as well as the objectives, and the context of their operation.
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Review of European Experience Fragmented Practice The aim of this section is to offer an overview of the European experience with CCI policy. We begin by considering the collection of data, although it cannot be considered in isolation as it is closely related to policy making and the institutions of policy making. The particular formation of these policies gives a specific character and impetus to cultural industry policy making. Significantly, cultural policy making comes from a public policy, public funded, system that is based upon the traditional arts. Modern cultural industries and any commercial activities are commonly excluded. Thus, the institutional and the historical role of the state are significant shapers of cultural industries policies and creative city policies. The central problem is associated with definition and conceptualisation of the cultural and creative industries. In many places, the same terminology is used for quite different activities. There are two inter-linked problems. First, each country has a different census agency and uses slightly different classifications of all industries. Second, there is considerable variation in terms of definitions and concepts. The primary disagreement concerns the inclusion of commercial activities within the cultural sector or the measurement of the cultural industries at all. A secondary issue concerns the general inadequacy (and variation) of the industrial taxonomies used to collate the data.4 An attempt has been made by Eurostat (2000) to at least reform industrial taxonomies; however, the changes proposed will take a long time to implement. In effect, this lack of progress has made a true comparative analysis of the CCI in Europe impossible. Nevertheless, a number of indicative studies have been carried out. Perhaps the most comprehensive coverage comes from Northern Europe, the Scandinavian states. However, notable studies have also been carried out in the UK, Ireland, the Netherlands, Austria, Switzerland, France (Ile de France), Germany (Nord Rheine Westfalia), Belgium, Iceland and Spain (Basque and Catalunya) over time. The UK’s pragmatic and superficial initial step of defining the 13 creative industries represents a simpler solution and as such, has become influential; however, it has been criticised for paying insufficient attention to the production framework of the CCI. In response, a new version of the framework has been developed (DCMS 2003). Interestingly, this document has been developed to assist UK regional development agencies with strategic development and data collection. Two crossEuropean studies have been carried out. The first – European Commission (1998) – was a very sketchy outline. Recently, a more developed study – KEA European Affairs (2006) – has been carried out.5 4
See Pratt (1997) for a discussion of the problems in the UK; these problems are replicated in different countries. 5 See also Feist (2000), and Bodo and Fisher (1997).
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Genealogy of an Idea Let us take the idea of a CCI policy itself. In some respects we can see this being pioneered as an urban policy in the UK in the 1980s. At the same time, there is theoretical work on the cultural industries carried out in France. The two come together in policy proposals for the Greater London Council (Garnham 1987, 2005). These early policies positioned the cultural industries as part of a political mobilisation strategy and as a youth employment approach. Later, they take on the role of economic strategy (DCMS 1998) and then as a means of social amelioration (DCMS 1999). The UK experience has been very much of a shifting focus on the creative industries in terms of concepts, empirical and policy objectives. Perhaps the most enduring element is that which is relatively new and that which contrasts most clearly with continental Europe; this is a focus on the commercial aspects of cultural production albeit with the aim of state management or guidance of that field. Elsewhere in the Anglophone world, Australia’s ‘Creative Nation’ programme took up the baton, again seeking to find a new role for the CCI that was in this case both about identity politics (and thus an outgrowth of ‘old’ cultural policy) and economic development. Australia had, along with New Zealand, pioneered the systematic collection of cultural data in specific accounts; these were both enhanced and extended through the use of artists’ labour market studies and time use surveys (Throsby and Hollister 2003). On the other side of the Pacific, the Canadian government was also intent on highlighting the role of culture both in identity terms as well as in economic terms, specifically, as potential economic drivers. Again, data collection on the CCI took place alongside more traditional cultural policy commonly linked to the audio visual and publishing sectors. In turn, British policy makers, notably the British Council, sought to pick on the CCI as an export vehicle (echoing a role that had been carried out for many years by the US). In 1997, a change of administration ushered in a new concept, ‘the creative industries,’ and a new Department of Culture, Media and Sport. This formation then was some distance from the traditional arts and culture. Again, it is worth noting that in both Australia and Canada, such institutional innovation had also taken place. At the same time across Europe, similar developments were apparent in the Scandinavian countries (with Finland playing a big role) and in Germany. For many years, a pioneering role was taken by North Rhein Westphalia (NRW). The region, in particular the Rhur valley, had suffered massive de-industrialisation (like Sheffield in the UK – the first location of a ‘cultural industries quarter’). The innovative Emsher Park, IBM, was the centre piece. Innovative policy was developed around environmental and cultural themes. Notably, initial policies were underpinned by a substantial research infrastructure developed by consultants EricArts who produced the first NRW mapping report in 1999. Other notable mapping and policy actions took place in Catalynya and Barcelona.
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The Many Worlds of CCI Policy Making As noted above, writers such as Esping-Anderson (1990) have discussed the wide variations of state forms and concepts of social welfare. Toepler and Zimmer (2002) give a partial view of how such an argument may play out in the cultural policy sphere. The task has yet to be completed for the CCI. However, it is clear that the pattern is far more complex than that of simply mapping different types of welfare states onto cultural provision. There are two further factors: the relationship between market and non-market cultural production, and the scale of intervention. Traditionally in continental Europe, a strict division of public and commercial cultural industries has been observed, with the former supported and the latter ignored. Cultural policy has been applied at both a regional and national level with differing emphases; notably, the French policy has stressed patrimony. The UK model can thus be seen as out of sync, both by its focus on the commercial creative industries and its tendency towards a market regulation model although at other times, creative industries are seen as a social cohesion policy. At the supra-national level, the EU has been notably silent concerning the CCI. EU institutions have not been conducive to a European wide cultural policy; until recently culture was not a European competency but one devolved to states. At the EU level, the concern has primarily been with cultural heritage, with its definitions and activities being derived from such a conception. Second, the cultural policy domain is split between a number of different policy departments (DG). Formally, culture is located under social affairs and education but the DGs for audio-visual, information technology and regional development are also potential sites of interest. The importance of the separate areas seems to have militated against a crossdepartmental view of culture and the creative industries. As a result, the topic is very much a regional and national concern with no central direction. At the regional level, a number of initiatives have been developed based around three key areas. The first area is cultural quarters and cultural planning. The second is cultural industries and cultural clusters (Bianchini and Parkinson 1993; Bianchini and Santacatterina 1997; Mommaas 2004). Finally, a more traditional place-marketing role of cities and regions has sought to harness the notion of creative cities as well. As yet few nation states have articulated a national strategy for the cultural and creative industries, let alone creative cities. The latter is unlikely as the basis of such branding is inter-city competition. Cultural quarters and cultural planning have primarily had two foci: first as an effort to achieve social inclusion, and second, as an attractor for cultural tourism (a consumption space). Commonly, these developments are linked to refurbished built heritage sites (Pratt 2007a, 2008a). Second, cultural industries and cultural cluster policies focus on commercial and industrial production activities. These are most successfully developed from existing agglomerations. Although a new trend has been to establish ‘incubator space’ in large derelict ‘factories,’ these policies have commonly been linked to more general business cluster promotion as a means of regeneration (Evans 2001).
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It will be clear, from the short summary of the histories and development of concepts, definitions and policies for the CCI, that there is little consensus. Policies bear the mark of their history (social, economic and political) and in Europe, that history is varied albeit having a common root in state support for ‘high arts and culture,’ and an antipathy to commercial culture in terms of public policy support. It is also clear that many of the examples of CCI policy have been a result of ‘bottom up’ initiatives, mainly at the local and regional scale. Top down initiatives are characteristic of ‘cultural policy.’ At best, the ‘model’ that emerges from Europe is idiosyncratic, subjective and contradictory. However, this does not mean that there are no lessons to be learned. What this simply means is that a ‘best practice’ or ‘Xerox’ policy transfer is unlikely to be a useful guide. Moreover, that CCI policy is rooted in a whole set of debates about the role of economy, culture and politics in societies. To simply extract or impose a model in such a situation is unlikely to be useful nor achieve its expected outcomes.
Conclusion I began this chapter with the question of whether it was possible to export and import cultural policies. I have argued that, in terms of theories about policy transfer and about the empirical and specific issues of the CCI, this is not a feasible prospect. This fact is underlined by the confusing variety of models and practices that constitute the European experience. What is required is closer analysis and understanding of the operation of the CCI and their relationship with the rest of the economy (and society). However, there are some lessons that can be drawn to sustain an ongoing debate about the future form of CCI policies. It is clear that the European nations and regions have been engaged in a learning exercise. One of the challenges has been to consolidate this experience rather than continually reproduce failures. Thus, one lesson that can be drawn is the need to develop a more systematic and rigorous evidence-based policy development, where information is gathered about the objectives and outcomes, as well as the means of policy evaluation. The urgency of this task is underlined by the raft of ‘mapping documents,’ which despite their confusing and varied definitional basis, all point in a similar direction: the CCI is growing and increasingly becoming an important aspect of economies and societies. As such, it has social and economic impacts that could and should be the concern of society and policy makers. As yet, policy makers and politicians have found it difficult to see the CCI as separate from the old approach to cultural policy: the general subsidy model of public goods not sustained by market forces. Many CCI make money, therefore this model does not apply. Moreover, as many studies are beginning to show, the CCI does not sit unequivocally in the commercial sector, but is better seen as the interface between the market and society and between the formal and informal economies. Policy makers and policy institutions have not
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been historically well positioned to engage with this sort of issues (Jeffcutt and Pratt 2002; Pratt 2007b). The European Union lacks a fundamental commitment to cultural diversity as expressed in the UNESCO charter (UNESCO 2001). If taken seriously, such a commitment would require policy across all aspects of the economy to address unequal accesses to the forms and means of cultural expression, notably through structural aspects of cultural goods distribution. The fallback position of support for a ‘common’ heritage has been the underpinning aspect of the cultural dimension of the EU. This is clearly inadequate as it fails to provide a basis for decision making about current and future culture; it means that cultural activities will always be backward looking. Moreover, in this period of advanced Neo-liberal policy for trade and globalisation, heritage is increasingly being co-opted into ‘place branding’, an exercise which is, at heart, a zero-sum game (Pratt 2007a, 2008b). Unfortunately, the other aspect of this policy debate concerns hi-tech policy. One thing that emerges very clearly from the European experience is that generic policies (cross-national or cross-industrial) do not work. The CCI have a number of specific aspects that require dedicated policy making. The notion of simply applying a science policy to culture and creative industries is not helpful. Finally, it is clear that even if many of the above questions were resolved more satisfactorily in the European context, the CCI may still fall between gaps between the ‘silos’ of policy making. In short, there is no institutional ‘champion’: a policy department which has the CCI as a core and high priority, and an agency which has real resources and power to implement policy. This is perhaps one lesson that can be drawn from the UK in its establishment of the Department of Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) (replacing the Department for National Heritage) with a charismatic leader (Chris Smith), and which perhaps begins to account for the early successes.6 Whilst the DCMS made headlines and gathered significant legitimacy for the CCI and served as an inspiration7 to many nation states, a fact which we can applaud, the policy ‘follow through’ has, as yet, failed to materialise and as such, the CCI has once again slipped down the political agenda.
References Adorno, T. and M. Horkheimer. 1977. The culture industry: Enlightenment as mass deception. In Mass communications and society, eds. J. Curran, M. M. Gurevitch, and J. Woollacott, 349–383. London: Arnold. Becker, H. S. 1984. Art worlds. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.
6
Sadly, I am not aware of any nation where the top career aspiration for the ‘brightest and best’ civil servants, or politicians, is the government ministry that is responsible for culture (in fact, it is usually quite the opposite). 7 I would stress that the impact should be read as one of inspiration, rather than as a template to be copied.
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Bell, D. 1973. The coming of post-industrial society. New York: Basic Books. Bianchini, F. and M. Parkinson. 1993. Cultural policy and urban regeneration: The West European experience. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Bianchini, F. and L. G. Santacatterina. 1997. Culture and neighbourhoods. Strasbourg: Council of Europe Publishing. Bodo, C. and R. Fisher. 1997. New frontiers for employment in Europe, CIRCLE publications, no 9 (Associazione Economica per la Cultura, Rome). Burns Owens Partnership, A. C. Pratt, and C. Taylor. 2006. A framework for the cultural sector: A report for UIS/UNESCO. London: Burns Owens Partnership. DCMS. 1998. Creative industries mapping document. London: Department of Culture, Media and Sport. DCMS. 1999. A report for policy action team 10: Arts and sport. National Strategy for Neighbourhood Renewal. DCMS. 2003. Regional data framework for the creative industries: Final technical report for the Department of Culture, Media and Sport and the Regional Cultural Consortia. London: Department of Culture, Media and Sport. Duncan, S. and M. Goodwin. 1988. The local state and uneven development: Behind the local government crisis. Cambridge, MA: Polity. Esping-Andersen, G. 1990. The three worlds of welfare capitalism. London: Sage. European Commission. 1998. Culture, the cultural industries and employment. Commission Staff Working Paper Document SEC 98(837). Eurostat. 2000. Cultural statistics in the EU, final report of the LEG. Eurostat Working Papers: Eurostat Population and Social Conditions 3/2000/E/No1. Evans, G. 2001. Cultural planning: An urban renaissance? London: Routledge. Evans, M. 2004. Policy transfer in global perspective. Aldershot/Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Evans, M. 2006. Learning from comparative public policy: A practical guide. Public Administration 84: 479–515. Evans, M. and J. Davies. 1999. Understanding policy transfer: A multi-level, multi-disciplinary perspective. Public Administration 77: 361–385. Feist, A. 2000. Cultural employment in Europe. Cultural Policies Research and Development Unit. Policy note 8, Council of Europe, Strasbourg. Florida, R. L. 2002. The rise of the creative class: And how it’s transforming work, leisure, community and everyday life. New York: Basic Books. Garnham, N. 1987. Concepts of culture – public policy and the cultural industries. Cultural studies 1: 23–37. Garnham, N. 2005. From cultural to creative industries: An analysis of the implications of the ‘creative industries’ approach to arts and media policy making in the United Kingdom. International Journal of Cultural Policy 11: 15–30. Girard, A. 1982. Cultural industries: A handicap or a new opportunity for cultural development. In Cultural industries: A challange for the future, ed. A. Girard. Paris: UNESCO. Hall, P. and D. Soskice. 2001. Varieties of capitalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hall, P. A. 1993. Policy paradigms, social learning and the state – the case of economic policymaking. Comparative Politics 25: 275–296. Hall, P. A. and R. C. R. Taylor. 1996. Political science and the three new institutionalisms. Political Studies 44: 936–957. Hannigan, J. 1998. Fantasy city: Pleasure and profit in the postmodern metropolis. London: Routledge. Harvey, D. 1989. From managerialism to entrepreneurialism – the transformation in urban governance in late capitalism. Geografiska Annaler Series B-Human Geography 71: 3–17. Hesmondhalgh, D. 2002. The cultural industries. London: Sage. James, O. and M. Lodge. 2003. The limitations of ‘policy transfer’ and ‘lesson drawing’ for public policy research. Political Studies Review 1: 179–193. Jeffcutt, P. and A. C. Pratt. 2002. Managing creativity in the cultural industries. Creativity and Innovation Management 11: 225–233.
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Jessop, B. 1998. The rise of governance and the risks of failure: The case of economic development. International Social Science Journal 50: 29–45. KEA European Affairs. 2006. The economy of culture in Europe. Brussels: European Commission DG5. Landry, C. 2000. The creative city: A toolkit for urban innovators. London: Comedia/Earthscan. Miege, B. 1987. The logics at work in the new cultural industries. Media Culture & Society 9: 273–289. Miege, B. 1989. The capitalization of cultural production. New York: International General. Mommaas, H. 2004. Cultural clusters and the post-industrial city: Towards the remapping of urban cultural policy. Urban Studies 41: 507–532. NACCCE. 1999. All our futures: Creativity, culture and education, report of the National Advisory Committee on Creative and Cultural Education. London: Department for Education and Employment. Peck, J. 2005. Struggling with the creative class. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 29: 740–770. Peterson, R. A. 1976. The production of culture. London: Sage. Pine II, J. P. and J. H. Gilmore. 1999. The experience economy: Work is theatre & every business a stage. Harvard: Harvard Business School. Plaza, B. 1999. The Guggenheim-Bilbao museum effect: A reply to Maria V. Gomez reflective images: The case of urban regeneration in Glasgow and Bilbao. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 23: 589–592. Plaza, B. 2000a. Evaluating the influence of a large cultural artifact in the attraction of tourism: The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao case. Urban Affairs Review 36: 264–274. Plaza, B. 2000b. Guggenheim museum’s effectiveness to attract tourism. Annals of Tourism Research 27: 1055–1058. Plaza, B. 2006. The return on investment of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 30: 452–467. Pratt, A. C. 1997. The cultural industries production system: A case study of employment change in Britain, 1984–91. Environment and Planning A 29: 1953–1974. Pratt, A. C. 2000. Cultural tourism as an urban cultural industry. A critical appraisal. In Cultural tourism, ed. Interarts, 33–45. Barcelona: Turisme de Catalunya, Diputació de Barcelona. Pratt, A. C. 2004a. Creative clusters: Towards the governance of the creative industries production system? Media International Australia 112: 50–66. Pratt, A. C. 2004b. The cultural economy: A call for spatialized ‘production of culture’ perspectives. International Journal of Cultural Studies 7: 117–128. Pratt, A. C. 2005. Cultural industries and public policy: An oxymoron? International Journal of Cultural Policy 11: 31–44. Pratt, A. C. 2007a. Innovation and creativity. In The sage companion to the city, eds. J. R. Short, P. Hubbard, and T. Hall, 266–297. London: Sage. Pratt, A. C. 2007b. The state of the cultural economy: The rise of the cultural economy and the challenges to cultural policy making. In The urgency of theory, ed. A. Ribeiro, 166–190. Manchester: Carcanet/Gulbenkin Foundation. Pratt, A. C. 2008a. Cultural commodity chains, cultural clusters, or cultural production chains? Growth and Change 39: 95–103. Pratt, A. C. 2008b. Creative cities: The cultural industries and the creative class. Geografiska Annaler: Series B, Human Geography 90: 107–117. Reich, R. B. 2000. The future of success. New York: A. Knopf. Schuster, J. M. D. 1985. Supporting the arts: An international comparative study, Canada, Federal Republic of Germany, France, Italy, Great Britain, Netherlands, Sweden, United States. Washington, DC: Policy and Planning Division, National Endowment for the Arts. Stone, D. 2004. Transfer agents and global networks in the ‘transnationalization’ of policy. Journal of European Public Policy 11: 545–566. Throsby, D. and V. Hollister. 2003. Don’t give up your day job: An economic study of professional artists in Australia. Sydney: Australia Council for the Arts.
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Toepler, S. and A. Zimmer. 2002. Subsidising the arts: Government and the arts in Western Europe and the United States. In Global culture: Media, arts, policy and globalisation, eds. D. Crane, N. Kawashima, and K. Kawasaki, 29–48. London: Routledge. UNCTAD. 2008. The creative economy report. Geneva/New York: UNCTAD/UNDP. UNESCO. 2001. Universal declaration on cultural diversity. Geneva: UNESCO. Wolman, H. L., C. C. Ford, and E. Hill. 1994. Evaluating the success of urban success stories. Urban Studies 31: 835–850.
Chapter 3
Creative Industries Across Cultural Borders: The Case of Video Games in Asia Ted Tschang
Introduction This chapter examines the relationship between culture, economics and policy within the creative industries (which for the purposes of this paper, are assumed to be equivalent to the cultural industries), and their manifestation in Asia. Addressing any one of these three issues is a challenge in itself, but addressing all three of them together raises the complexity even further. Early writers on the “creative economy” have noted how it works differently from the traditional economy (Florida 2002; Howkins 2001).1 Culture is vitally important to understanding how creative industries develop, but the role of culture in shaping national competitive advantage is not that clear. The same can be said for policy, and a discussion of the triad can be quite convoluted. Having said that, all three levels are still very relevant to the proper description of a creative industry – as I will show in this chapter. This paper attempts to address this triad of issues primarily with a productionand-innovation-oriented view of industrial organisation, bringing in creativity, culture and policy where possible. I shall do this primarily through the lens of one sector in particular – the video games industry – in which Asia has been investing heavily lately, and in which Japan has been an early leader. I will also provide a limited focus on the animation sector for comparative purposes. I will first provide a summary of how creative production in video games occurs in the US, followed 1
These works typically suggest that the production economy for technologies and products associated with the industrial age seemed to revolve around economies of scale, but that dominance in the creative age appears to be the result of creativity, specifically, individual creativity. They stop short of characterising this creativity fully. Increasing returns also tend to apply to these types of creative products. This may be because many creative goods face a mass market, and the “hit” that comes from the market “buzz” and the herd mentality of many consumers will cause disproportionate returns to the fortunate product (Caves 2000).
T. Tschang () Lee Kong Chian School of Business, Singapore Management University, 50 Stamford Road, Singapore 178899, Singapore e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_3, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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by an examination of how Asian patterns compare. In particular, I am interested in whether individual and industrial level creativity differs in Asia. Within Asia, more detailed cases of the Chinese online games industry and the Philippine animation industry will be discussed, but relevant observations are also drawn from general knowledge and a literature review of Japan, Korea and Singapore, as well as interviews which corroborate those observations.
What Do We Know About the Economics of Creative Industries? From the Creativity of One to a Production-Based Economy Understanding whether the economics and structure of creative production differs from other industries requires understanding what the nature of creativity is in the creative sectors, and where this creativity is “located.” In some solitary activities such as painting or writing, creativity is obviously located at the individual level. Within the literature on individual creativity, some perspectives hold that individuals are the “products” of society, family and the individual’s life course, and that domains, fields and individual contributions (e.g. rejections of the domain) are important – many of these being social contexts (Csikszentmihalyi 1999; Gardner 1993).2 While creativity in the traditional arts and related sectors is clearly centered around the individual, even in the more recent creative industries such as video games and digital animation, one emphasis, at least in the past, appears to have been on the lead creator as definer of the vision and the eventual product’s design (Tschang and Szczypula 2006). Other critical factors that have appeared to influence the nature of a particular creative industry are: the influence of culture, the mode of production (e.g. the organisation of firms), and the market’s preferences (in particular, in shaping the product’s long term acceptance). Culture exerts a major influence on individual creativity. While the influence of culture on regional variations in contemporary creative industries has not been thoroughly investigated, culture – contemporary, historical and otherwise – is widely understood to shape a nation’s creative industries. Studies of artists, writers and other creative people illustrate that they derive inspiration from exposure to a variety of influences, including domains of study, experiences and so on. Creators in modern industries such as videogames have also been shown to be heavily influenced by popular culture and media (Tschang and Szczypula 2006). Beyond the individual and the group is the firm. The firm, in particular in the form of the studio, continues to be the dominant economic entity as evident in many creative sectors (Epstein 2005). Studios are created to focus solely on creative work, but these are often organised around the singular visions of highly creative lead creators. However, as products such as video games and animated features become 2
These theories have been formulated most often by studies of individuals in the artistic tradition, although political leaders (e.g. Gandhi), academics (e.g. Freud) and others have also been explained in frameworks such as Gardner’s (1993).
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ever larger and more complex, the project form, and ever larger teams are needed to implement the work (Grabher 2002; Tschang 2007).3 In fact, the maturing of the video games industry has been accompanied by ‘Taylorist’ concerns, i.e. the attention to process management, optimisation and profit concerns (Tschang 2005, 2007). Thus, while the studio would appear to pride itself on creativity, oftentimes, as witnessed in Hollywood and the US video games industry, significant financing and attention to market preferences are required, and these will tend to influence studios more conservatively (Epstein 2005; Tschang 2007). In fact, early findings from research into the Chinese online game industry suggest that the mode of organising production in Asian societies appears to be no different from those in Western ones (Tschang and Tsang 2006).4 Despite the evident influence of individual creativity on a product’s innovativeness, the mass market and its preferences appears to influence the long term viability of a particular form of creative product. This reflects one perspective in the innovation literature, in which the evolutionary path of many traditional industries shifts from a period of variating designs to the establishment by the market of a dominant design embodying a specific architecture (Utterback 1994). This is followed by a period of incremental innovations, where the objective tends to be one of cost-minimisation, until such time as a new technological discontinuity appears. While creative industries would appear in theory to be free of such “design” domination, in reality, at least in the film and videogame industries, the need to appeal to the mass market does end up establishing certain genres as entertainment norms (Epstein 2005; Tschang 2007). The increasing cost of producing these contentbased products is reaching a point where the largest enterprises (those with the financial ‘muscle’) are mainly interested in producing a few, high quality “safe” products, rather than a range of creative products. One example is Electronic Arts, which has tended to focus on the production of “movie quality” and “movie-based content” games over the last few years. While markets for technology continue to be fairly traditional in behaviour (i.e. consumers tending to accept a few limited varieties of a particular product), the Internet offers a starkly contrasting model for how content can be produced and distributed. This began partly with the dotcom bubble, as the increasing use of the Internet to host, deliver and manage applications, entertainment and commerce led to two major changes. Both can be said to run counter to the mass production
3
However, even in teams, lead individuals (e.g. directors of films or lead designers of videogames) still have very critical roles in bringing their individual visions and experiences to the leadership of teams and projects. At the same time, in products such as video games, individual team members may make substantive contributions in brainstorming sessions as well as in individual work by adding content detail, detailing the design, and so on. Thus, in a modern industrial setting, it is neither individual nor team, neither lead individual nor team member, but all, that contribute to the creative work. This is important as it nuances the notion of project networks and project work that scholars like Grabher have asserted. 4 Based on interviews with online game company leaders by author and S. Tsang in Beijing, May 2006. Other outsourcing-based industries such as the Philippines’ animation sector have also been found to be just as much about process management and division of labor as anything else.
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paradigm. The first phenomenon – popularly known as the “long tail” (Anderson 2006) – is the emergence of niche markets by way of the increasing ability to distribute greater varieties of content. The long tail is related to the second phenomena – the increase in user-created content, much of it also happening on the World Wide Web. One example of this alternative form of production is the “garage” form of informal creative activity (e.g. Jenkins 2003). These trends have forced existing firms to respond with very different strategies.5 In the US, the dotcom bubble of the late 1990s was followed by the rush of social networking sites and online games in the early 2000s, both of which included some degree of user-led personalisation of content and websites. However, it is in the increasing use of the Internet to distributed user-created content that we are starting to see a broader sense of creativity at work. This in a way has reached its epoch in virtual worlds such as Second Life, where most of the content (consisting of art, animation behaviours and even “cultures”) is created by users, albeit a small proportion of them. This exploitation of technology for production purposes is also starting to take hold in China and Asia, at least in fits and starts. In China for instance, massively multiplayer online game (MMOG) and virtual world operators are starting to proliferate, even while many online game studios continue to try to improve their production processes. In animation, some studios in the Philippines for instance are training staff in the use of Flash technology – a way of producing animation that is cheaper, and which reduces the scale of the effort.6
Creative Industry Production in Asia Keeping this general Western creative industrial trajectory in perspective, I will now turn to an examination of the factors influencing creative production in Asia. This historical overview is comprised of selected creative sectors that have found international prominence. Across Asia, the tendencies in most economies have been first, to allow creative production to flourish in whichever way possible, and later, to support the private sector as it develops. However, most of the private sector trend appears at one level to be the serendipitous result of almost accidental forays, followed by production in search of ever larger profits.
5
“Mass market” producers like George Lucas already tap into this digitalization of content, and Lucas has sought to move away from the 100 million dollar film model into the multi-channel multi-product content form. While most home spun efforts in the past were of poor quality, the capability of software to model visual as well as audio patterns is increasing rapidly, allowing not only some “garage” efforts (e.g. music) to attain quality as high as commercial ones, but also giving commercial houses such as Lucas Film the ability to revisit their production capability and to develop “digital economies of scope” (http://www.longtail.com/). 6 Authors’ interviews with Top Draw and PASI in Manila, 2005.
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We can analyse more systematically the state of creative industries in Asia by examining where they lie along two axes: (a) market orientation (domestic and export); and (b) the development lifecycle of creative goods – consisting of the stages of conceptualisation, design and pre-production, production, and postproduction. Generally, the earlier stages (i.e. conceptualisation) of the development lifecycle are the most creative. It appears that the following trends are present in many Asian settings. Some countries have done the full development lifecycle, initially for the domestic market, and followed by export, e.g. the Japanese and Korean animation and video game industries. Other countries have gone into the full development lifecycle mainly for the domestic market, e.g. the Chinese online games and animation industries, but are starting to export as well. It is rarer to see the full development lifecycle model used for export markets – the Singapore- India production of Sing to the Dawn being an example of this. Finally, one common model has been the export-only model, involving outsourcing or offshoring for the production stage. In animation, the Philippines, India and Singapore animation industries (and parts of the Japanese, Korean and Chinese industries) are heavily focused on exports. Selected game companies (e.g. in China) also engage purely in exports, but tend to do this for the full development cycle. We can analyse these trends as a series of overlapping “stages” of industrial development across the region. The First Wave – Games and Animation in Japan: Japanese animation has long had domestic roots in the comic manga tradition, and foreign influences (e.g. the animator Tezuka drawing on influences from Disney) (Aoyama and Izushi 2003). Japan eventually also developed an offshore animation capability for the US; Korea and the Philippines later followed Japanese animation in becoming offshore locations for US animation production (Lent 2000). Many Asian countries actually had animation roots as early as Japan’s (e.g. China’s predated Japan’s with productions as early as 1941), but the Japanese domestic market for animation blossomed before the others (or some others’ markets never did), as did Japan’s gaming market. The Japanese video game industry began in the mid-1970s, partly in order to address the need for coin-operated video games in Japan, as well as for the US, but eventually blossomed into its own, especially with the development of Nintendo’s hallmark Famicon console in 1983, as well as later ones by Sega and Sony. It is quite likely that the producers’ control over the hardware is what allowed them to develop more unique games of their own over time.7 The Second Wave – Animation Outsourcing: As noted earlier, many Asian animation companies had focused on exports since the 1960s, sometimes after they started servicing their own domestic markets. This is partly a consequence of the business and economic growth-led nature of industrial development in Asia.
7
Even today, console makers tend to focus on definitive titles to show off the capabilities and unique content of their machines. Witness the Sony Playstation 3’s arrival with Resistance: The Fall of Man and the X-Box’s Halo series.
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In most parts of Asia, and especially East Asia, exports have been the major source of economic growth over the last 2 or more decades.8 While animation companies in Korea, the Philippines, Japan and other countries quickly turned to exports when they were first started, foreign animation producers also often led the way by establishing their own studios (Lent 2000). In the Philippines alone, early companies were set up as offshore subsidiaries of Warner, Disney, Hanna Barbera and other major US animation studios, along with domestically-owned studies that serviced the international market. The recent near world-wide interest in creative industries, coupled with these early successes, has led to government interest in supporting this trend. In Asia, this includes India, China and Singapore, as well as resurgent interest in the Philippines. It has been proven that the cultural nature of content is no barrier to a country’s production of animation – even in languages that are not native to those countries: the Japanese firm Toei’s subsidiary in the Philippines and the Korean animation of The Simpsons being two such examples. The outsourcing of animation has been facilitated by the codification of production stage processes. Typically, the conceptualisation and pre-production stages (which tend to be the most creative and tacit), and post-production, are kept in the “home” market. One case in point of a successful transfer of production and its associated technique, was Kanbar studios’ production of Hoodwinked, a full length animated three-dimensional (3D) feature (where 3D was supposedly an advanced form of animation). All of the production work was done in the Philippines (much of which was entirely hidden in the onscreen credits), but the financing and much of the creative work (including conceptualization and story) were kept in Hollywood. The instability (i.e. a past boom and bust cycle) of the animation industry in the Philippines as well as in India has not stopped the Philippines government, let alone other countries, from continuing to push for more growth in animation (outsourcing) exports (Tschang and Goldstein 2004). Singapore is only the latest to do so, with the government’s success at attracting Lucas Arts being one of the more well known cases. The Third Wave – New Entrants in Online Gaming: The rise of the new online gaming culture in Asia is a new trend that can be credited to Korea’s movement into online games. While online games originated in the US, Korean gaming interest took on a new dimension. Korea had installed a sophisticated broadband network (partly due to the dotcom bubble), along with gaming cybercafés and an active public interest in gaming. Korea’s interest in online gaming can be traced back to the country’s stimulation by real time strategy games played over cybercafés’ local area networks, namely, multiplayer games like (the US studio) Blizzard’s Starcraft games. The Chinese online games industry started partly because of the Korean influence, but the real imperative came from piracy. The domestic pirating of PC games
8
Export-led production in the electronics sector proved a clear path for industrialisation, as experiences in first, Japan, then Singapore, Taiwan, Hong Kong and Korea, followed by China and the rest of Southeast Asia, have shown.
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in China was so widespread that it devastated local PC game producers (in addition to its effects on foreign products). Unlike foreign imports, which had the advantage of stable home markets, the Chinese PC game makers, with their focus on their domestic market, could not make much return from their product (Tschang and Tsang 2006). When the earliest online games made their way into China from Taiwan, and later, Korea, Chinese PC game makers learnt that online games were vastly more profitable, in part because copying was nearly impossible (given that the source code and the content resided on the company’s servers, as opposed to single player PC games). Much like in Korea, the market was stimulated by early play of online games in cyber cafes. The result of this demonstration was a staggering increase in Chinese online game production, rivaling that seen in Korea and the US, but one also associated with a precipitous decline in domestic titles for single player PC games. By the early 2000s, the more mature, sophisticated Korean products managed to capture 70% or more of the Chinese market. The Chinese government has sought to redress this with policies, and the strong state protectionist policy, in conjunction with the rise of domestic firms’ capabilities to produce products with domestic content (e.g. historical themes and myths) and other domestically-desirable features of games, appears to be having the desired effect. The recent marketshare of Chinese games has now gone up to 70–80%, and of the top 15 games, all but 6 were domestic in origin (Tschang and Tsang 2008). The overall Chinese online games market itself was approximately 2 billion USD at the end of 2007 and expected to grow to 6 billion by 2012 (Takahashi 2008). Thus, to a large degree, the Chinese industry is playing catch up with the more established Korean companies, with a fair amount of success.
Characterising the Asian Industries’ Creativity: Imitation Keeping in mind the multi-level nature of the above inquest, we will now consider how creativity is shaped at the individual, firm and industrial levels. Imitation has been a standard means of catching up, but imitation has its own internal rationale. I will follow this with an examination of the leading edge of creativity. Ultimately, production for the domestic market has been one important way in which designers in industries such as games and animation have managed to distinguish themselves internationally (Tschang 2007; for a counterexample, see Tschang and Goldstein 2004). However, this does not recognise the difficulty of producing unique but globally-saleable cultural content. Many Asian countries initially climbed the ladder of industrial development – in traditional and creative industries alike – through imitation. This has sometimes occurred as the result of direct production for export markets (see Table 1), or may have been a process of “getting a foot in the door”, i.e. learning how to produce. Regardless of the initial motivation, the continuance of an imitative state is what interests us here, as this suggests a type of “path dependency”, or lock-in to historical patterns.
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T. Tschang Table 1 Market orientation versus production life cycle stage for various Asian countries’ creative industries
Production stage
Market orientation
Full production (including conceptualization stage)
Production stage only (no conceptualization or final stages)
Domestic market
Export market
Japan, Korea games Japan animation Korea animation
Singapore-India animation co-production
Chinese games
(new firms do exports) Philippines, India animation
According to interviews conducted by Tschang and Tsang in 2006 in the mobile content and online video game sectors, many Chinese content providers are imitative of domestic or international competitors, this despite the large number of mobile content providers in China. While the imitative state of production-stage led exports is obvious, the rationale for domestic industries is not so clear at first. We will look at the case of China, latecomer as it is to these industries. There are at least four possible reasons for its imitative nature. (All this is not to say that there are no innovations in China, but these tend to be far fewer in number.) The first reason for the imitative trend in China’s online games industry is that it may be the result of the industry’s focus on catching up with imports (specifically, Korean ones that had set the standard for gameplay and other aspects of quality). There is a certain amount of lock-in when the players and designers (who are also players) are exposed to particular influences, e.g. a certain platform or style of gameplay (e.g. massively multiplayer online games), which further constrains breakthrough innovations. This is true of the US market as well (Tschang 2007). A second reason for the imitative behaviour of the market in China is the generally conservative nature of markets. Game playing consumers have proven to be somewhat conservative in countries such as the US, and have influenced game developers (Tschang 2007). The same situation might be expected in China. Certainly the success that many online game makers have in trying to produce similar types of products with similar content is indicative of the mass market tastes that exist. A third possible reason is the general lack of a social process for developing creative individuals or workforces. This especially bedevils fast developing markets like China and Singapore. Developing a popular culture, let alone one that is amenable to translation into game and animation content (e.g. back stories or
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characters) takes on the order of decades – this is perhaps a longer period than bureaucrats who focus on planning for concrete short- and medium-term targets – have. In China’s case, the relatively short period of modern economic and societal transformation may not have created enough “matter”, and so game developers focus on reusing the long historical cultural tradition that China already has.9 Many Chinese online games primarily innovated on this content (though game play tends not to be so much a differentiator in online games, since the latter tends to rely on a limited number of modes of social interaction). This in itself can be considered a type of innovation, and helps provide a cultural uniqueness to the product. The last but perhaps most important reason is the profit motive of company leadership. Innovation is hard, and many smaller companies want, or only know how, to imitate, so as to be a successful “quick follower” or “first mover into a new market”. One business leader whom we interviewed from a Chinese firm which created online casual games noted that he imitated successful games because they had been proven to work, and so long as he was first to bring these to the (domestic) market, he saw no reason to invest in new innovations. Even today, when Korean innovations come into China and show that “casual” online games such as Maple Story, with cuter characters and other content (itself possibly derived from Japanese popular culture) could sell well, Chinese companies are quick to follow with their own versions, albeit with Chinese content. With their business designs, many Chinese firms tend to focus on capturing the existing market by changing content while maintaining the basic game design. This reflects the observation that content changes are easier and less risky than creating new game designs (Tschang 2005). Imitation may not be such a critical problem if it involves being the first to produce a product (that is imitated from a foreign one) for one’s own market. This was especially important to China as the feeling was that localising content was an “innovation” in itself. This business-like attitude became a resonant theme throughout the industry, and indeed, many successful early online game operators were started by businessmen coming in to the industry with non-gaming backgrounds but who had achieved success through their business acumen in more traditional areas such as property and software. Examples of these companies include Kingsoft, Sohu and Shanda. This trend towards imitation is not so different in other countries. Korean online games have also taken root across the world, although since the early products, Korean online games have become increasingly derivative. This is not surprising, given that the same trend towards a dominant design exists in the US. This is as much a function of what the mass market wants as it is a function of the increasing scale and cost of production, which makes these products increasingly costly to finance, and therefore, risky to innovate on. A proper venture capital scheme has yet to be invented for the creative industries.
9
Ancient periods of war and lawlessness as well as myths were especially popular in the first few waves of online games.
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What Differentiates Creative Industries? Creativity, Culture and Adaptation In prospecting the role of creative industries in economic development, the natural objective would be to have the capability to develop one’s own “branded” products, i.e. the opportunity to conceive of native products with a global standing. Four factors might influence the creativity within a given country’s creative industry’s development: individual creativity as expressed in its highest (most creative) manner; national culture as a part of this expression of creativity; the strategies of firms in “managing” this creativity; and the influence of the state in encouraging this development.
The Nature of Great Creativity At the highest level, creativity should involve great acts by (so-called) great individuals. In the most advanced markets, designers and other creative people have developed unique identities, and in the process, also helped their industries to develop an international identity. This is nowhere more true than in the Japanese industries, where the top lead designers and animators are known throughout the world for the creativity and quality of their work. Examples of such great creators include Japanese video game designers Shigeru Miyamoto of Mario fame (Nintendo), Hironobu Sakaguchi of Final Fantasy fame, the creator of the rhythm (music) game genre Masaya Matsuura, and the animator Hayao Miyazaki (see for example Baba and Tschang 2001). These creators have emerged as top designers or animation artists by not only nurturing the spark of individual creativity, but also by their situation in a unique culture, and by the fostering of their vision within the efforts of larger organisations. While early Japanese game companies (such as Namco, Sega and Nintendo) and individual designers alike may have initially worked on exports or derivative products, over time, the domestic market became a main source of demand for many of them, creating the opportunity for the uniqueness of their talent to take form. At the same time, a large part of Japan’s success derives from the cultural uniqueness of Japan, as well as the ability and willingness of the Japanese to blend their own culture with global influences (where the uniqueness of Japanese culture occurs in both historical and futuristic forms). This analysis of the creativity of creators can be complemented by an examination of how great acts of creativity are reflected in the products of creative industries, and whether the Asian experience reflects this. The creative industries are at their heart defined by products, and the most creative products are based on the ideas (i.e. ‘acts’) of single individuals. There is a stored history of how to define innovation in products. Traditional innovations, especially technological innovations, are often defined as consisting of either product and/or process innovations. By breaking down creative industry products into their different constituents, we
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see an alternative picture of their development. Specifically, as shown in Tschang (2007), videogames are known to consist of: 1. Design (in terms of gameplay) 2. Content (consisting of art, animation and stories) and 3. Technological innovations In contrast, animation, like film, consists almost entirely of content innovations (although technological innovations have also helped in creating the 3D animation form). What does it take to produce innovations in at least one of these constituents of a video game? Again, because of the mixture of technology, content and design involved, it is arguably necessary for creative industries to have depth and breadth in the domains related to the respective constituents. For content, this involves being steeped in or having access to culture (including national and popular cultures, preferably globally accessible in nature). In the case of (game) design, it has included the need to have broad familiarity with a variety of games and their design (e.g. board games), and a broader sense of play. While Western designers have certainly succeeded in (occasionally) producing innovative products, the success of the Japanese and even individual game studios in smaller countries like the Czech Republic or Denmark has proven that no country has a lack of creative talent. However, with the exception of Japan, hardly any stars have appeared in other Asian countries so far. In most other Asian countries however, there is no “stardom” as yet attached to lead positions, although this is partly a function of there being no definitive products or content. At the same time, there is perhaps no “culture” of having a “lead designer” who is a visionary of sorts. Experience and opportunities (to gain experience) may also be a fundamental issue in this. In China, creative thinking ability is as great as in any other culture. When we asked a Chinese designer/project head to describe and compare the nature of videogames by their creativity, he noted that they had brainstormed many ideas including at least one that, unbeknownst to them, was similar to a leading American designer’s newest design.10 However, if we broaden the notion of creativity to include the capability to provide the complete details and implementation of an idea, this is where the experience and background of a great designer like Will Wright (the designer of The Sims and Simcity franchises) stands apart. As our interviews with game designers indicate, ideas are “cheap” but what distinguishes successful creative people is the experience and ability that they have to implement their ideas (along with the resources).11 10
A Spore-like idea was mentioned, where Spore is the latest game by Will Wright – acknowledged by many to be one of the most creative US game designers ever, on the order of being a genius in that field. 11 It is also possible that the Chinese designers may have chosen a different implementation from the one that Wright eventually created. It is quite likely that they did not have the access to the dozens of systems and models (each instantiating a set of game mechanics and creating a form of gameplay) that Wright had created and combined in order to implement his vision. It was also mentioned that science fiction, which determines Spore’s form of content, is not a popular context for Chinese gamers.
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While this situation may be because of the relative immaturity of those industries, and the fact that it takes much time and sustained effort (with innovative hits) before one is acknowledged with such status, it is as likely that industrial level forces (e.g. the pressing nature of business and economic needs) may be limiting the exercise of individual creativity. This creativity may also be constrained by “consumption” patterns (e.g. market demand for foreign products), and the creativity may be present but in a different nature (i.e. the market demand may be ethnocentric in nature). Perhaps the most common form of creativity seen in video games is the combining of various constituents (e.g. content or game play) from different or even disparate products or domains into creative products. These domains may include cultural and logical knowledge, amongst others. For instance, putting two genres of games together can lead to a new style of gameplay, albeit one that is not too different from the gameplay of its constituents. The recombination of different domains of knowledge (e.g. from different industries) can lead to even greater innovations. For instance, Masaya Matsuura’s bringing of rap music rhythms into game play changed the style of game play and created a new genre. This novel combination of constituents in creative products has a related form in the notion of convergence. Convergence has been discussed in media, e.g. different forms of media coming together (Jenkins 2003), such as the “mash ups” seen in music and video; in games, e.g. different forms of play and media crossing over (Tschang and Szczypula 2006); and in technology, the convergence of different functions into single devices or platforms. Convergence in media has been helped a great deal by the use of the Internet as a product development and service delivery platform, and the advent of digital forms of media. Most Asian creative industries tend to be heavily specialised in innovating on particular types of products (e.g. online games), or their constituents (e.g. particular forms of cultural content or gameplay). Many are still derivative or at best combinative of the first imports to their domestic markets. While the section “Characterising the Asian Industries’ Creativity: Imitation” suggested some general reasons for this state, the main reason may still be a lack of maturity and experience, that is, the newness of the industries. The long ‘steeping’ of experience which goes into the making of a creative product is as necessary for an individual as it is for the industry. Will Wright did not rise up overnight, and while Matsuura was not a game designer initially, he did not acquire his knowledge of rap music overnight either. This suggests that a period of ‘steeping’ (in cultural environs and otherwise) is necessary to the emergence of a great creator.
Culture: An Industry Differentiator or Lock-In for Industry? Culture has the general potential to create a comparative advantage for content-based creative products across societies. Various cases, including the US and Japanese video game industries, suggest that a bedrock of popular culture is necessary for a
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sophisticated intellectual property creation effort that can reach across global (and even industry) boundaries. The American experience appears to be at one extreme – that of presenting a globally accessible culture which its creative industries have made, and on which they sustain themselves. Hollywood movies have a world-wide following, no less in Asia than in other regions. The US-made online game World of Warcraft (WOW) has become a worldwide phenomenon, with a large proportion of its revenues coming from China. Another sector is animation, where unique historical culture and social perspectives may matter. While it is also possible that digital media like games require less cultural depth because of their interactivity, lesser need for “realism”, and have the potential to be rooted in “interpreted” or derivative (i.e. non-authentic) cultures, some societies still appear to have a higher quotient of science fiction, fantasy and alternative cultural sources to draw upon than others. It can also be argued that there does not necessarily have to be just one universal culture, and that multiple cultures can co-exist. Film and animation are classic sectors where genres or subgenres may also be created based on cultures that are nonAmerican in nature. The consummate example is that of Japanese animation and games becoming a worldwide phenomenon (Aoyama and Izushi 2003). Animation creators such as Hayao Miyazaki have woven Japanese mythology with universal themes to create products that are globally renowned. In general, the Japanese anime and manga industry has managed to successfully create alternative scenarios of the future based on universal themes such as the fate of humanity, the degradation of the environment, and the nexus between humans and machine – each one accepted by global audiences. While these “cultural” products garnered worldwide acceptance, they also often began as locally “consumed” products that were successful in their own right. Sometimes, the domestic market’s interest is not automatically present, but could be seeded by prior exposure.12 In contrast to Japan and to some extent Korea, many developing Asian markets have not yet developed culturally-unique products with a universal appeal. Nor have they created universally-appealing forms of popular culture, be it science fiction, fantasy or alternate reality genres of literature or film, that can be turned into video games and other creative products, let alone a domestic “style” of games or animation. This is true of the two technologically-advanced countries I have examined: China and Singapore. The situation may partly reflect cultural norms, but also the imitative nature of many industries (and possibly size, in the case of Singapore). At the same time, a lack of experience in creating innovations is compounded by the market’s lower desire for such innovative domestic products. What China does have is a deep historical tradition, which like Japan and Korea, provides some advantage in promoting innovation based on content. Thus, most online games in China have adapted conventional gameplay but based it on Chinese content, usually historical in nature. One especially popular theme has been the 12
For instance, while WOW was based on fantasy histories that were not originally familiar to China, the success of the Lord of the Rings films and the widely pirated Warcraft series of single player PC games helped whet the Chinese public’s appetites for WOW.
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Three Kingdoms period of Chinese history where states were at war. On the other hand, while Chinese culture may sell well in countries that neighbour China (e.g. Chinese online games being popular in Vietnam and Taiwan), this does not necessarily carry over to the global market. Other Asian countries’ creative products also appear to be more successful on a regional basis than a global one. For instance, even though Korean games made up 70% of China’s online games market at one point, they did not have as great an appeal internationally. The familiarity that a domestic market may have with a particular constituent of a product, and for the industry as a whole to hone its competency on that constituent, creates the possibility for industries to become locked-in to those particular competencies (or to be locked-out of other, alternative paths). For instance, Japanese animation is focused on anime, and Japan’s weaker performance in online games, compared to Korean and Chinese games, may be as much due to market preferences as any other factor. These are empirical questions and may be worth examining further in the future.
Managing Creativity: Business Strategy as a Form of Creativity It is likely that industry structure can play a role in fostering creativity. In Asia as in the West, large companies may act more as rent-seeking entities than as innovationseeking entities, leading them to be less creative than smaller, entrepreneurial firms. This has been somewhat true in video games, given the conservative nature of the mass markets (Tschang 2007). In fact, in China, many large game companies often operate as “operators” rather than as “product developers”. In a sense then, the intermediaries that are so prevalent in the creative industries are also mediating or controlling innovation in parts of Asia. The question really is whether or not, as in the West, there is still opportunity for highly creative products to come out of the smaller studios and even individuals, and how (or whether) this can be facilitated. The case of China is illustrative. Given its huge online games market, China appears positioned to join other countries in terms of innovativeness. However, the actual evidence is mixed. Smaller, strong and innovative companies are rare in China. Interviews with Chinese firms suggest that they differentiate themselves from one another as much by changing the platform or the revenue model they adopt, or by the way in which they engage consumers, as by the game play itself. Occasionally, a different focus from that of foreign products is developed, such as the focus on the social networking aspects of online games (e.g. ability to form virtual communities within online games). Given this behaviour, as well as their late start, many Chinese companies continue to emulate, and follow a step behind, products from lead markets like Korea or the US. Some of the online game revenue model ‘innovations’ seen in China, such as the “free to play” model of playing and charging for services, also first originated in Korea. In virtual worlds, even though the huge market offers great
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potential to Chinese companies to develop unique and sustainable virtual worlds, companies like Hipihi have basically copied Second Life, and the Chinese government has even licensed Entropia Universe – a Swedish virtual world. Nevertheless, we can characterise some firms’ recent efforts as being that of refining and adapting basic (imported) models of game play and game design towards Chinese consumers’ tastes. In that regard, firms appear to be situating themselves well competitively for the domestic market.
The Role of the State: Policy as Enabler or Augmenter? The final issue to be addressed is that of whether the creativity of creative industries can be enhanced by public policy. The traditional public policy levers that the state possesses includes the financing of education, finance (e.g. public research & development), and infrastructure by public provision.13 One of the most widely acclaimed successes has been Australia’s creation of a sophisticated public system of support for its film industry, but this industrial growth was first nurtured without regards for returns so as to ensure that capabilities took root. We also know that the absence of government support has hurt countries that do not have sufficiently developed infrastructure and institutions. For example, the Philippine government’s financial limitations made it difficult to fund new training programs for its animation industry, with one result being that the industry has fallen behind India’s rising capability in 3D animation. Companies have had to partly meet their new training needs through providing their own training schemes. Given the flurry of activity and heightened expectations around sectors such as animation in the region for generating “creativity-induced growth”, it is worth addressing the prospects for exports to be ‘upgraded’ to more original, domestically produced own brand products. It is important to note that part of this activity reflects a government tendency to stimulate creative industry development in a rapid “developmental” way; whether this is the appropriate path to own-brand products is not clear. Some empirical evidence exists. While some countries like Japan and Korea had started with the outsourcing of production, but climbed successfully into the global distribution of their own brand products based on their own culture and content, others may or may not find their culture as saleable.14 In part, this illustrates the limits of globalisation for certain highly specific or less globalised 13
In the neoclassical economics view, public support of research other than long term public goods research could lead to “technology picking” or moral hazard problems (i.e. artificially propped up firms that do not “deserve” to survive), the experiences of some countries’ publicly supported creative industries is positive. 14 There are other reasons for this. Filipino interviewees generally bemoan the lack of capital, of lead creative talent and the challenge their cultural content faces in being “globally relevant.” Regional relevancy is a lot easier to achieve. In fact, whenever productions in the Philippines or even Singapore require some “high creative” concepts or leadership, this is usually imported in the form of American creative directors.
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cultures. This finding is consistent with that of the software and hardware industries, where even advanced outsourcing industries like India’s generally find it harder to develop their own brand products. In general, it appears that the safe role for policy has been in augmenting, rather than enabling creative industries. However, Asian states have also looked at the applicability of a heavy public investment model to creative industries (following the success of several Asian countries in providing significant public investments in the electronics and other industries). Singapore in particular is pushing this envelope further than any country, and offers an interesting case for further study. Thus far, Singapore has been one of the most forward thinking and strategic countries in trying to develop its creative industries, funding research, development and commercialisation of interactive and digital media technologies by spending a few hundred million US dollars over the first 5 year period. The Singapore government has also promoted content development through the various arts academies, creative thinking skills through nation-wide “creativity” competitions (e.g. essay and storywriting competitions), as well as technology through the funding of research on media technology and its applications. One of the latest initiatives of the Singapore government is an incubation process that will bring technology and ideas together. However, this effort is focused on bringing different parties together to collaborate. The question is whether promoting all these ideas in separate settings and having teams come together in a somewhat forced way (i.e. based on the availability of funds over a short period of time) will yield the kind of integrated innovation that single designers have been able to come up with in the US, Japan and other places made over longer periods of time, and under more ‘natural’ circumstances. It is also worth reminding ourselves how highly creative results have come about in the past – from highly creative minds. At its base, creative video games have been shown to involve the integrated application of cultural content, technology and design, all based on a bedrock of creative thinking skills, cultural knowledge and domain expertise in design, sometimes crossing domains previously unrelated to games (Tschang 2007). However, in a broader perspective, there is the need for a deep or broad sense of culture in order to build culturally-specific content. Long historical periods may be needed to gestate a traditional “culture”. It is questionable whether policy can address something that needs to be naturally integrative as combinative thinking (i.e. thinking that creates convergence), or something as amorphous and emergent as culture. There is a shortage of such highly creative types, even in the developed countries, where the leading game designers came to know their craft in a particular historical period – one where short and cheap product cycles allowed high levels of experimentation.
Summary Generally as far as the creativity of creative industries is concerned, we see imitative innovation trends in most Asian countries. The various influences that are common between Asia and the West are the nature of market and business interests
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(with larger enterprises being more interested in economic rents than in highly creative products), and the rationalisation of production due to the increasing complexity of products and teams. There are some factors that are unique to Asia, such as the emphasis on exports by companies and government policy alike. This is also partly due to the newness of many Asian industries and how they started (as export bases), as well as the lack of time to develop creative or innovative capacity. This brings us to the most important ingredient for the success of creative industries: the creativity of the people. In a number of countries, especially those with longer historical records or a rich contemporary cultural milieu, the cultural base is deep, which provides the opportunity to innovate by way of content. The issue for some countries may be the “global reach” of these cultures (i.e. their attractiveness to a global audience), as well as any path dependence that deep cultures may have, with producers or consumers being “tied” to those cultures. The question for countries without this base is that of how to build this deeper culture or some other alternative, e.g. a “culture” of technological convergence. This also ties into the creative thinking abilities of the creators themselves. Since Japan and Korea have shown that creative thinking in at least the most creative segment of creators is certainly on par with anywhere else, this suggests that a longer period of cultural gestation is needed, where would-be creators become ‘steeped’ in culture. Public policy may intentionally promote these business-oriented interests. While policy may also attempt to promote the creativity of individuals, its overall effect is not clear. As we have noted, culture, including popular culture, was also not arrived at overnight in almost all cases. Finally, even after putting these in place, and creating successful innovations for the domestic market, we cannot be assured of the global popularity of those products. This speaks to the high cultural specificity, and even serendipitous nature, of creative industry products.
References Anderson, C. 2006. The long tail: Why the future of business is selling less of more. New York: Hyperion. Aoyama, Y. and H. Izushi 2003. Hardware gimmick or cultural innovation? Technological, cultural, and social foundations of the Japanese video game industry. Research Policy 32 (3): 423–444. Baba, Y. and F.T. Tschang. 2001. Product development in Japanese TV game software: The case of an innovative game. International Journal of Innovation Management 5(4): 487–515. Caves, R.E. 2000. Creative industries: Contracts between art and commerce. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Csikszentmihalyi, M. 1999. Implications of a systems perspective for the study of creativity. In R.J. Sternberg (Ed.), Handbook of creativity. New York: Cambridge University Press. Epstein, E.J. 2005. The big picture: The new logic of money and power in Hollywood. New York: Random House. Florida, R. 2002. The rise of the creative class: And how it’s transforming work, leisure, community and everyday life. New York: Basic Books. Gardner, H. 1993. Creating minds: An anatomy of creativity seen through the lives of Freud, Einstein, Picasso, Stravinsky, Elliot, Graham and Gandhi. New York: Basic Books.
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Grabher, G. 2002. Cool projects, boring institutions: Temporary collaboration in social context. Regional Studies 36(3): 205–214. Howkins, J. 2001. The creative economy: How people make money from ideas. London: Allen Lane. Jenkins, H. 2003. Quentin Tarantino’s star wars? Digital cinema, media convergence and participatory culture. In D. Thorburn and H. Jenkins (Eds.), Rethinking media change. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Lent, A.J. 2000. Animation in Asia: Appropriation, reinterpretation, and adoption or adaptation. http://www.latrobe.edu.au/screeningthepast/firstrelease/fr1100/jlfr11c.htm. Accessed 16 October 2007. Takahashi, D. 2008. Chinese online game market forecast to more than triple in five years, The Industry Standard, 2 April 2008. http://www.thestandard.com/news/2008/05/02/chineseonline-game-market-forecast-more-triple-five-years. Accessed 26 June 2008. Tschang, F.T. 2005. Videogames as interactive experiential products and their manner of development. International Journal of Innovation Management 9(1): 103–131. Tschang, F.T. 2007. Balancing the tensions between rationalization and creativity in the video games industry. Organization Science 18(6): 989–1005. Tschang, F.T. and A. Goldstein. 2004. When do outsourcing and insourcing occur? The case of the animation industry. DRUID Conference. Helsingor, Denmark, July 2004. Tschang, F.T. and J. Szczypula. 2006. Idea creation, constructivism and evolution as key characteristics in the videogame artifact design process. European Management Journal 24(4): 270–287. Tschang, F.T. and S. Tsang. 2006. China’s new media sectors: Domestic culture as competitive advantage? SPRIE/CISTP Conference on Greater China’s Innovative Capabilities: Progress and Challenges. Beijing, May 2006 (Stanford Program on Regions, Innovation and Entrepreneurship). Tschang, F.T. and S. Tsang. 2008. China’s New Media Sectors: Domestic Culture as Competitive Advantage, chapter, Innovation in Greater China, H.S. Rowen, M.G. Hancock and W.F. Miller, (Eds.) Shorenstein APARC (center), Stanford University. Utterback, J.M. 1994. Mastering the dynamics of innovation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Business School Press.
Part II
Creative Clusters
Chapter 4
Spaces of Culture and Economy: Mapping the Cultural-Creative Cluster Landscape Hans Mommaas
Introduction From the 1980s, the stimulation, nourishing or even instrumental creation of culturalcreative clusters has become an important component of both cultural and economic public policy at both the urban and regional level. Cultural functions, from the ‘classical’ performing and visual arts to more contemporary multi-media, leisure and/or design activities, are grouped together in a variety of spatial forms: in new building complexes, renovated industrial and harbour buildings, in quarters and districts. Together, they form part of a broader cultural turn in both urban planning and regional development strategies. However, cultural-creative clustering strategies have often been based on notions not usually made explicit. In particular, there was a fragmented understanding of the role of culture and creativity in the new service economy, and in relation to that, of the economic transformation of cities and regions. This went together with an under-exploration of the transformations the cultural realm itself was going through, from a rather hierarchical and canonical reality, to something much more open and horizontal, but also more commercial. What did this imply for notions of artistic professionalism, the cultural resourcing of artistic creativity, the composition of critical audiences, artistic role models, and the reputation of creative careers? As a consequence, complex questions about the role of culture and the arts in the future economy and in future cities and regions have been left underexplored, thus resulting in the lumping together of different models of artistic, cultural, urban and industrial development. One possible result of this was that the cultural-creative clustering agenda either got stuck in former ‘artisanal’ models of creative communities or was hijacked by more economically oriented industry, ICT, innovation or real estate policy agendas (cf. Cunningham 2004; O’Connor 2007). In either case, an embryonic
J.T. Mommaas () Full professor in Leisure Studies, Tilburg University, Director Telos, Brabant Center for Sustainable Development, Tilburg University, PO box 90153, 5000 LE Tilburg, The Netherlands e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_4, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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understanding of the nature of cultural-creative clusters, together with unclear aims and objectives, produced a lot of distrust among the parties involved. With clustering on the increase, not only as a result of cultural businesses increasingly tending towards a high level of spatial proximity (Scott 2000; Pratt 2004; Schoales 2006), but also as a result of clustering being taken up as a dominant urban/regional cultural/economic development model (Westrick and Rehfeld 2003; Mommaas 2004), the time is ripe to bring some refinement and differentiation into the debate. In this chapter, I will do so by taking a closer look at the field of cultural-creative cluster developments in North-Western Europe (with a detour via the US). At the core will be an attempt to trace the different forms that cultural and creative clusters can take in interrelated cultural, economic and spatial terms; what this implies for cultural-creative clustering development trajectories; and how this might be linked to future cultural/economic development policies. It is important to note that the somewhat clumsily formulated cultural-creative can be read as a purposeful expression of the existing confusion. The blurring lines of discussion and distinction make it difficult to come up with unambiguous terms, or with terms which do not invite definitional discussions. On the one hand, cultural clusters would be too narrow, because it does not take into account the ways in which cultural forms of creativity feed into other creative realms, such as information and communication technology, science and engineering, research and development, and marketing and communication. On the other hand, notions of creative clusters are simply too broad because they do not sufficiently differentiate between different forms of creativity, based on different enabling circumstances. Creative accounting may indeed be very creative but this is miles away from the kind of ‘creative’ environment stimulating artistic productions. To express the kind of midterm reality I want to explore here, I will use the phrase “cultural-creative”. On the one hand, the term expresses the fact that the realm of what formerly could exist as legitimate culture has today become much broader, with cultural dynamics or cultural forms of thinking, exploring and planning feeding into other domains of creativity (economics, science and engineering). On the other hand, it expresses the ongoing necessity to differentiate between different realms of creativity, due to the different spatial, social, cultural and biographical dynamics involved. I will come back to this later.
From Artistic Districts to Cultural Quarters The recent history of cultural-creative clustering strategies is diverse and complex; from the very beginning, a composite field of developments unfolds. A first strategic ‘layer’ of what later came to be known as a cultural clustering strategy can be traced back to initiatives developed in the 1970s and 1980s to create what were then called cultural, art or entertainment districts, as sources of urban regeneration, both in the US and in Europe (see e.g. Wynne 1989; Hannigan 1998). However, there were already then quite different and often opposing models involved.
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A famous and early example, well documented by Sharon Zukin’s (1989) Loft Living, includes the case of downtown Manhatten, where in the 1970s, public regulation alterations enabled artists to establish themselves in lofts in Soho and TriBeCa, using these as combined living and working spaces. The central idea was that the use by the artistic community of these vacant spaces would set in motion a chain of developments, which would make these rundown quarters attractive again for middle class residents and consumers. In the 1980s, this model of the creation of artistic districts for the purpose of revitalising derelict and unsafe downtown areas was taken up by other former industrial cities in the US. Hannigan (1998) points at cases in Tucson, Arizona and Dallas, Texas. In a certain sense, the Soho developments involved an instrumentalisation of an already older, more oppositional ‘artistic community’ and/or ‘urban movement’ model, with its roots both in the US and in Europe. This goes back to the late 1960s and early 1970s, to cases where urban social movements, carried along by groups of ‘marginal gentrifiers’ (Rose 1984) consisting of unemployed graduates, artists, students, squatters, etc. took over underused inner city residential and office spaces. This was done as a form of protest against inner city real estate speculations, the lack of housing, the disuse of existing buildings, the dominant suburban family ethos, or just as an opportunity for cheap accommodation. In the course of events, these inner city spaces were turned into centres of a new urban vibrancy with their lively counter-cultural infrastructure of bars, exhibition spaces, music centres, and festivals. After the uneven suburbanisation of the 1960s, in the process of which middle class families moved away to suburbia and inner cities became the object of a sometimes rather destructive modernist planning, these urban social movements brought public life back onto the inner city streets again. By the late 1970s and early 1980s, with the protest movement growing older (and gaining more purchasing power), but with them retaining their bond to the urban as their ‘natural’ ecosystem or habitat, these inner city cultural quarters gradually became centres of a new middle class based, lifestyle rich urban culture (Featherstone 1987). Almost from the beginning, the ‘artistic district’ model, implicitly building forward not only on the urban social movements of the 1960s and 1970s, but partly through them, also on the legacy of the Parisian art communities of the end of the nineteenth, beginning of the twentieth century (the landscape of the “bohemians”; see Franck 2002), was accompanied by a much broader field of ways in which cultural spaces were used for revitalisation purposes. In many cities, mixed use “centres” rather than artistic districts became the model. Here, the cultural or artistic component was taken up in a broader, multi-functional, public–private mixture of cultural, commercial, residential and retail functions, again developed for urban regeneration purposes. According to Hannigan (1998), the cultural component partly became included for very mundane reasons. It could attract public money, thus lowering the investment costs for developers, but it could also strengthen the attraction value of parts of the city centre. It was not so much the creation of artistic communities that was at stake, but the revitalisation of downtown cultural functions (especially movie, music and drama theatres) as a way to attract the middle classes back to town. Well documented cases include the Baltimore and Boston
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waterfront development projects in the late 1970s, and the Disney-led revitalisation of Manhattan’s 42nd Street in the late 1980s. Mixtures of culture, leisure, retail and entertainment were grouped together in close proximity to one another (from clusters in streets and neighbourhoods to complete inner city malls or urban theme parks) to function as attractions for middle class residents and consumers, thus bringing purchasing power and liveliness back to downtown areas. This model of using culture as part of a broader urban regeneration strategy (both in the form of the creation of artistic working spaces in rundown areas, and in the form of the creation of broader mixed use districts) was from the mid 1980s, rapidly taken up by many cities and regions in Western Europe. Again, the programmes varied widely. Some were bluntly economic or purely promotional, aimed at using culture as an instrument to raise the economic profile of cities or regions. Here, one could point at cases where subsidised institutions were forced to move, in order to create themed cultural environments, next labelled ‘cultural clusters’ or even ‘culture incubator places.’ Others combined economic/promotional targets with broader social and cultural values, also aimed at preserving the built heritage, strengthening the civic identity of cities and thus revitalising inner city public space and identity (e.g. Bianchini 1989; Mommaas and Van der Poel 1989). Whatever the case, these urban regeneration projects implied a broadening of the public cultural agenda, stretching the definition of culture well beyond established pre-electronic, civilising or welfarist notions, to include more technological-cumcommercial forms (e.g. pop-music, festivals, fashion, design, animation) and thus, more components of leisure and entertainment (e.g. retail, going-out, the night-time economy). In addition, this implied a broadening of the ‘urban regime’ (cf. Stone 1989; Stoker and Mossberger 1994) involved in the creation of cultural infrastructures. Where in former times, the development of urban cultural infrastructures leaned very much on public-civic regimes based on public money and subsidy arrangements (with the related contacts and expertise), today this increasingly also involves private parties – thus expanding the developmental network with different kinds of interests and forms of network management. Generally speaking, urban-regeneration-through-cultural-districts projects were primarily aimed at cultural consumption functions, with these functions being instrumental to different sets of economic, social and/or cultural functions. The creation or renovation of exhibition spaces, music and theatre stages, cultural events and festivals was central, often taken up in mixed-use programmes, and also including elements of bars and restaurants, designer shops and art hotels. Famous examples from the late 1980s and early 1990s include the revitalisation of the Temple Bar area in Dublin, the reconstruction of the inner city railway station environment of Lille (in relation to Lille becoming a hub in the north-western European TGV network), the arts-directed urban regeneration of Glasgow (in relation to Glasgow becoming the European City of Culture for the year 1990), and the regeneration of downtown Barcelona (in the context of the 1992 summer Olympics). The model, however, was also applied at less spectacular (although still impressive) scales in numerous other cities, from Lyon to Rotterdam, and from Huddersfield to Bilbao. Bianchini and Landry (1995) denoted these cities, in which culture was used for
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urban regeneration purposes, as ‘creative cities,’ thus introducing a concept which would have its own complicated evolution in the years to come. Alongside the conventional urban regeneration agenda, another more culturaleconomic approach to cultural spaces started to surface rather soon. Here, the interest in culture, the arts and creativity went beyond the conventional urban renewal through culture agenda (Verwijnen 1999). It is not so much the regeneration of urban or industrial quarters through the mixed use of cultural, retail and entertainment functions, situated in sanitised or stylised spaces at stake here, but the creation or stimulation of culture as a new, innovative economic enterprise of its own. With this came the idea of the stimulation of cultural industry quarters, in service of the development of the local cultural economy. In the early 1980s, a cultural industries unit was created within the Greater London Enterprise Board (GLEB) (Bianchini 1987, 1989). The unit was aimed at opening up the cultural landscape of the city, not against but through the market. Noting that most people’s cultural needs were in fact met through the market, and not through the public sector, and looking for ways to strengthen the independent position of ethnic culture, its task was to use enterprise development tools, typical for the commercial sector (from marketing to management and new technology consultancy) for the stimulation of ethnic cultural enterprises. In the London case (where cultural industries policy would not develop properly because the Greater London Council was disbanded in 1986 by the conservative government), the cultural industries approach was still part of a broader urban cultural policy agenda. In the Sheffield case, which started to develop more or less at the same time, the promotion of the local cultural and media industries was taken up as part of a more targeted economic regeneration strategy with the establishment, in 1986, of the Red Tape Studios (a rehearsal, advice and training facility in the field of sound and music) as a first physical example. Part of the Sheffield public strategy was the creation of what was called a cultural industries quarter, an area in which the council owned a large number of buildings, designated to accommodate functions which would support and facilitate cultural economic enterprises. Especially in the 1990s, a whole host of activities became established in the area, from managed cultural working spaces and forms of cultural and economic training to cinemas, live arts centers, exhibition spaces, night clubs and bars. In Manchester in the late 1980s, an increasing interest in the role of the cultural industries in the economic regeneration of the city triggered a study into its functioning (Wynne 1989). The study focused its attention on a part of the inner city, situated somewhat in the shadow of strategic development interests, which was already starting to function as a space where small cultural business established themselves. In the years to come, the Northern Quarter would develop into something labeled as a cultural quarter, housing a broad variety of cultural micro-businesses. In the 1990s, the area formed the basis of a new ‘Creative Industries Development Service’ (CIDS), a local government agency aimed at bringing young enterprises into contact with economic and technological training and support infrastructures. Compared to the Sheffield case, the establishment of a cultural industries quarter in Manchester was not so much the result of a conscious municipal strategy, but the result of a more or less organic growth model, bringing cultural business into spatial
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proximity with one another due to the availability of cheap space, the attractiveness of a common infrastructure of bars, cultural retail and exhibition spaces, the possibility of an informal exchange of information and services, and possibly most important of all, the cultural reputation of the place (the quarter as ‘brand’). The increasing importance attached to the cultural industries as a new source of local/regional economic growth and development in the UK was also taken up at the national level, first in the context of the conservative Thatcher administration (predominantly as a part of the urban regeneration toolbox of so called Urban Development Corporations), and next by the social-democratic Blair administration (but then as part of a more generalised ‘creative industries’ agenda, which we will come back to). At around the same period of time, elsewhere in Western Europe, an interest in the regional or urban economic opportunities linked to the new cultural and media industries was catching up rapidly. A leading example would be the case of NordRhein Westfalen, Germany, which was in former times the cradle of the German industrial economy. Due to the decline of its gigantic steel and coal economy, the region was confronted with the necessity to not only restructure its economy, but also to find a new use for the enormous landscape of heavily polluted derelict steel and coal mills. In 1989, the so-called IBA programme (Internationale Bauaustellung) was founded for a 10 year period of time. Its function was to give form to a new imagination of what could happen with the former ‘brownfield’ sites. Heavily subsidised by the public sector, some 22 industrial plants were redeveloped into new spaces, housing several cultural clusters organised around design, architecture, the media, arts and culture, amongst other things. Here, “Wandel durch Kulturwirtschaft” (transformation through the cultural economy) was the central slogan. The combined function was to give a new use to the derelict industrial landscape, energise the region with a new civic culture and creativity, and develop a new cultural economy. There was hence a mixture of economic and regional regeneration targets. In many ways, both the British and German cases opened up a new layer of cultural clustering strategies. The model was quickly copied, especially in industrial and harbour cities all over Europe, from Rotterdam to Hamburg to Helsinki. What these places had in common was both the necessity to restructure their economic base, the availability of a vast infrastructure of derelict industrial/harbour spaces, and in comparison to established cultural capitals with their established cultural hierarchies, much more openness to electronic, commercial and entertainment culture. This combination of factors made the cultural infrastructure of these cities much more easily available as a new source of economic development. In relation to the first layer of culture-led urban regeneration projects, which were often oriented towards the creation of arts/culture-based consumption spaces, often forming part of a broader consumption-based landscape, these new clusters were much more production-oriented. The central model was the stimulation of small business networks, grouped together in industrial and/or harbour complexes, streets or quarters, where the entrepreneurs involved could not only share a common lifestyle of work and play, but also stimulate each other’s creativity, professionalism
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and reputation, thus also using the cultural identity of the place as a common brand. Some of these cultural industry quarters or clusters developed almost organically, with groups of small cultural entrepreneurs taking over so called ‘ploaps’ (places left over after planning) in former industrial or harbour areas, transforming these into lively cultural-economic communities. However, the model was also increasingly taken up at a more strategic level, with local governments and/or regional development associations consciously creating clusters of cultural working spaces on the basis of varying forms of public–private collaboration.
From Cultural to Creative Clusters: A Generalisation of the Debate In the course of the 1990s, four developments might be distinguished which, because they started to influence one another in many unreflexive ways, made the situation quite complex. First, in the late 1990s, the UK government, in order to denote one of its focal policy sectors, replaced the notion of Cultural Industries with that of Creative Industries. This was either done because it wanted to distinguish itself from the cultural industries policies of the British cities and regions, so as to steer free from complicating political connotations, or because it wanted to make a clear statement about the expansion of the policy field to the entertainment and leisure business. In either case, perhaps rather unwittingly, this opened up a totally new conceptual space, which in the course of time, would go well beyond the policy field it wanted to indicate. This in turn produced a lot of confusion, which would take up a lot of tortuous conceptual energy. Second, a former more concise notion of the ‘creative city’, which, in its original meaning, stood for cities aiming for an arts- and culture-led urban regeneration process, was replaced by a much broader notion, addressing, in the words of the cover of one of the leading publications, “how to think, plan and act creatively in addressing urban issues” (Landry 2000). Although many examples in this text address cultural projects, the creative city concept now tended to imply a city which was run creatively, whether this involved the strengthening of the local cultural infrastructure, the pedestrianisation of the inner city, the stimulation of the night time economy or a more ecologically sustainable collection of waste. Third, Richard Florida’s (2002) The Rise of the Creative Class started to rapidly hegemonize the debate, thus giving a further spin to existing concepts and perspectives. Here, a rather mixed field of forms of creativity, from purely cultural to technological, organizational to economic, was brought together under one conceptual agenda. For the US, this included some 30% of the labour force. The keen marketing strategy with which the message was delivered to the wider world was that cities which wanted to face their future would do well to start and attract the creative class as soon as possible, for example, by strengthening their cultural infrastructure. The message not only delivered an additional twist to notions of the creative city, it also
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turned that notion into something of an ‘expert citation’ (Kong et al. 2006; Gibson and Klocker 2004). It made it rather easy for policy makers and management consultants to jump on the bandwagon, without really investing much time in trying to inform themselves about what was actually being implied or communicated. Hence, ‘creative’ became a catch word, a free-for-all term, without much consideration for the complexities and differentiations involved. The good thing about this was that it produced a wave of attention and enthusiasm across administrations for their local-regional cultural-creative infrastructure, not only from a public participation point of view, but also from a more strategic-developmental perspective. Budgets were made available, sometimes running in millions of euros, and plans were developed to stimulate the creative economy by enhancing the working and living conditions of ‘creative workers.’ On the other hand, the flow of attention had many of the characteristics of a conceptual hype, with all the dangers involved. Last, the increasing popularity of Porter’s general notion of economic business cluster developments (see Porter 1990), in addition to the appearance of various publications about ‘The Creative Economy’ in which this was primarily treated as a copyright and trademark economy (e.g. Howkins 2001), gave the notion of cultural or creative clusters an additional industrial policy twist. In an increasing number of cases, this would turn the sensitive balance between culture and commerce decisively to a business development strategy logic. Three consequences can be distinguished. First, from now on, notions of creative clusters involved a much wider possible field of industries (e.g. including science, engineering and technology based sectors), with a much wider variation of possible innovation-inducing eco-systems. Second, the notion of a cluster started to involve a much wider variation of spatial forms, physical and non-physical, from buildings, streets and quarters to entire interrelated regional economies or even organisationally interlinked global-local networks of collaborating firms, from large conglomerates to small and medium sized firms. Third, cultural clusters increasingly came to be treated as a mere variation of a more general industrial development logic, thus ignoring the intricate and subtle dynamics of the cultural field as such. With the notion of creativity acting as an easy common denominator for a confusingly broad field of connotations, discussions about and strategies for the development of what came to be known increasingly as ‘creative clusters’ started to lose their sense of direction. Less and less people involved in the debates knew what they were talking about. Arguments directed back and forth related to each other like passing ships in the night. In short, the notion of creative clusters became a fuzzy concept. From now on, modeling creative clusters could involve the stimulation of cultural services clusters, the strengthening of regional or national cultural production chains, the creation of Silicon Valley type science and industry parks, small cultural business development strategies, the grouping together of artistic educational facilities, giving old harbour areas or other (industrial) heritage locations a cultural destination, or stimulating one or the other cultural industry sector. This is not to say that cultural cluster policies would not be able to learn something from general business cluster development research, that nothing has changed
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in the relation between the local/regional artistic infrastructure, global culturaleconomic dynamics and the urban environment, or that the only way forward to cultural cluster strategies would be to return to conventional small scale artisanal community conditions. However, in order to understand what has actually changed, we need a more subtle and informed analysis, which does not involve jumping from one extreme, the false romance of the artistic village, to the other, seeing the arts and culture as merely another service industry.
Mapping the Field Hence, we are in need of a few leads in terms of which we can embark on disentangling the conceptual and strategic knot the cultural-creative cluster concept has turned itself into. Overlooking the discursive lines behind the various models of cultural agglomeration, and aiming at something of a three dimensional space within which we would be able to plot those different models, thus being able to differentiate between different ‘landscapes of creativity,’ the following three elements or dimensions assert themselves. Each of them can also be connected to specific (multi-)disciplinary fields of research. It is important to stress that it is best not to treat these three dimensions in isolation from one another; it is only in their interaction that they produce specific cultural-creative eco-systems. In interaction, the elements organise different spaces, inhibiting different dynamics of interrelation. They also call for different public–private support structures, and a different position in the urban conurbation. Together, they bridge something of the separate research lines, along which general cluster research on the one hand and research on cultural clusters on the other have developed themselves, while at the same time keeping a sharp eye on differentiating qualities.
The Role of Culture A first, horizontal element concerns the role and position in the cluster of qualities and values of the cultural, the artistic, aesthetic or symbolic vis-à-vis other (technological, economic, etc.) qualities. Here we might differentiate between clusters which are, for instance, primarily organised around a culture and economy of the ‘autonomous arts’ or the ‘artistic,’ from clusters which function around broader notions of cultural creativity, also including more ‘applied’ or entrepreneurial ones (e.g. design, fashion, the media, leisure and entertainment, cultural tourism or mixtures between them). These again can be differentiated from clusters which go beyond this to other, for instance, technological, scientific or economic notions of creativity. Today, there is ample evidence of the fact that different forms of creativity go together with different financial, professional and lifestyle cultures, with a preference for different kinds of places and environments to live, work and
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socialise. It is not the case that all members of Florida’s ominous ‘creative class’ prefer the conviviality of the inner city. Some groups of more technologically and/or economically-oriented professions disproportionately prefer to live and work in more homogenous suburbs, while more culturally-oriented professions prefer indeed the diversity and small scale informality of inner city cultural infrastructures (e.g. Markussen 2006). As Currid (2007) has made clear in her extensive study of the cultural economy of New York, this can partly be related to the fact that cultural qualities, contrary to purely technological and/or economic ones, are dependent on and driven by taste instead of functional performance. Hence, their success depends on other, non-functional criteria of success and failure, with higher levels of risk, implying a different kind of economy, different support structures, and a higher importance of ‘thick’ socio-cultural environments. In a similar line of thinking, others have pointed at the risky, arbitrary and unpredictable nature of cultural goods, thus addressing the importance not only of qualities of trust, but also of inspiration, reputation, mediation (e.g. Banks et al. 2000; Hesmondhalgh 2002). Especially at the beginning of professional careers, such qualities can only be obtained by positioning oneself in the right places and being in touch with the right people. Hence, it is important to live and work near the right cultural intermediaries in the right sort of environment. Such environments are not only relevant as sources of ideas and contacts, in line with the conventional spill-over hypothesis, and the related importance of qualities of cultural openness and diversity as conditions for experimentation and ideas; they are also important as sources of image and reputation. In addition, Markussen (2006) shows how groups of artists still depend on the (semi-)public infrastructure of artists’ centers, live/work and studio facilities, and smaller performing arts spaces, which, most of the time, can be found in more urbanised centers. Besides all these functionalist factors, there is also the lifestyle element, with groups of cultural entrepreneurs sharing a common cultural space, with its unintended ‘spillover’ of social, political, residential and cultural affinities (O’Connor and Wynne 1996). In conclusion, despite the increasing overlap of culture and technology, with technological products being increasingly dependent on their cultural significance or on more associative forms of knowledge, we still do better to differentiate between various types of clusters, based upon and organised around various types of creativity. Art and culture is not just another service industry. Neither are cultural-creative clusters just another industrial or innovation cluster. Because of their specific economy and culture of creativity, and the specific professional, residential and lifestyle cultures involved, cultural creative clusters stand out as a specific category. Hence, it is important to pay attention to how these unique qualities are embedded within and conditioned upon the functioning of clusters, or how they might productively be linked to other technological and/or economic cluster qualities, without destroying these qualities in the long run.
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Levels of Proximity In accordance with the general innovation and/or regional studies literature, a second dimension might be labeled the dimension of proximity (e.g. Amin and Wilkinson 1999; Boschma 2005). This involves the interrelated question of scale and substance. In the cultural cluster research and planning history, the focus has predominantly been on spatially situated clusters, such as on the level of industrial parks, quarters, districts (e.g. the Manchester Northern Quarter, the Amsterdam Westergasfabriek, Helsinki’s Cable Factory, Essen’s Zeche Zollverein). However, as the innovation literature and detailed studies into the functioning of cultural clusters make clear, co-location and co-production are not the same thing. On the one hand, functions can be co-located in a common space, due to locational qualities such as cheap subsidised facilities and a local strategic cultural policy for instance, but not developing much organisational interaction or collaboration. On the other hand, co-producers, working on a common project, may have a thick organisational interaction without joining a common physical space. Hence, local-global organisational and spatial forms of proximity are interrelated in complex ways, a notion which, so far, has not received much attention from the cultural cluster literature. As soon as we become aware of this, however, a productive field of research opens itself. In its kernel, this is about the optimal interaction and co-evolution of spatial and organisational forms of proximity in order to produce sustainable cultural creative clusters. On the one hand, as indicated above, art and culture seem to profit from specific spatial forms of proximity; cultural inspiration, enthusiasm, learning, reputation seem to thrive on spatial context, especially in developing markets and careers. On the other hand, there is always the danger of a lock-in situation, especially when markets and careers are maturing. Hence, it is important to keep long-distance contacts open enabling linkages with new knowledge, new ideas and new markets. In doing so, local spatial and long-distance organisational proximity do not necessarily need to be in conflict with one another. On the contrary, in various ways, strong local cultural districts often prove to function as interesting jumping boards for global careers (e.g. Currid 2007). As Oerlemans and Meeus (2005) have made clear, various dimensions of proximity often act as complements rather than substitutes in effecting the performance of firms and clusters. A strong regional innovation and production milieu works as an interesting breeding ground for new initiatives due to the availability of markets and resources, the organisation of tacit knowledge, and the building up of reputations. At the same time, however, at a later stage, strong regional clusters might start to lock cultural producers into the regional culture and economy, thus restricting career moves, or stifling knowledge exchange. Hence, there are complex questions about how local and non-local forms of proximity, both at the level of clusters and at the level of face-to-face interactions, relate to one another, amongst others depending on the developmental stage a cluster and its participants are in (e.g. Oerlemans et al. 2007). In sum, the element of proximity introduces a new set of questions into the domain of cultural creative clusters. Generally, these questions have to do with the scale, the quality, the interaction and the co-evolution of different dimensions
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of proximity of clusters. This opens the door for an awareness of the different scales upon which clusters can be found and operate. They may operate at the level of building complexes or quarters/districts, such as in the case of the Manchester Northern Quarter, the Amsterdam Westergasfabriek or the Helsinki cable factory. Or they might include entire cities or regions, such as in the case of the media/entertainment cluster of Hamburg, the fashion cluster of Antwerp, the architectural cluster of Rotterdam. In addition, even thick transnational networks might be considered as clusters. How large or small, close or open, local or global, are clusters in terms of these proximity dimensions? How do these qualities support or hinder one another over time? Is there some awareness of these interactions and coevolutions in clusters? How do we keep the interaction sustainable towards the future? How are insights about this taken up in productive forms of cluster management?
The Political-Economic Landscape The last dimension I would like to propose concerns what might be called the political-economic setting of cultural creative clusters. This is about the economic/ cultural value networks that clusters are embedded in and through which they organise themselves, and how these value networks relate to both the dominant professional cultures within clusters, the careers of involved public–private participants, and the way clusters are embedded in their wider public–private environment. Cultural-creative clusters differ not only in terms of their cultural programme and in terms of the various spatial and organisation scales they operate upon, they also differ in terms of the institutional landscape they are embedded in. Some clusters are government-led and rely heavily on public money, both in terms of the investment in and exploitation of working spaces, and in terms of the organisation of expertise and the support structures implied. This takes them into the public realm of arts and culture, and of education and science, with their specific value networks. Others are much more market-oriented or part of a market-oriented regional economic or industrial policy (e.g. design and technology, media and entertainment), something which might take them into the realm of science and engineering, real estate development, urban regeneration, and the leisure and entertainment market. Depending on the specific institutional landscapes or the political-economic regimes from which they are a part of, clusters may not only have a different political-economy of their own, they may also have a different relationship to their environment. This invites different kinds of involvement and investment, attracting a different kind of cultural workers, thus also influencing their future evolutionary trajectory. This political-economic dimension becomes more important as regional-national governments increasingly try to use the arts and culture as vehicles of regionalnational economic development. According to Markussen (2006), the public agendas of artists as a group still cannot be conflated with neoliberal urban political regimes. Artists as a group have an ambivalent if not full-blown critical attitude towards policies which simply instrumentalise artistic spaces and organisations for urban
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redevelopment purposes. Others, such as Currid (2007), not only claim an increasing importance of art and culture in stimulating economic growth. In addition, they claim an increasing importance of stronger interrelations between different art and cultural settings, not only transdisciplinary, but also transsectorally, linking the conventional arts and culture infrastructure to the field of cultural enterprises. In many cases, cultural creative development policies are still experiencing difficulties in finding a productive interaction between cultural and economic policy structures and cultures. Both are captured in their own developmental regime, with specific interests, expectations and professional values involved. Bringing them together in mixed cultural-creative cluster environments is still proving to be difficult, with projects either getting locked in to the subsidy regime, or losing touch with the broader urban cultural infrastructure. Hence, given the recent history of western arts and culture policies, and of industrial policies, cultural-creative clusters are based differently in their public–private environment. This not only goes with a different kind of financial and developmental regime, with the specific goals and values involved, it can also possibly go with a different kind of cultural professionalism, with a different outlook on and evaluation of the relevance of the arts and culture. This still proves to be a tension filled situation, especially when governments start to use their conventional arts and culture infrastructure to stimulate the local/regional cultural-creative economy.
Conclusion In this chapter, an attempt has been made to shed some light on the complex history and current situation with regard to so-called cultural-creative clusters, both in the field of research and in the field or urban/regional planning and development. This was done using two perspectives: one historical and one conceptual. The first perspective included a disentangling of the complex discursive history of notions of cultural/creative districts/quarters/clusters and the wider ‘story-lines’ they have been a part of (cultural/creative industries/economies/cities/classes). Two lines overlap and interact. One concerns a replacement of the cultural for the creative, thus moving away from the established arts and culture perspective, to include a broader, partly commercial, field of cultural-creative working and thinking. However, almost at the same time, notions of the creative started to be stretched up to include multiple forms of creativity, from cultural to technological to economic ones. Next, as part of the popularisation of Florida’s Rise of the Creative Class, the two lines of thinking became mixed up in complicating ways, thus producing a lot of confusion and distrust, with the cultural-creative agenda being hijacked by a wider urban/regional economic/industrial development agenda. This chapter can be seen as part of recent attempts to hearken back to what the notion of the culturalcreative was originally meant to imply. This involves tracing back the intrinsic character, quality and dynamics of the cultural infrastructure, and at the same time
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bringing that in touch with new insights from innovation, regional and organisation studies. Second, I have developed something of a three dimensional space in terms of which we can start to upgrade and differentiate our current thinking about cultural-creative clusters and/or milieux. Clusters or milieux might be differentiated in terms of: (a) The quality and role of the cultural within them (b) The scale and substance of relations of proximity and distance on which they operate (c) Their political-economic characteristics (i.e. the public–private character of the value networks in which they operate). Plotting types of cultural-creative clusters within this three dimensional space would involve distinguishing between different cultural agglomeration models, running from the ‘traditional’ spatially-concentrated arts community on one extreme, to the regional clustering of cultural industry-related value chains or theme park type leisure and entertainment infrastructures on the other. Each of these types of cultural agglomeration would involve a different relation to the local-global environment, a different relation to the public and/or private institutional context, different developmental paths, different stimulation policies, and last but not least, a different set of evaluation factors. As such, the model might allow a more subtle understanding of distinctive culturalcreative agglomeration strategies, calling for different cultural industry development approaches, with distinctive sets of partnerships, and a more fine-grained strengthening of types of related professional cultures.
References Amin, A., and F. Wilkinson. 1999. Learning, proximity and industrial performance: An introduction. Cambridge Journal of Economics 23: 121–125. Banks, M., A. Lovatt, J. O’Connor, and C. Raffo. 2000. Risk and trust in the cultural industries. Geoforum 31: 444–464. Bianchini, F. 1987. GLC/RIP cultural policies in London, 1981–1986. New Formations 1: 103–117. Bianchini, F. 1989. Cultural policy and urban social movements. The response of the ‘New Left’ in Rome (1976–85) and London (1981–86). In Leisure and urban processes, eds. P. Bramham, I. Henry, H. Mommaas, and H. van der Poel, 18–47. London: Routledge. Bianchini, F. and C. Landry. 1995. The creative city. London: Demos. Boschma, R.A. 2005. Role of proximity in interaction and performance: Conceptual and empirical challenges. Regional Studies 39(1): 41–45. Cunningham, S. 2004. The creative industries after cultural policy. International Journal of Cultural Studies 7(1): 105–115. Currid, E. 2007. The warhol economy. How fashion, art & music drive New York City. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Featherstone, M. 1987. Lifestyle and consumer culture. In Everyday life: Leisure and culture, ed. E. Meijer, 157–168. The Netherlands: Tilburg University, Department of Leisure Studies. Florida, R. 2002. The rise of the creative class. New York: Routledge.
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Franck, D. 2002. The bohemians. The birth of modern art Paris 1900–1930. London: Phoenix. Gibson, C. and N. Klocker. 2004. Academic publishing as ‘creative’ industry, and recent discourses of ‘creative economies.’ Some critical reflections. Area 36(4): 423–434. Hannigan, J. 1998. Fantasy city: Pleasure and profit in the postmodern metropolis. New York: Routledge. Hesmondhalgh, D. 2002. The cultural industries. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Howkins, J. 2001. The creative economy. London: Penguin. Kong, L., C. Gibson, L. Khoo, and A. Semple. 2006. Knowledge of the creative economy: Towards a relational geography of diffusion and adaptation in Asia. Asia Pacific Viewpoint 47(2): 173–194. Landry, C. 2000. The creative city. London: Comedia. Markussen, A. 2006. Urban development and the politics of a creative class: Evidence from a study of artists. Environment and Planning A 38: 1921–1940. Mommaas, H. 2004. Cultural clusters and the post-industrial city. Urban Studies 41(3): 507–532. Mommaas, H. and H. van der Poel. 1989. Changes in economy, politics and lifestyles: An essay on the restructuring of urban leisure. In Leisure and urban processes, eds. P. Bramham, I. Henry, H. Mommaas, and H. van der Poel, 254–277. London: Routledge. O’Connor, J. 2007. The cultural and creative industries: A review of the literature. London: Arts Council England – Creative Partnerships. O’Connor, J. and D. Wynne (Eds.). 1996. From the margins to the centre. Cultural production and consumption in the postmodern city. London: Ashgate. Oerlemans, L., M. Meeus, and P. Kenis. 2007. Regional innovation networks. In The learning region. Foundations, state of the art, future, eds. R. Rutten and F. Boekema, 160–184. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Oerlemans, L. A. G. and M. T. H. Meeus. 2005. Do organizational and spatial proximity impact on firm performance? Regional Studies 39(1): 89–104. Pratt, A. C. 2004. The cultural economy: A call for spatialised production of culture perspectives. International Journal of Cultural Studies 7(1): 117–128. Porter, M. E. 1990. The competitive advantage of nations. Basingstoke: MacMillan. Rose, D. 1984. Rethinking gentrification: Beyond the uneven development of Marxist urban theory. Environment and Planning D, Society and Space 1: 47–74. Schoales, J. 2006. Alpha clusters: Creative innovation in local economies. Economic Development Quarterly 20(2): 162–177. Scott, A. 2000. The cultural economy of cities. London: Sage. Stoker, G. and K. Mossberger. 1994. Urban regime theory in comparative perspective. Environment and Planning C: Government and Policy 12(2): 195–212. Stone, C.N. 1989. Regime politics. Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas. Verwijnen, J. 1999. The creative city’s new field condition. In Creative cities, eds. J. Verwijnen and P. Lehtovuori, 12–35. Helsinki: UIAH. Westrick D.G. and D. Rehfeld. 2003 (April). Clusters and cluster policies in regions of structural change – comparing three regions in North Rhine Westphalia. International Conference of the Regional Studies Association. Pisa, Italy. Wynne, D. (Ed.). 1989. The culture industry. Manchester: Centre for Employment Research. Zukin, S. 1989. Loft living. Culture and capital in urban change. New York: Rutgers University Press.
Chapter 5
Beyond Networks and Relations: Towards Rethinking Creative Cluster Theory Lily Kong
Introduction The concept of “creative clusters” is a difficult one, complicated not least by the complexity of its constituent components – the concept of “creativity” and the idea of “clusters”. The debates surrounding the explanatory value and the promise and potential of creative clusters are particularly significant in the face of the sometimes hypnotic hold of cluster creation on policy makers. Yet, scholars have observed that the heightened popularity of the cluster concept may mask its weak conceptual and empirical basis (Martin and Sunley 2003; Simmie 2004). In this chapter, I will examine the nature of creative clusters, and particularly, “cultural creative clusters” – i.e. clusters in which creative activity take place in the cultural field. This analysis is undertaken through detailed study of a specific visual arts cluster in Singapore and seeks to contribute to the development of a more nuanced theoretical position about the nature of creative clusters. The terms “creative cluster” and “cultural cluster” have oftentimes been used interchangeably in the literature. If some distinction is to be made, it is that studies stemming from Europe (with the exception of UK) commonly use the term ‘cultural clusters’ while those from US and Australia appear to favour the term “creative clusters”. Often, this is a reflection of the lack of conceptual clarity around the ideas of “cultural industries” and “creative industries” themselves. These differences are not merely semantic and are not inconsequential. The nature of clustering does differ depending on the specific activities under consideration, and cultural clusters focused on performing and visual arts, for example, may have quite different dynamics at work from clusters focused on television and film work, or fashion and design, just to use a few examples. All may be termed “creative clusters” but the nature of activity is not all the same, and the specific dynamics deserve careful scrutiny and analysis. Certainly, they differ from business and industrial clusters as elaborated by
L. Kong () Department of Geography, National University of Singapore, 1 Arts Link, Singapore 117570, Singapore e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_5, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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Michael Porter (1998, 2000) and Alfred Marshall (see Markusen 1996) respectively. Yet, in much of the literature, creative clusters are often treated as a subset of business clusters, and subjected to the same economic analysis and policy responses as other industries. I have used the term “cultural creative cluster” to draw attention to my focus on creative work in the cultural, and specifically, arts, sector. The conflation of various ideas as highlighted above is not only inappropriate but can be dangerous should unsuitable policies be devised on erroneous logic. Many creative clusters are in fact “de facto cultural quarters with assorted cultural consumption and not for profit activities”, thus meriting evaluation through a different lens. Evans et al. (2005: 26) observe that different methodologies are required to capture the cluster based interactions and interdependencies given the unusual organisation of creative and cultural businesses as compared to other business segments. Be that as it may, much of the literature on creative clusters recites a similar formula for success. The oft-adopted logic and language of analysis (and indeed, policy) is exemplified in Wu’s (2005) discussion of cities like San Francisco, Boston, Seattle, Austin, Washington DC, Dublin and Bangalore. They are labeled successful creative cities, in part because they are characterised by the concentration of outstanding university research and commercial linkages, venture capital, anchor firms and mediating organizations. The availability of an appropriate base of knowledge and skill as well as a desired quality of services and infrastructure, contributes to the success of these clusters, and hence, cities. O’Connor (2004), like others, argues further that clusters succeed because of the development of tacit as opposed to formal, codified knowledge. As tacit knowledge is embedded locally, cultural producers thus need to be ‘inside’ the circuit of knowledge. Clustering is hence essential as innovation has to do with the transformation of signs – ‘a style, a look, a sound’ by local culture – and the city consequently acts as a crucible where ‘innovative consumption meets ear to the ground production’ (O’Connor 2004: 134). Thus, rather than being an industry along ‘Fordist’ lines, the cultural sector relies on a scattered and fluid network of creative producers. It is precisely at the small-scale, local, heterogeneous cluster that “the creative work gets done, and it is here that insiders’ knowledge and immersion in the local scene produce the vital innovations and mutations” (O’Connor 2004: 136). Overall, the effect of linkages between firms, the existence of structures that encourage learning and innovation, as well as an external environment for innovation and individual expressions of creativity (Scott 2006: 6) constitute a “creative milieu” (Hall 2000) or “creative field” (Scott 1999, 2006). This logic may indeed hold water, but I argue in this chapter that it is neither inevitable nor even necessary as a condition for the persistence of clusters. There is as yet insufficient nuancing and detail in our understanding of different types of creative clusters, and especially cultural creative clusters to conclude with such inevitability. Indeed, part of the tendency to assume this logic is due to the conflation of business, industrial and cultural clusters, which encourages advocates to overstate agglomerative benefits at the expense of understanding global flows, national interventions in the regulation of production, and inter-scalar dimensions of cultural economic activities (see Kong 2006a, and Coe and Johns 2004). Theoretically, therefore, there is need for greater clarity of the processes at work in different types of clusters.
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This cannot be achieved without careful detailed empirical work, involving in-depth ethnographies. Only then can sound policy be made.
Singapore: An Empirical Case In this chapter, I take a very grounded approach by examining a particular context (Singapore, a small city-state), identifying a particular concentration of visual arts activity there for in-depth analysis. As a small diamond-shaped island no more than 25 by 40 km at the extremities, the scale at which clusters are imagined are quite different from Europe and the U.S. Further, given Singapore’s significant global reach in many facets of its existence (Yeung and Olds 1998; Yeoh and Chang 2001), the question arises as to how important internal clustering may be in relation to global linkages and networks. Another reason why Singapore presents an interesting case for analysis is in relation to the prospects of creativity in a state perceived to be “too tame” and “straightlaced” for creative work (Tan 2006), and where arts and cultural activities have traditionally not been seen as central to the nation’s development till recent years. Since the late 1990s and early 2000s, Singapore’s government agencies have enthusiastically adopted a range of related ideas surrounding the “creative economies” (creative/cultural industries, creative manpower, creative workforce, creative clusters, creative town, cultural capital). This follows after an earlier period during which pronouncements were made revealing governmental recognition of the economic potential of the arts dating to the early 1990s. In 1990, as part of the promotional strategy, the Economic Development Board (EDB) had set up a Creative Services Strategic Business Unit, later renamed the Creative Business Programme, to “develop Singapore into a centre of excellence for the various creative industries” (EDB 1992: 2). In 1991, it developed a Creative Services Development Plan as the blueprint for the development of the four major sectors, defined as film and music, media, design, and arts and entertainment (EDB Press Release, 10 December 1991). However, there was then a hiatus, and it was not until year 2000 that a further push was made in the form of the Renaissance City Report (MITA 2000), followed by a green paper by the then Ministry of Information and the Arts (now Ministry of Information, Communications and the Arts – MICA) titled Investing in Singapore’s Cultural Capital (MITA 2002) and a Creative Industries Development Strategy by the Economic Review Committee (Economic Review Committee Services Subcommittee Report 2002). In 2002, the Creative Industries Working Group of the Economic Review Committee’s Service Industries Sub-Committee recommended a three-prong strategy to achieve the vision of a creative economy propelled by the creative industries. The three initiatives, known as Renaissance City 2.0, Design Singapore and Media 21, target the arts and cultural sector, the design sector and the media sector respectively. Renaissance City 2.0 builds on the foundation of the original Renaissance City Blueprint of 2000. The focus of this initiative is to maximise the potential of existing and new arts infrastructure through development of the software aspects – nurturing the talents and encouraging creative expression. It also proposes that MICA agencies (National Arts Council, National Heritage Board, and National Library Board) which have traditionally been dealing with non-profit cultural work,
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collaborate with the Singapore Tourism Board (which has traditionally approached arts from a commercial angle) to unleash the economic potential of arts and cultural activities. Recognising the role of design as a major driver of enterprise, national competitiveness and value creation, Design Singapore aims to promote and develop design excellence in Singapore. The initiative has led to the establishment of the Design Singapore Council – a national design agency – to nurture a vibrant design community, attract young talents to the industry and build up Singapore’s design capabilities and standards. Looking outwards, Media 21 envisions Singapore as a global media city and a thriving media ecosystem with roots here but with strong extensions internationally. Through the formation of the Media Development Authority, the initiative aims to promote and develop the media industry and the local media production community.
Creative Clusters in Singapore While spatial clustering and physical proximity constitute specific dimensions of urban and cultural policy in many cities (e.g. Manchester, Sheffield, Dublin, Adelaide), in official discourse in Singapore, the notion of a ‘creative cluster’ is most commonly non-spatial, or at best, aspatial. The ‘creative cluster’ is used as the defining nomenclature for industrial groups. Three clusters have been identified: ‘arts and culture’, ‘design’ and ‘media’. Within each are specific industries, grouped by sectors (see Table 1). This aspatial use of “cluster” does not, however, imply that there are no spatial clusters in Singapore, whether conceptually or empirically. In official discourse, the idea of a creative cluster appears in the concept of a ‘creative town’, an idea contained in the Renaissance City 2.0 initiative. The idea was that Community Development Councils (CDCs) would work to develop “Creative Towns”, to be piloted first with a selected township. This town would serve as a developmental model for a “vibrant, creative, culturally rich, entrepreneurial and technologically savvy community”. This prototype would then be fine-tuned and eventually, adopted by the rest of the CDCs to evolve a creative and connected Singapore. The “Creative Towns” proposal was endorsed during the Mayors’1 Committee Meeting on 19 August 2002. A multiagency taskforce involving private, public and people sectors was then set up to prototype the “Creative Towns” concept at a selected township, so as to: unleash the latent creativity and passion in each individual; integrate arts, culture, business, design, and technology into community planning and revitalization efforts; enhance the ideas-generating capacity and entrepreneurship qualities of the community; increase cultural awareness among people; and promote community bonding, local pride and participation through arts and cultural events, and the employment of the newest infocomm and media technologies. (Economic Review Committee Services Subcommittee Report 2002: 17)
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Each CDC is headed by a Mayor.
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Table 1 Singapore’s creative industries: clusters, sectors and industries Cluster Sector Industry Arts and culture
Heritage
Literary arts Performing arts
Trades and crafts Visual arts
Design
Advertising Architecture
Exhibition design Fashion design Graphic design Industrial design
IT and software services
Interior design Landscape design IT and software services
Cultural villages Museums Museums activities and preservation of historical sites and buildings NEC Other cultural activities NEC – Dramatic arts, music and other arts activities NEC Music and dancing schools Operas, wayang and puppet show Orchestras and dance bands Theatres and concert halls Theatrical producers except motion picture – Art galleries Photo finishing services (e.g. Developing and processing of photographic films) Photographic activities NEC (incl. Micro-image decorating services) Retail sale of antiques, works of art, handicrafts, collectibles and gifts Wholesale of antiques, works of art, handicrafts and gifts Retail sale of cameras and other photographic goods Wholesale of optical and photographic equipment and supplies Advertising activities Architectural services Quantity surveying and building appraisal services Quantity surveying and building appraisal services Exhibition stand designers and contractors Fashion designing services (incl. accessories) Art and graphic design services Electronics-related industrial design services Furniture design services Other industrial design services Transport-related industrial design services Interior design services Landscape care and maintenance services/activities Landscape design and architecture Development of e-commerce applications Development of other software (incl. maintenance) Data communications services NEC Satellite uplink and downlink services Third-party telecommunications/value added network operators Web hosting services Internet access providers (including ISPs) Cyber cafes (continued)
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Table 1 (continued) Cluster Sector Media
Broadcasting
Digital media
Film and video
Music Printing
Publishing
Industry Radio broadcasting Radio programme production and distribution Television programme distribution Television programme production TV broadcasting (incl. cable, satellite and terrestrial TV) Renting of video tapes and the like Retail sale of record albums, cassette tapes, LDs and CDs (including VCDs and DVDs) Wholesale of record albums, cassette tapes, LDs and CDs (including VCDs and DVDs) Other radio and television related activities Development of computer games Manufacture of electronic games (e.g. TV games) Publishing of computer games Retail sale of PC games (including electronic games and video games consoles) Wholesale of PC games (including electronic games and video games consoles) Motion picture/video production Motion picture/video/TV post-production services Services allied to motion picture/video production and distribution Video filming and other recording services (incl. video taping of events) Cinema services Motion picture projection NEC Motion picture/video distribution Reproduction of recorded media Sound recording production and distribution Printing of newspapers Printing of periodicals, books and magazines Service activities related to printing NEC (e.g. plate-making) Bookbinding (e.g. book packaging) Colour separation Typesetting Commercial printing (e.g. brochures, cards and labels) Retail sales of books, magazines and stationery Wholesale of books and magazines Wholesale of paper and paper products News agency activities Publishing activities NEC Publishing of books, brochures, musical books and other publications Publishing of journals, periodicals and magazines Publishing of newspapers Libraries and archives Publishing of directories and databases
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The programme was eventually rolled out in 2005 under the name “Creative Community Singapore”. Comprising a S$10 million fund to be disbursed over 3 years, the programme was implemented nation-wide instead of the original plan to pilot it with a selected town. The CDCs were still to be involved. However, the more distinct cluster concept became dissipated and aspatial. The “Creative Community Singapore” programme became directed at nurturing creative projects and building capabilities to support the development of the creative industries through (i) seed-funding creative projects from the people, private and public sectors; and (ii) providing facilitation, co-branding and marketing assistance to these projects, with no trace of the idea of a physical anchor in a stipulated territory. Despite the disappearance of the “spatial cluster” from official discourse in those terms, the phenomenon of creative clusters can in fact be found in different ways in Singapore, including in official policy, only adopting different terminology. This is most evident in the National Arts Council’s (NAC) Arts Housing Scheme in which old buildings (disused warehouses and old shophouses) are identified and converted into suitable housing for arts use. These old buildings may house a single arts group, or they may be multi-tenanted, with several arts groups and artists of the same or different art forms. To date, over 90 arts organisations and artists (66 arts organisations and 28 artists) have been housed in 19 buildings, 20 units of shophouses and 2 co-located facilities in Marine Parade (Marine Parade Community Building) and Ghim Moh (Ulu Pandan Community Building) (www. nac.gov.sg/fac/fac03.asp). Some are stand alone buildings, such as in Telok Ayer Street (Telok Ayer Performing Arts Centre) and the Substation, while others constitute what might be characterised as “arts belts” of several arts housing properties in close proximity to one another (on the same street). The most prominent arts belts are at Waterloo Street, Chinatown, Little India and Telok Kurau, and they have been identified through collaborative and strategic site planning by the Urban Redevelopment Authority with the National Arts Council. The buildings are leased to selected artists and non-profit arts groups at highly subsidised rates. Tenants pay 10% of the rental charged by Singapore Land Authority, while the NAC pays the remaining 90%. The premises may be used for offices, studios, administrative, rehearsal or performance space. The scheme was first implemented in 1985 to provide affordable spaces for arts and cultural activities, in order to support the development of the arts in Singapore. Most of the NAC arts belts are multidisciplinary in nature, with a range of co-existing performing and visual arts activities. Telok Kurau is an exception; it houses only visual artists (Table 2). The NAC’s vision for the various arts belts is encapsulated in its vision for the Little India (Kerbau Road) arts belt: that “the diversity of arts groups housed here presents a good opportunity for exchange of ideas and learning from each other” (see www.nac.gov.sg/fac/fac0303.asp). The idea of knowledge sharing (whether tacit or codified) to enhance artistic creativity is thus part of the explicit impetus for clustering artist(e)s together. It is also envisaged that the arts will help to revitalise forgotten areas. However, while it is easy to be seduced by the cluster rhetoric, it is important to remember that the empirical case for clustering remains unclear, and that “explanation of causality and determination” has become “overly stretched, thin and
68 Table 2 Key NAC “arts belts” and their occupants Location Occupants
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Remarks
Nearby are the Selegie Arts Centre Sculpture Square, a theatre group (with photography), the Singapore (Action Theatre), the Singapore Art Museum, the Nanyang Calligraphy Centre, the YMS (Young Academy of Fine Arts, and the Musicians’ Society) Arts Centre and Stamford Arts Centre the Dance Ensemble Singapore Chinatown Arts groups that specialise in Cantonese (Smith Opera, Beijing Opera, Teochew Street and Opera, music, theatre, calligraTrengganu phy as well as literature: Chinese Street) Theatre Circle, the first non-profit professional performing Chinese Opera company in Singapore; Ping Sheh, or The Singapore Amateur Beijing Opera Society; Xin Sheng Poets’ Society; Toy Factory Theatre Ensemble, a bilingual theatre company; Er Woo Amateur Musical and Dance Society (for Teochew Opera); and Shicheng Calligraphy and Seal-Carving Society Little India Bhaskar’s Arts Academy (Indian); From traditional to avant-garde (Kerbau Sri Warisan Som Said (Malay); Road) Dramaplus Arts, Wild Rice Ltd. and Spell #7 (contemporary performance groups); Plastique Kinetic Worms (contemporary art space) Telok Kurau All visual arts occupants. Two societies and 29 artists
Waterloo Street
fractured” (Martin and Sunley 2003: 28). Even though Martin and Sunley (2003) were mostly focused in their critique on the economic benefits of clustering, their concern to have sound empirical evidence of causality is pertinent here in relation to the arts and cultural organisations under consideration, though they differ in being non-profit groups, and the questions asked about the value of physical proximity must thus be focused on other kinds of benefits. In this spirit, my aims in this chapter are to examine the ways in which clustering gathers meaning for visual artists in the NAC arts housing premises known as the Telok Kurau Studios. Specifically, I focus on how clustering is meaningful and adds value for the artists, whether it is in social and community terms, in artistic and creative value, or by way of economic benefit. Only by such “descent” to detailed case study might a small step be taken in the “ascent” to theory, and an empirical case be made to support (creative) cluster theory. As part of this research, artists and arts administrators associated with the Telok Kurau Studios and the National Arts Council were interviewed in 2008. These studios represent a unique environment in Singapore. Originally Telok
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Kurau South Primary School (1960–1984), the buildings were turned over for use by the La Salle-SIA College of the Arts (an arts college) until it moved out in 1996. In February 1997, the first artist tenants began to move in even as the National Arts Council helped to bring in electrical supply. Today, there are two societies (the Singapore Colour Photography Society and the Singapore Watercolour Society) and 29 artists using the premises. The artists include wellestablished award winners as well as up-and-coming younger ones, working in various media from watercolours to acrylic to charcoal to oils to sculpture, and others. Some have been there from the beginning; others are more recent additions. While none live there, some do work through the night and occasionally stay over as their art engrosses them. Each unit of about 45 to 50 m2 is rented to artists for only S$100 (10% of the actual rental) while NAC pays the rest to the Singapore Land Authority. There is an exhibition space, opened in 1998, to allow the artists to showcase their work. There is a Management Committee, elected from amongst the occupants as well as an arts administrator whose role is to maintain the building, handle the office administration and help with organising of exhibitions. Official discourse about the cluster comfortably adopts the compelling logic and language of proponents of cluster theory. For example, at the 2007 10th anniversary exhibition, a commemorative magazine was produced, which captured some of the works of artists in the Telok Kurau studios, and contained key messages from the Chairman (Edmund Cheng), and the Director, Visual Arts and Resource Development (Lim Chwee Seng) of the National Arts Council. In these messages, they reinforced the hopes expressed about arts clusters. Specifically, Cheng wrote that the “Telok Kurau Studios [had] grown into a centre for synergistic, creative relationships where new and interesting Singapore art is conceived, developed and shared amongst its established tenants” (TKS 2007: 3, emphasis added). Similarly, Lim suggested that Telok Kurau Studios was a reminder that “arts housing is not just a space for the production of work but also an incubatory space where artists can engage each other through practice and discourse” (TKS 2007: 5, emphasis added). Whether their language about engagement and productive relationships constituted rhetoric necessary for the occasion, sincere hopes to be realised or honest evaluation of the cluster’s achievements, the seemingly inevitable conclusion had to be drawn that productive relationships must develop when a group of artists with similar interests are housed in a cluster. In the next section, I analyse the ways in which the visual arts cluster at Telok Kurau Studios has gathered meaning for the artist inhabitants themselves. I illustrate how productive relationships in clusters are neither inevitable nor invariable. I argue that reputation (cultural capital), repose (environment) and rentals (economic value) seem much more important and positive factors in constituting the identity and value of the cluster, defining and supporting its continued existence, rather than social relations, which in fact, seem devoid of trust, understanding and mutual support.
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Reputation, Repose, and Rentals: The Value of a Cluster In the cluster literature, social networks, tacit knowledge and trust relationships are valorised. The social capital (Fukuyama 1995) thus derived is believed to constitute and/or enhance relationships to the extent that individuals and firms are more prepared to undertake risky ventures and re-organise their relations in support of mutual goals. Although there is nothing explicitly spatial about this, such social network relationships are said to be easier to maintain when participants are located in close proximity to one another (Gordon and McCann 2000; Simmie 2004: 1098). Geographical propinquity thus stimulates productivity. However, in a cluster where the “business” is art, and in a national context where the area is small, do these assumptions that are repeated by theorists and policymakers alike hold? I illustrate below how social relations are weak and trust is all but non-existent in Telok Kurau Studios, although it remains an important site in the visual arts landscape in Singapore because of its reputation, because of the repose it offers to artists seeking quiet and contemplative isolation, and because of the affordable rentals. The accruance of cultural capital (reputation), the environmental effect (repose), and the economic realities (rentals) thus supersede social networks and trust relationships in making the art cluster viable and valuable. The identity of the Telok Kurau cluster, its national significance and its draw for artists are premised on its reputation as the site of concentration of nationally (and arguably internationally) well-regarded artists. When asked the key reasons why artists would want to locate at Telok Kurau Studios, artist A2 says “I think it is the prestige. There are a lot of big names here” (Personal interview, Artist A, 7 Mar 08). Indeed, several of the artists readily named Cultural Medallion winners who have studios there. The Cultural Medallion is Singapore’s highest award for artist(e)s, and among the award winners in Telok Kurau Studios are Chng Seok Tin, the late Chua Ek Kay, Goh Beng Kwan, Lim Tze Peng, the late Anthony Poon, Tan Kian Por, Tan Swie Hian, Teo Eng Seng, and Thomas Yeo. There are also Young Artist Award winners, UOB Painting of the Year Award winners and other accolades, which “give a certain luster” to the place (Personal interview, Artist B, 22 Feb 08). The congregation of individuals who have achieved high standing in the visual arts world makes Telok Kurau “our so called national studios” (Personal interview, Artist A, 7 Mar 08), which is likened to the national studios of China and France (Personal interview, Artist C, 22 Feb 08). In this sense, the reputational effect is what keeps the cluster going, generating a momentum for the addition of new artists and keeping pioneers in the place. A second way in which the cluster gathers meaning for the artists is in the atmosphere and environment of the setting, one of repose, quiet, relative isolation and solitude. Several artists expressed gratitude that there should be affordable space made available so that they can concentrate on their work. Artist D says: “I can keep the windows and door closed and quietly concentrate on my work. 2
Interviewees are anonymised throughout for ethical reasons.
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Because for art, we have to sit down and think about it, and not just go and do it any old how” (Personal interview, 7 March 2008). Having the studio also allows separation between work and home: “When my children were very young, I worked at home. But my children took my brushes and cut off the hair! That’s why I found it very hard. And then sometimes, when I was halfway through a painting, they wanted me to play with them” (Personal interview, Artist D, 7 March 2008). A third reason why the artists have found the cluster to be attractive is because of the affordable rentals. As one artist put it, “Even though the space is quite small and not ideal – it does not allow me to produce big works of art, like in New York – the rents are cheap and you can’t get this anywhere else in Singapore. So I exercise my creativity and work with the physical constraints because the finances work well here” (Personal interview, Artist E, 7 March 2008). The economic realities thus prevail and indeed, shape (the type of) artistic work. Cultural capital, environmental effects and economic realities are not often qualities that are foregrounded in the academic literature or policy documents as reasons for the establishment, existence and persistence of arts clusters. They certainly do not feature as benefits of clusters. Instead, relationships (social networks, tacit knowledge and trust relationships) are celebrated as positive and powerful rewards for co-location. Having demonstrated the factors that contribute to the persistence of the Telok Kurau Studios, the next section will explore the validity of the often presumed benefits of agglomeration – networks and relations.
Rivalry in Relationships: The Detracting Factor Contrary to established wisdom, the optimism about social relationships in clusters is not borne out in the empirical case of the Telok Kurau Studios. Indeed, with the exception of one voice, the reverse is true. The exceptional case is that of an artist whose teacher also has a studio in the cluster, and who feels he continues to learn from his mentor. All other artists interviewed spoke (with varying degrees of candour) about the hostilities that mark the relationships within the cluster: You know right, in Telok Kurau, there is a lot of fighting, a lot of quarrelling, I’m sure you’ve heard about it through all your interviews. (Personal interview, Artist F, 18 March 2008) For ten years, at Telok Kurau, there have been fights, fights, fights. (Personal interview, Artist G, 17 March 2008) What does he do? He sues fellow artists, uses the government, uses the media, uses big names! Don’t offend him for he knows a lot of rich and powerful people and if you offend him, he’ll sue you. He sued ten artists in the past and now he is suing one writer, and don’t know what next. What to do? The media supports him, the authorities support him. (Personal interview, Artist A, 7 March 2008)
The lack of dense and mutually supportive intra-cluster relationships and the glaring absence of cooperation are manifest in various ways: in complaints, in officious rather than humane relationships, and in reluctance to engage in or sheer absence
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of collaborative artistic endeavours. For example, one artist elaborates on a complaint against him when his spouse (also an artist in Telok Kurau) and children stayed over: We don’t live here, but sometimes we stay overnight when my wife has a project going and I have painting to do. Then people complained – two studios complained about how we all stayed here and slept here and lived here! (Personal interview, Artist A, 7 March 2008)
Another artist offered by way of example two instances in which he felt the cluster was characterized by officious relationships rather than those thick relations of trust that enable support of mutual goals: Recently, I was sick. I had lymphoma, and only just got well. When I got sick, I told the committee but the committee didn’t care, didn’t tell the NAC, which we’re under. Because of chemotherapy, my hand was numb, I wasn’t able to sign my name. They sent me a letter to remind me about the utilities payment but never mentioned anything about my illness. They even cc-ed the letter to NAC, to let NAC know that I owed money for the utilities. But since 1997, I have never been late with any payments. NAC knows that”. (Personal interview, Artist D, 7 March 2008) This year’s committee chairman came to tell me that because I have a lot of students, they want me to pay more for utilities, because they say my students use the toilet often. But I told them I won’t pay because I don’t go out and recruit these students, they come to me.… But the committee insisted that I have a lot of students who use a lot of water. That’s just ridiculous. So I told them, if you want, you should hire someone to sit at the toilet door and collect money (Personal interview, Artist D, 7 March 2008).
Given such experiences, it is unsurprising that there are hardly any artistic interactions and cooperative efforts. As one artist observed: I don’t see any exchange or interaction in Telok Kurau. It’s very sad. Maybe it’s the arts circle or maybe it’s Telok Kurau. They very seldom really sit down to discuss. … I find it very difficult. We have nearly 30 artists; we have nine committee members. When we want to organize any talks or any activities or any exhibitions, we have very little support. They don’t come in to help you. I have to work a lot as a volunteer. The administrator also helps. We get very little support. … I find it very disappointing. It’s very hard. There are those who might know about art theory, art movements in the world, what’s happening recently, this and that. They might have new ideas, but they don’t share. Some of the good artists, they don’t share. Everybody is like this! (Personal interview, Artist C, 22 February 2008)
The fact that visual artistic work is largely an individualistic enterprise (certainly by comparison to the performing arts), and that there is intellectual property involved in the creative work may be part of the reason for the lack of more sharing, cooperation and collaboration, and the more atomistic experience in a visual arts cluster such as Telok Kurau. This raises the question of whether, in this field of art, cluster logic cannot prevail, and collaborations cannot ensue even if common interests intersect and relationships develop. The artists themselves believe in the possibility, even if in reality, there has been little cooperation. As one artist lamented: there can be value in the cluster, for example, exhibitions can be done collectively, and shared experience can make the event better. Unfortunately, this positive benefit has not been realized. (Personal interview, Artist D, 22 February 2008)
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This view is echoed by another artist, though his view of a more hierarchical approach would not be the only model nor indeed the most appropriate one for this group of artists, more than several of whom have been lauded in their own right and who may not see themselves working to someone else’s lead: This place will be better if we could cooperate. Cooperate and listen to one leader, one art director. Then we can work and follow the lead, have shows and work towards them, like the New York schools. But here, we fight, fight, fight. Mine is better, no, special arts is better, or must be Cultural Medallion winner, or water colour is out. (Personal interview, Artist A, 7 March 08)
That cooperation of this sort, with an art director setting the direction, may be difficult is evident in one artist’s assessment of what the root cause of the problem is: rivalry. This is because I am a threat to them. My wife and I are from [name of school]. It is famous and has produced some of the best artists. But we get no official support because the official support goes to the same few ones. Still, I leave them alone or they might come and sue me. (Personal interview, Artist A, 7 March 2008)
Beyond perceived personal jealousies, there can sometimes be real conflicts of interest: We are in the same trade, and sometimes you don’t even know when you have offended them. It’s conflict of interest. If I secure this project, it’s mine, and someone else doesn’t get it, so there’s hatred and such. (Personal interview, Artist H, 7 March 2008)
Evidence suggests, therefore, that there is no causal relationship between geographical propinquity and the development of positive social relations. Indeed, the close proximity puts strains on relationships which may not be as immediate or as apparent if it were not for co-location. Indeed, it is not difficult, when suspending for one moment the somewhat hypnotic grip of cluster logic, to see that there is really no reason to believe that physical proximity should be determinate on the development of mutual understanding, tacit knowledge, social networking and a conducive environment for innovation and expressions of creativity. As I have demonstrated through the case of Telok Kurau Studios, the opposite may sometimes be true, that proximity brings its own tensions and conflicts. If networks and relations are not inevitable, what then is the value of a cluster?
Rethinking (Creative) Cluster Theory: The Next Brush Stroke Rather than a cluster in danger of demise, Telok Kurau continues to be a wellknown site in Singapore’s visual arts landscape. Indeed, despite the quarrels, artists are reluctant to give up their space in Telok Kurau, “even if they don’t fully utilise it” (Personal interview, Artist C, 22 February 2008). One such artist explains that he is not always at Telok Kurau because he has more than one studio, and the other location is more vibrant. His reluctance to give up the Telok Kurau space is practical: the rental is cheap and he needs two studios for his two different genres
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of work (sculpture and painting). Even those whom fellow artists believe have not contributed significantly to the art scene continue to stay, and the NAC has difficulty moving them out because “[t]hey will appeal. They will get somebody to write them a letter, to appeal for them to stay” (Personal interview, Artist C, 22 February 2008). The cluster thus has a sustaining momentum. If geographical propinquity does not in itself generate fruitful relationships amongst the artists, and this in turn yields no accruing externalities, socially and culturally, why then does the cluster have a sustaining momentum? In this case, I have shown that the answers lie in reputation, repose and rentals. The concentration of well-known artists in Telok Kurau, often award-winning, has created a reputational effect so that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Artists (perceive that they) derive cultural capital from location in the cluster. Further, the environment is conducive for quiet contemplation and solitary work, which the artists value. Finally, the pragmatic economic benefits of cheap rentals, conditions made possible by the National Arts Council, help to win the day. In rethinking cluster theory, therefore, this grounded approach of researching a singular visual arts cluster in Singapore is important in adding one more building block in the effort to build a more nuanced theoretical understanding of (cultural creative) clusters. The grounded complexities of this specific case alert us to two more general issues. First, the unique nature of the particular cluster activity matters. The activity in question here is one in which individual(istic) effort and style are fiercely guarded, and where replication is neither desired nor valued. This heightens the sense of rivalry and competition amongst cluster constituents and hampers collaboration. This is distinct from many other kinds of industries and businesses where the creation of a product is often dependent on a chain of inputs from various actors, and where inter-firm and interpersonal relationships are thus important. The nature of much (visual) artistic work – particularly its independent quality – gives these clusters a different character and dynamic than other types of clusters, and affects the ways in which the cluster gathers meaning and value. Second, the relative spontaneity and organic origins of the cluster matter, shaping the ways in which members of the cluster value it. The cluster in question in this chapter is a state-vaunted and state-supported one, and in these premises made available to artists by the state, there has been no collective struggle for space that brings the community together. Each is comfortable, even if not completely satisfied, with their individual units, and prefers the solitude and quietude the space affords to do their work, rather than to engage collectively in the making of even more and better spaces. This is different from other situations where organically evolved clusters seem to have a different dynamic, borne of more spontaneous congregation and the need to pull together to make the circumstances work (see Kong 2006b). In conclusion, this chapter has demonstrated how the received wisdom about the agglomerative benefits of clusters needs to adopt a more expansive understanding of what is beneficial. In part, this is because of the specific nature of the cluster activity, and the specific circumstances under which cluster creation has occurred. For cluster theory to have better explanatory value, these refinements are critical. Only then can such work be helpful to policy makers looking to the establishment of clusters to enhance creative work.
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References Coe, N.M. and Johns, J. (2004). Beyond production clusters: Towards a critical political economy of networks in the film and television industries. In D. Power and A. Scott (Eds.), The Cultural Industries and the Production of Culture, London/New York: Routledge, 188–204. EDB (Economic Development Board) (1991). Press Release, 10 December 1991. EDB (Economic Development Board) (1992). Film, Video and Music Industries, Singapore: Economic Development Board. Economic Review Committee Services Subcommittee Report (2002). Creative Industries Development Strategy, Singapore: Ministry of Trade and Industry. Evans, G., Foord, J., Shaw, P., Ruiz, J., Browne, O., Gertler, M., Tesolin, L. and Weinstock, S. (2005). Strategies for Creative Spaces: Phase 1 Report, London: London Development Agency; Toronto: City of Toronto Economic Development and Culture Divisions; Ontario: Ministries of Economic Development & Trade and Culture. Fukuyama, F. (1995). Trust: The Social Virtues and the Creation of Prosperity, New York: Free Press. Gordon, I.R. and McCann, P. (2000). Industrial clusters: Complexes, agglomeration and/or social networks? Urban Studies, 37(3):513–532. Hall, P. (2000). Creative cities and economic development, Urban Studies, 37(4):639–649. Kong, L. (2006a). Conceptualising cultural and creative spaces, Paper presented at Conference on Cultural/Creative Clusters, Beijing, 19–21 October. Kong, L. (2006b). Creative clusters: Arts and cultural activities in Singapore, Paper presented at Conference on Creative Cities, Creative Economies, Shanghai, 16–18 October. Markusen, A. (1996). Sticky places in slippery space: A typology of industrial districts, Economic Geography, 72(2):293–313. Martin, R. and Sunley, P. (2003). Deconstructing clusters: Chaotic concept or policy panacea? Journal of Economic Geography, 3(1):5–35. MITA (Ministry of Information and the Arts) (2000). Renaissance City Report, Singapore: Ministry of Information and the Arts. MITA (Ministry of Information and the Arts) (2002). Imagi, a New Agenda for a Creative and Connected Nation: Investing in Singapore’s Cultural Capital, Singapore: Ministry of Information and the Arts. National Arts Council (2005). Arts Housing, <www.nac.gov.sg/fac/fac03.asp>, accessed on 2 Dec 2008. O’Connor, J. (2004). ‘A special kind of city knowledge’: Innovative clusters, tacit knowledge and the ‘creative city’, Media International Australia, 112:131–149. Porter, M.E. (1998). Clusters and the new economy, Harvard Business Review, 76(6):77–90. Porter, M.E. (2000). Location, competition and economic development: Local clusters in a global economy, Economic Development Quarterly, 14(1):15–34. Scott, A.J. (1999). The cultural economy: Geography and the creative field, Media, Culture and Society, 21(6):807–818. Scott, A.J. (2006). Entrepreneurship, innovation and industrial development: Geography and the creative field revisited, Small Business Economics, 26(1):1–24. Simmie, J. (2004). Innovation and clustering in the globalised international economy, Urban Studies, 41(5/6):1095–1112. Tan, H.L. (2006). Technologically tight – now loosen up, Singapore!, Today, 7 July 2006. Telok Kurau Studios: Commemorating a decade (2007). Singapore: Telok Kurau Studios. Wu, W.P. (2005). Dynamic Cities and Creative Clusters, World Bank Policy Research Working Paper 3509, Washington, DC: World Bank. Yeoh, B.S.A. and Chang, T.C. (2001). Globalising Singapore: Debating transnational flows in the city, Urban Studies, 38(7):1025–1044. Yeung, H.W.C. and Olds, K. (1998). Singapore’s global reach: Situating the city-state in the global economy, International Journal of Urban Sciences, 2(1):24–47.
Chapter 6
The Capital Complex: Beijing’s New Creative Clusters* Michael Keane
Introduction: Growth Frenzy The scale of urban development in Beijing during the past decade is nothing short of astonishing. Construction workers have relentlessly cleared space for high-rise apartments while historic factories are demolished or turned into centres for creative industries. The view flying into Beijing resembles a pancake-like development sprawl dotted with five-star tourist hotels, modernist business centres, hyper-modern television towers, eye-catching sports complexes, overpasses, underpasses, ring roads, technology parks, theme parks and convention centres. Meanwhile, city streets are congested by cars, residents suffer increasing instances of respiratory illness and traditional ways of living vanish amid the dust of bulldozers. This is progress Chinese style, reflecting the idea of modernity as “a coming into being,” as process, rupture and even disruption. It is also an unprecedented phase in China’s history as the nation harbours aspirations of becoming a world power, a harmonious civilisation and an advanced society. This chapter begins with a brief discussion of how the idea of creative industries has provided the impetus for a new phase of cultural infrastructure construction in Beijing. A walled city of four separate enclosures during Yuan, Ming and Qing dynasties, by the 1950s Beijing had transformed into a sprawling city of industrial districts. The economic reform period, which began in 1979, saw a transition from Maoist revolutionary class struggle to a pragmatic model of economic reconstruction and modernisation under Deng Xiaoping. An ensuing boom in development led to a surge in urban migration, putting further pressure on infrastructure. During the mid-1980s, several of China’s large cities, notably Shanghai, Shenzhen, Guangzhou, Tianjin and Beijing began to compete with one another, attempting to lure international
* Thanks to Weihong Zhang, Li Siling and Hui Ming for their assistance with parts of this chapter. M. Keane () Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for Creative Industries and Innovation, Queensland University of Technology, Z1-515 Musk Avenue Kelvin Grove QLD 4059, Australia e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_6, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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investment. Beijing assumed a capital complex; not only was it the centre of political power, it saw itself as the cultural centre of the new China. Following the announcement of the site of the 2008 summer Olympics, a sense of anticipation and confidence prevailed: Beijing would establish itself as a world city (Friedmann 2002).1 With an international reputation at stake, the first decade of the new millennium was a time of frenetic reassessment, and even reinvention. The “creative city” idea was moving rapidly through the international community.2 In this confluence of aspiration, internationalisation and local identity, the association of creativity with industrial clusters deepened. Policy advocates in all levels of government were quick to engage with clustering, believing that agglomeration was a means of ‘catch-up.’ Echoing the spirit, if not the political instrumentality of the Great New Leap Forward (1958–1960), China’s great ‘new leap forward’ is already scripted. Factories, fields and even abattoirs are now transformed into creative clusters. It is perhaps too early to know if these creative clusters will fulfil the high expectations and in this chapter, I do not intend to pre-empt judgement. Rather, in investigating how these ideas have played out, I look at some of the initiatives that have broken out in the past few years, the cultural resources they draw on for their sustainability, and the relationships with district governments. I take a macro view of development. I argue that whereas west and north-western districts of Beijing have accommodated digital content clusters, the centre has opted to retain a cultural tourism focus together with performing arts, exhibition and traditional culture. The east of Beijing, meanwhile, is increasingly shaped by craft and visual arts. In a sense this recent clustering of cultural value reflects the geopolitics of Beijing. Since the Ming dynasty, the west of Beijing had established a reputation as the power centre, home to aristocrats and bureaucrats. The east attracted wealthy families with cultural capital while the south of Beijing became notorious for its poverty.3
Creative Clusters: The New Development Script As manufacturing and processing of intermediate inputs (Rosen 2003; Baldwin 2006) continue to move offshore from advanced economies to China, the role of innovation in economic development has assumed an almost religious fervour. The development mantra of the Chinese government since 2006 has been ‘independent innovation’ (zizhu chuangxin), ostensibly a strategy to reduce reliance on Western science and technology. Similarly, the concept of “creative industries” (chuangyi chanye) has captured the attention of China’s city-makers. The creative industries idea came to Beijing in 2004, but ran into an ideological barrier in the form of a pre-existing state policy framework of “cultural industries” (wenhua chanye), articulated by the Fourth Session of the Ninth People’s Congress in 2001 (Keane 2007; 1
The terms world city and global city are sometimes used interchangeably. Since 2004, this had been championed by UNESCO. See http://portal.unesco.org/culture/en/ ev.php-URL_ID = 28053&URL_DO = DO_TOPIC&URL_SECTION = 201.html. 3 This is encapsulated in the adage, ‘the wealthy live in the east, the aristocrats and bureaucrats in the west, while in the south there is only poverty’ (dongfu xigui nanqiong). 2
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Zhang et al. 2004). However, while Beijing’s officials argued the distinction between cultural and creative industries, Shanghai seized the moment; by 2005 Shanghai had established the Shanghai Creative Industries Centre, together with the Shanghai Creative Industries Association (see Chapter 11, Li and Hua, this volume). Operating under the combined management of the city’s Propaganda Department and Economic Commission, these bodies instigated the development of a range of creative clusters in Shanghai. Desmond Hui (2006) notes that by the 11th General Meeting of the 9th Party Committee of the Beijing Government on 27th December 2005, the term “cultural creative industries” was formally instituted. The Beijing Committee of the Chinese People’s Consultative Conference subsequently green lighted many proposals earmarked for development as “cultural creative industries” projects. Many of these are accommodated within the Beijing Urban Planning Scheme 2004–2020; others are initiated under the city’s 11th 5 Year plan. As with “independent innovation” (zizhu chuangxin) in science and technology, “cultural creative industries” is mentioned frequently and with great significance by propaganda officials, humanities academics, digital content developers, advertising executives, fashion designers, publishers and even real estate developers. In examining the nexus of culture and economy, Andersson and Anderson (2006) employ the concept of “cultural infrastructure,” and note the interplay between tangible and intangible. The tangible infrastructure includes facilities such as churches, temples, museums, theatres and amusement parks. These primarily represent slow changing goods. Other facilities (concerts, exhibitions, festivals and sporting events) support faster changing cultural activities. The intangible, what Landry (2000) calls “soft infrastructure,” is the recipe of culture, namely cultural ideas. In many instances, the intangible infrastructure is a precondition for the tangible: think of Modernism and its effect on architecture and industrial design in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Intangible ideas, expressed as creativity or innovations, facilitate the transformation of infrastructure and therefore the broader economy. For that reason, the cultural or creative economy is a driver of economic growth.4 According to Potts and Cunningham (2008), there are many possible explanations of dynamism, but all are some variation of either the notion that the creative industries introduce novel ideas into the economy, which then percolate to other sectors (e.g. new designs), or that they facilitate the adoption and retention of new ideas or technologies in other sectors (e.g. ICT). In contrast to the romantic view of the individual heroic artist, both the contemporary policy approach and the business literature on creativity favour project teams and productive interchange of ideas in a creative process. It was only a matter of time before the concept of agglomerations of small-scale creativity emerged to counter the political economy of the media approach, which saw creativity “contained” within large industrial agglomerations or monopolies. Indeed, the concept of “creative industries,” which informed policy developments in Beijing, was itself borne out of widespread industry restructuring and disintermediation in 4
The terms cultural and creative economy are sometimes used interchangeably. Gibson and Kong (2005) argue, for instance, that because of the needs for a highly differentiated and overlapping workforce, a full blown cultural economy is only really found in large cities. See also Hall (1999).
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global media industries.5 Evidence for the dynamic role of independents within the value chain can be found in the Hollywood film industry whereby the “integrated film studio system” of the 1950s gradually transformed into a network of specialist firms collaborating in providing services for majors, as well as for other independents. Nevertheless, despite the reframing of creativity as less of an individual act of genius and more dependent upon relationships between individuals and organisations, geographical location has maintained a key role in policy making. By the 1990s, an influential school of business literature had championed the idea of clusters, not just for their production efficiencies, but as places where competition was fostered through interaction, cooperative networks, job switching and competition: in short, knowledge transfer processes. Following on from the work of Alfred Marshall in the 1920s on industrial districts (Marshall 1920/1986), writers such as Harvard Business School’s Michael Porter (1990) argued that while localities such as Silicon Valley were initially generated by market forces, governments can play an interventionist role. The idea of seeding clusters in the hope that they might generate rewards faster than market forces alone is a very appealing one. Then again, the current attention to clusters frequently issues from a desire to establish a first mover advantage, before other nations and regions. In particular, it has been widely demonstrated that clusters situated close to universities and research institutes are able to take advantage of technology transfer and knowledge workers. The Chinese “development script” reads that clustering will assist media and cultural industries to become more competitive. The appeal of clusters in this post-World Trade Organization (WTO) period is “freshness,” albeit a reversion of an old socialist development script.6 Porter’s consultancy with numerous national and regional governments appeared to add weight to the cluster argument even if as some have argued, his definition of cluster is eclectic and often misleading (Desrochers and Sautet 2004). In the main, however, Porter was drawing on the success of places like Silicon Valley (California), Route 128 (Boston) and numerous other manufacturing districts from Denmark to Italy, from Thailand and Japan. Porter argued that the geographical concentration of companies working within a particular field produces “competitive advantage,” which in turn impacts upon the business, the area and even the wider economy. Such was the persuasive force of US business expertise that the idea quickly took root in China’s cultural institutions, at least those seeking to capitalise on the consumer boom of the past decade in China’s cities. The idea of media and creative clusters translated well, not altogether surprising given the legacy of collective production: the Peoples’ Communes (1950s–1960s), the town and village enterprises (TVEs) (1980s–1990s), the science and technology parks (1990s–2000s), and the media conglomerates (instigated 5
For a good discussion of the genesis of creative industries and disintermediation within the creative value chain, see Bilton (2007). 6 China joined the WTO in December 2001, a move that signalled an intensification of foreign interest in China’s creative industries, notably advertising, design and value-added services such as consulting and management. For a good discussion of the advertising environment post-WTO, see Wang (2008).
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in the late 1990s–early 2000s). In differing ways, these collective models responded to social and economic reforms. The common ingredients were a high degree of hierarchical management, favourable investment policies and state supervision. By mid-2006, Beijing already had ten established cultural creative industry clusters or bases; many more are scheduled to begin development over the next few years.
History: Geo-politics, Geo-architecture These contemporary plans to revitalise Beijing’s cultural infrastructure stand in stark contrast to the idea of the productive city, which had underwritten Beijing’s redevelopment during the 1950s and 1960s. Beginning in 1953, a series of city Master Plans was implemented. Mao and Jin (1997) have noted that the vision of the day was about serving the ordinary working people as well as facilitating the growth of industries. In effect, this served the needs of the central government. Beijing was set to become a national economic centre with a strong industrial base, as well as being a national political and cultural centre. Old buildings and civil engineering structures – those that were seen to impede these objectives were demolished, a precursor of things to come in the post-Mao era. Development in suburban areas progressed largely through the establishment of manufacturing industries, with the exception of the city’s north-western sector where an independent university and research zone was established. Urban infrastructure, such as roads and public transportation, was categorised under government provision. The priority project of assuring urban water supply received considerable attention in the first Master Plan owing to water shortages in the area. The first 5 Year Development Plan (1954) led to the expansion of several industrial districts, a socialist strategy to transform cities into productive centres (Visser 2004; Friedmann 2005). The Chinese Communist Party’s utopian plan to catch up with the developed capitalist countries, the Great Leap Forward (1958–1961), had led to the elimination of difference between workers and peasants, between urban and rural, and between intellectuals and workers. The early years of the new republic witnessed a considerable influx of people into the big cities, the urbanised proportion of the total population doubling between 1949 and 1960 (Friedmann 2005: 11). City migration was eventually held in check by the hukou household permit system introduced in 1960.7 The centre of Beijing expanded into the suburbs, Chang’an Street was widened and extended, and the new government constructed several symbolic edifices including The Great Hall of the People, the Museum of History and Revolution, and the subway system. 7
Set up in 1958 in order to control mass urbanisation, China’s hukou registration system effectively divides the population into two – “the haves” (urban households) and “the have nots” (rural households). Having a hukou registration provides residents with greater social freedom, for instance, the right to purchase a vehicle, to receive education and health welfare. Migrant populations without a city hukou lack such rights.
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A new phase of urban transformation followed during the 1980s. During this decade, Beijing set its sights on asserting its authority as China’s cultural and political centre. Private capital stimulated the architectural transformation of the Central Business District (CBD), concentric ring roads were added, and highways constructed to link Beijing with south-eastern Tianjin and northern Shijiazhuang. Already by this time, many of Beijing’s hutongs were targeted for demolition. The factories that 20 years previously had symbolised socialist productivity were shifted further to the margins. Relaxations on migration saw many more pouring into the capital looking for economic gain. By 1995, over a quarter of the population was made up of migrants from the countryside (Visser 2004: 284). The current phase of urban development recognises the dual impact of modernisation and urban congestion. Beijing’s 2004–2020 development plan articulates a sustainable vision for this mega city of 13.5 million people. The Beijing Plan Document emphasises economic use of resources and ecological sustainability.8 It argues that the capacity of land, water, and ultimately productivity, is contingent on natural resources and the reduction of pollution. These challenges of diminishing natural resources contrast with current arguments about the increasing returns of knowledge-based industries, service industries and cultural industries. By 2006, the proportion of Beijing’s economy occupied by services was 70.9% while tourism accounted for almost 22.9% of Beijing’s GDP (Beijing Statistics Yearbook 2007).9 Indeed, the question of how much of Beijing’s economy is culture-related is open to scrutiny. The city trades heavily on its cultural jewels, including the Forbidden Palace (gugong), the Summer Palace (yihe yuan), Tiananmen Square (Tiananmen guangchang), the Temples of Heaven (tian tan) and Earth (ditan), and the Ming Tombs (mingchao shisan ling). In 2003, the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences calculated the value added contribution of culture to Beijing’s economy at just 4.89%, less than Shanghai at 5.84%. By 2005, a new data calculation system had recalibrated Beijing’s cultural value added as 10.2% (Keane 2007).10
Capital Culture While Shanghai is unquestionably a more cosmopolitan business metropolis, Beijing is the national capital. With the possible exception of Shenzhen in South China, Beijing is China’s most multi-cultural city. As was the case in the imperial past, many are drawn to the capital for a variety of reasons. According to Jerry Beijing City Plan (2004 ~ 2020 仟) approved by the State Council in 2005. See http://www. bjghw.gov.cn/ztgh/. 9 Figures such as these should be noted with a degree of critical distance. The idea of service industries incorporates everything from housekeeping to foot massage. Unquestionably, however, Beijing and Shanghai are the centres of producer services such as management and public relations, consulting, advertising and education. 10 See http://www.beinet.net.cn/enews/200612/t146634.htm. 8
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Wang, a digital content entrepreneur who moved from Shanghai to Beijing in 2002, “Beijing has more culture and is closer to the core idea of Chinese culture. Shanghai is more like a copy of New York or Hong Kong,” (Personal interview, 20 July 2005). In addition to its cultural assets, Beijing is the central node in the Chinese communications industries. Wang adds: “[i]n Beijing the communications environment and the relationships are different. We are engaged in a telecommunications business and we need relationships with the Internet, broadband and mobile companies.” Telecommunications companies based in Beijing include China Telecom, China Mobile, China Netcom and China Unicom. In this sense, the concept of “inner and outer” (neibu waibu yinsu) encapsulates Beijing’s capital complex. Echoing the authoritarian hierarchy of the past, policy makers working in the cultural and media industries in Beijing are acutely aware of state agendas, while at the same time attending to different interests. This tension between inner (political conformity) and outer (the interests of people) is more evident in Beijing than elsewhere in China (Chen 2004a). Proximity to decision makers and to the machinations of power provides incentives for media industries to locate in the capital. It is easier to gain access to power brokers, whether this contact occurs within the actual corridors of power or within informal social activities. In many respects, Beijing would appear to satisfy the requirements of technology and talent, the first two of Richard Florida’s indexes for a city’s creative success (Florida 2002). However, tolerance, the third of Florida’s indexes is less obvious, especially when expressed in his provocative term “gay index.” Nonetheless, despite a reputation as resolutely political and bureaucratic, Beijing can also claim a certain ethos. By ethos, I refer to the interdependence of individual attitudes, the intangible network effect of a common identification with the city (Cowan 2002). According to Chen Guanzhong, the co-author of Bohemian China, Beijing’s complex hybridity dates back hundreds of years. Proximity to Mongolia and the former Manchuria (the region now collectively termed Dongbei) has contributed to the Beijing ethos. The authors of a recent book about Beijing contend that “the border location of the city not only served strategic purposes but also fostered cultural creativity” (Li et al. 2007: 27). In modern times, the city has “absorbed” migrant populations; this is no better illustrated than in Zhejiang Village, a community situated at Dazhongmen in Fengtai District 5 km south of the centre of Beijing. During the 1990s, the area had become a locus for small scale clothing businesses from Wenzhou, a city in Zhejiang Province. Despite being evicted due to local government pressure in 1995, the migrants returned the following year to set up close relations with the local people, eventually establishing a recognised cluster of clothing production factories (see Fig. 1). This absorption of diverse elements adds to the capital complex. While some like Jerry Wang assert that Shanghai is a reflection of New York, Chen Guanzhong argues that Beijing’s cultural ethos is closer to New York: “whether you have long hair or a shaved head, whether you wear well-fitting clothes or clothes whose style and colour don’t match, in public Beijing people are indifferent.” He also adds, “Beijing is ‘cool’, like New York: you can praise or deride Beijingers. They just don’t care” (Chen 2004b: 54).
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Fig. 1 Beijing creative clusters [See separate file for the map]
Beijing culture is often associated with a certain muted rebellion, even bohemianism. The Beijing writer, Wang Shuo, drew heavily on street life and vernacular culture for his short stories about hooligans (liumang), many of which were made into TV serials and movies in the early 1990s. The director, Feng Xiaogang, who has collaborated with Wang on several projects, was responsible for the 1993 hit serial Beijingers in New York (Beijing ren zai NiuYue), in which the entrepreneurial aspirations of a Beijing native play out in the capitalist milieu of the Big Apple (Keane 2001). In effect, this was less a critique of Western capitalism and values than a precursor of Beijing’s emergence from political city to modern business centre. Beijing has shaken off the popular image as a political city. Avant-garde art and rock music has contributed greatly to the Beijing ethos. In the late 1980s, Beijing witnessed the cultural spark of Cui Jian, a folk rock musician whose lyrics drew on generational ennui, culminating in spectacular and idiosyncratic performances during the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989 (Huot 2000).
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The dynamics of Beijing’s creativity are collectively assembled in hutongs, bars and clubs, and mixed and shaken in a milieu created by the international business fraternity and foreign embassies. Bar areas like Sanlitun (Chaoyang District) and Houhai (Dongcheng District) attract a mix of would-be artists, musicians, tourists and entrepreneurs. The city welcomes a vibrant gay culture despite the government’s spiritual civilisation edicts against bohemianism and homosexuality. In addition to the significant income generated from cultural tourism, Beijing’s cultural economy is supplemented by the infrastructure of its many performing and convention venues. In fact, the Great Hall of the People, the splendid monument to the Communist Revolution built in 1959 adjacent to Tiananmen Square, has become a commercial venue for hire, accommodating international popular culture acts such as River Dance (Ireland) and Richard Clayderman, while also servicing the requirements of prestigious conferences.
Beijing’s New Creative Clusters Beijing’s abundance of cultural resources nevertheless required planning in order to exploit their economic potential. By 2005, the creative cluster idea (chuangyi jijuqu) had surfaced as a solution to stimulate the growth of Beijing’s cultural resources. It seemed a classic solution drawn from Marxist economic theory and justified by the success of industrial clusters elsewhere in China. The new great leap forward, the clustering of cultural value, is an example of ideas that are paradigmatic or infrastructural. The value of clustering, from a manufacturing economy perspective, rests on a pre-existing tradition of collectivism. The paradox here is that collectivism is now associated with creativity. In addition to the influence of Michael Porter, the creative cluster found support through the “super-sign” of the creative industries, already moving from Hong Kong into the mainland (Keane 2007; Hui 2006; Mok 2006; Kong et al. 2006). During 2005, Beijing’s planners worked feverishly to nominate clusters that would be included as part of its new cultural and creative industries (CCI) development agenda. On 14 December 2006, Beijing’s cultural and propaganda officials gathered at the Sheraton Hotel to extol the virtues of creative excellence and the shift from “made in China” to “created in China.” Ten designated cultural creative clusters were announced, the representatives of these projects receiving silver plaques of excellence. This was an auspicious time. Beijing’s coming of age in the creative economy signified a deepening of the creative zeitgeist. By the time of the Second Beijing International Cultural Creative Industries Expo in November 2007, the cluster momentum had reached a new level. The logic of agglomeration had by then resulted in vigorous competition among districts to erect “cultural creative parks,” in sectors such as design, animation, digital content, visual and performing arts and fashion (Fig. 1). To understand these aspirations, it is helpful to visualise various concentrations of creative investment, human capital and infrastructure. In the following sections I look at the north-west, centre and
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the east of Beijing. In the western and north-western districts of Beijing, we find well-developed digital content clusters, as well as spectacular architectural projects associated with the Beijing Olympics.11 The centre of Beijing trades off cultural tourism together with performing arts, exhibition and traditional culture, while the east of Beijing is increasingly shaped by craft and visual arts.
Digital Capital in the West and North-West Formally launched in 1988, Zhongguangcun Haidian Park is widely regarded as China’s Silicon Valley, serving as a major cradle of the knowledge-based economy in China.12 Some 6,000 high-tech companies operate there, 70% of which have their core business in the IT industry. The Zhongguancun “high tech zone” claims two key clusters: the Zhongguancun Software Park and the Zhongguancun Creative Industries Pioneer Base. The former, which was instituted in 2001, splits into two “national bases”: one for software development and the other for software export. Large transnational technology companies positioned in this 292 ha zone include Oracle, IBM, Siemens, Iona, Flextronics, TCS and WIPRO. In addition to these anchor tenants, there are more than 100 small and medium enterprises. It is estimated that more than 108,000 software engineers work in the zone. The Zhongguancun Creative Industries Pioneer Base is a more recent addition. Established in 5 May 2005, it covers a total area of 9.89 ha with a construction area of 7 ha (Keane 2007). The base includes digital media technology, internet-based industries, and digital entertainment software enterprises, cartoon and animation incubators. Companies in the centre include Yahoo China, Tengxun and China Netcom. The Pioneer Base is undoubtedly the creative edge of the technology district, with commercial enterprises ranging from software, video games, animation, music to publishing. A range of government policies provide industry assistance to those businesses that qualify as “cultural creative enterprises.” Sweeteners include a 2-year tax freeze, following which a 15% tax threshold applies. Universities that engage in research and development that embodies technology transfer are exempt from operational taxes in addition to receiving an income tax dispensation on fees earned from their consulting activities. Eligible creative enterprises in Beijing can claim 150% deduction on technical development costs as well as 2.5% of staff education costs (Keane 2007). Generous management fee depreciation benefits also apply to enterprises depending on their 11
The idea of creative clusters in this chapter refers specifically to spatially concentrated agglomerations of creative businesses that seek to exploit and value from location. Projects such as the Olympic Stadium, The Olympic Green and the CCTV towers, which are situated in Chaoyang District, are significant in that they make a statement about national creativity, albeit heavily dependent on international design. In this sense I refer to such projects as cultural assets. That is not to say that they may in future function as core attractors of creative businesses. For a discussion of Olympic architecture see the July 2008 issue of Urbane http://www.urbanechina.com. 12 For a discussion of Zhonguancun as an evolving set of relations among the state, MNCs, local firms and research institutes, see Yu Zhou (2008) The Inside Story of China’s High-Tech Industry.
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level of investment. The Beijing Municipal government has established an RMB 0.5 million “cultural creative industries development fund” as well as similar “cluster infrastructure fund.” In summary, these policies are broad and strategic, although the question always remains as to how transparent the governance of the schemes will be, taking into account the guanxi that inevitably seems to follow investment. As China edges closer to the innovation frontier, Zhongguancun is repositioning itself as more than just a massive high-tech agglomeration: it is reaching out into adjoining districts and devouring projects. Close to Zhongguancun, an ambitious project is taking shape on the site of the Beijing Capital Iron and Steel factory. In 2007, the Beijing Iron and Steel Factory in the western district of Shijingshan began to reduce its operation allowing construction to commence on the new “integrated services district.” The polluting factory will be moved further outside Beijing in Hebei Province and with it, most of its 10,000 workers. Some of the more fortunate workers will be retained in the new digital industries, while others will provide the muscle to construct the new infrastructure. The new modern district will accommodate China’s creative class, to use Richard Florida’s felicitous phrase. There is more than a degree of irony in this post-industrial prescription for saving this “distressed area” and moving redundant workers away to new pastures. Blue-collar workers were formerly the “working class” (gongren jieji) under Maoist revolutionary culture; they were the backbone of China’s future. Intellectuals and entrepreneurs, the nerds of the information industry, are the newly approved “engineers of the nation’s progress.” The Capital Recreation District (CRD) will feature an animation production base, a digital entertainment and leisure centre, conference and exhibition facilities, and business offices. These will be supplemented by purpose-built education and training centres. The CRD, with the support of the local government as part of the district’s 11th Five Year plan, offers relocation benefits to firms, including software developers, mobile communication, animation and video games companies. The development will also lure creative talent by offering incentives including Beijing residency permits and rent-free apartments. The site is already being referred to as the Beijing Cyber Recreation Industry Base. There are hopes that spillovers from Zhongguancun High Tech area will occur, especially as Zhongguancun rents are now increasing. The Shijingshan high-tech development space with the CRD will be administered by Zhonguancun district government. According to the pre-publicity for the development, the registered population of the CRD is estimated to remain under 520,000 people with services industries accounting for 40% of the economic output (Keane 2007).
The Centre and the East Dongcheng and Chaoyang districts lie on the Eastern side of Beijing. With Tiananmen Square, Zhongnanhai and the National People’s Congress, Dongcheng District is the site of the nation’s political power. It is also the locus of many of Beijing’s culture relics, a term used to describe anything from architecture to artefacts. Established in 1958 and encompassing the former Dongsi and Dongdan districts, Dongcheng captures a large slice of Beijing’s tourist market. The cultural
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assets of Dongcheng include the Forbidden City, Ditan Park (Temple of Earth), the Gate Tower of Zhengyanmen, the former residences of writers Lao She and Mao Dun, the China National Museum, the National Theatre, Central Opera Academy and the Central Academy of Fine Arts. The district also includes Zhongshan Park, Beihai Park, Nanluo guxiang Hutong, the Wangfujing Shopping Mall and the Beijing Train Station. Within the Yonghe cluster itself, we find four “cultural relics”: the Lama Temple (yonghegong), the Bell Tower (zhong lou) and Drum Tower (gulou), the Confucius Temple (kong miao) and the Imperial College (guozi jian). The term “Creative Central”, initially conceived by a consortium of cultural bureaucrats and “creative industry” lobbyists, provides the inspiration for the redevelopment of Dongcheng. The key driver of these cultural initiatives is the Gehua Cultural Development Group, a state-owned conglomerate which manages and operates three key subsidiaries: the Beijing Gehua Technology Centre located within the Gehua Tower on the North Second Ring Road, the Gehua Broadcasting Centre in the Huabei Hotel and the China Millennium Art Museum (in Xicheng District). Gehua began life in December 1997 through a merger of two state-owned companies – advertising and arts group under the administration of the Beijing Municipal Cultural Bureau and a cable television subsidiary of the Beijing Administration of Film, Radio and Television. Like many cultural conglomerates in China, Gehua is a state-owned enterprise “but has a share-holding structure and operates in a marketoriented fashion financed by its own revenues” (Beijing Creative Centre 2007). Gehua’s business scope includes cable TV network provision, construction and management of large cultural venues, organising and undertaking cultural and sports events, as well as cross-cultural exchanges between China and foreign countries. In 2006, the Beijing Gehua Cultural Development Group received the green light to construct and operate one of the ten new cultural creative clusters, the Yonghe Science and Technology Park, located in the proximity of the Lama Temple (Yonghegong). The first stage began in September 2006 with the inauguration of the Beijing Centre for Creativity. The BCC is a non-profit organisation set up to promote international exchange and collaboration, to incubate creative ventures, provide training, conduct research and organise events and activities (Beijing Creative Centre 2007). In November 2007, another layer of organisation was formalised with the incorporation of the International Creative Industries Alliance, located in the Gehua Tower. The ICIA’s mission is to manage a project called the Creative Hub within the Gehua Tower, with a combined floor space of 2,700 m2. The ICIA will be responsible for administering resources for creative businesses, many of which will be situated in the Yonghe Science and Technology Park, and which will subsequently be beneficiaries of tax incentive schemes and other forms of industry support. These incentives are offered to international businesses as well as local players.13 13 The founding members of ICIA are the China Culture Administration Association, the Beijing Academy of Science and Technology, the Hong Kong Design Centre, the Beijing Industrial Design Promotion Organization, the Z-Park Brand Innovation and Development Association Beijing, the Corporate Design Foundation (US), Made In China (UK), the ARC Centre of Excellence for Creative Industries and Innovation (Australia), and the Datong Foundation China Desk (Netherlands).
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Whereas Dongcheng lays claim to Beijing’s cultural crown jewels, Chaoyang District is the commercial powerhouse of Beijing. Identified as Beijing’s CBD, Chaoyang has the highest proportion of the world’s top 500 companies in China and houses 159 foreign embassies (Hui 2006). Chaoyang was the first district in Beijing to identify with the cultural creative industries movement, commissioning a report entitled “Study on Cultural and Creative Industries for Chaoyang District, Beijing” in 2005 (see Hui 2006). One of the cultural landmarks of Chaoyang is the contemporary artists’ district (yishu qu) at Dashanzi. The name 798 is well-known internationally. A former electronics factory in the 1950s, 798 is a tourist attraction for many visitors to Beijing. For both artists and visitors alike, the district is a symbol of Beijing’s new openness. 798 is situated within a larger industrial cluster initially called Joint Factory 718 between ring roads 4 and 5 on Beijing’s central north-east, occupying a total land area of 290,000 m2, 225,000 m2 of which are occupied by buildings. The area originally contained multiple factories designed in the Bauhaus style by East German architects in 1952, occupying 93,000 m2 of the whole factory complex. In 1964, the 718 Joint Factory was disbanded and six sub-factories (700, 706, 707, 718, 797 and 798) took on their own lives. In 2001, the factories joined together under the name Seven Star China Electronic Group (qixing huadian jituan). The area includes a power generation Factory 751, which is adjacent to the arts centre and currently remains under heavy security. The area was initially used for public art projects by the Beijing Central Academy of Fine Arts when it moved during its transitional period to a semiconductor factory one block away from 798 in September 1995. The precinct was first made available for individual studios in 2000 when the Academy moved out. Within 2 years, the area had transformed into an exhibition space featuring China’s avant-garde. The design elements of 798 were further enhanced by Chinese artists who had experienced loft style living overseas (He 2004). The Beijing-based architect-writer Bert de Muynck has written about the transformation of 798 into a cultural concept. He quotes Bérenice Angremy, director of Thinking Hands Co. Ltd., an international art consultant, who worked for 5 years in 798: “[i]n the first phase, 2002–2005, we moved into a largely empty factory and organically turned it into an art district. The first galleries entering here had a mission, to fill a space in Beijing’s creative society.” During this phase, 798 was open to all, the occupants believing that it would soon be demolished. After 3 years, participation in the project was subject to a renewing yearly contract. Angremy continues: “[i]n the second phase, after 2005, the Seven Stars Group stopped renting to foreigners and artists” (cited in de Muynck 2007). On 28 March 2006, the complex came under the joint management of the Chaoyang government and the Seven Stars Group. A management group called the Beijing 798 Arts District Construction Management Company was formed. From 28 September to 14 October of that year, the site hosted the “2006 Beijing 798 Cultural Creative Festival.” In December 2006, the site was officially recognised as one of Beijing’s ten designated cultural creative clusters. The future of 798 is currently under local government review. Urban planners have recommended extending cultural tourism aspects to include the adjacent
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751 factory and even turn one of the gas tanks into a boutique brewery, together with further landscaping. Investment has flowed into the site, enhancing the contemporary look of the art district. By April 2007, the co-owners had positioned three large projects for 798’s future status. Together with improved road access and further greening of the site, 798 would house a Chinese Contemporary Art Academy, the 798 Creation Factory, and the Beijing 798 International Copyright Trading Centre. Despite these enhancements to 798’s brand, many artists have looked further afield to Songzhuang (see below) and another eastern district, Gaobeidian. The drift away from 798 is orchestrated to some extent by Huang Rui, the figurehead of 798’s emergence. Whether Gaobeidian, currently a production centre for furniture, will function as a kind of clearing zone between the commercialism of 798 and the more aesthetic milieu of Songzhuang remains to be seen. De Muynck notes that the Gaobeidian plan includes international brand-name stores, a traditional cultural street to be called Qingming Shanghe Street,14 a bar and club area called Peach Blossom Island, an avant-garde centre aptly named Creative Land and of course, a business district with five star hotels and conference centres. In China, the future of art and culture is irreversibly tied to developers as much as to cultural officials. Elsewhere in Chaoyang, there are ambitions to develop a media cluster. CCTV is relocating from western Xicheng district to the eastern third ring road in Chaoyang. This is a massive project, only topped by the Beijing Olympics Stadium construction, significantly also in Chaoyang district. The new CCTV headquarters has been designed by the Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas, a 230-m-high arch formed by two L-shaped towers containing over 400,000 m2 of floor space. Koolhaas himself is upbeat about China as a place of creativity, a place where international companies can design and experience “new architecture,” free from the restrictions placed on development in the Netherlands presumably. The relocation of CCTV will reshape Beijing’s CBD, bringing the talents of media professionals closer into the business services milieu. Chaoyang is already the most clustered business centre in China, taking into account the high proportion of foreigners working in embassies and in businesses. The district has 60 tourist hotels, 12 of which are five or six-star. However, the relocating of CCTV and the re-imagining of Chaoyang will also mean that thousands of people will be forced to relocate elsewhere. Real estate prices, already high, will escalate, making the district unaffordable for poorer Beijing residents. The Songzhuang Creative Arts and Cartoon Cluster in Tongzhou District (formerly Tong County) is another ambitious project, the scale of which is difficult to imagine in developed countries. In the Jin and Yuan Dynasties (twelfth and thirteenth centuries CE), the region was the northern axis of the Great Canal leading to Hangzhou. The district’s economic success to date has come from high-tech industries as well as manufacturing, food processing and garment production. The Songzhuang cluster draws together more than 2,000 contemporary artists: the best works are to be found in a large exhibition complex funded by
14
This is based on the famous Qingming Scroll, a portrait of daily life in the Northern Song. The original Qingming Park is found in Kaifeng, Henan Province. For discussion, see Keane (2007).
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the local government. Songzhuang is the node of a number of small art villages: Xiaobaocun, Daxingzhuang, Xindian and Xiaoyangzhuang. One of the leading art figures in the area is Huang Yongyu, a professor from the Chinese Academy of Arts. The open and natural environment of the district has attracted many younger artists. The infusion of artists into the community has in turn created a new aesthetic immediately apparent in the design of shop fronts. In other words, the artists have provided a makeover for this former industrial area. The local government has thrown its weight behind the value-adding capability of the artistic community, establishing and supporting the Songzhuang Artists’ Promotion Society together with an annual Songzhuang Arts Festival in the hope that this creative development model will attract more tourists to the area, perhaps those that ultimately find 798 too commercial and Gaobeidian too pretentious. However, commercial concerns also remain at the forefront of Songzhuang’s ambitions despite some artists’ claims that their work is less tainted by the lure of the tourist market than their compatriots closer to the CBD. The Songzhuang district plan anticipates brokering synergy between the creativity of contemporary art and the modern medium of animation and video games. The relocation of the Sunchime Cartoon and Animation Group’s administration from Hunan Province to Beijing in 2006 has provided the impetus for the rescaling of creative industry ambitions. Plans for the new Cultural Creative Park in Tongzhou include the Sunchime Cartoon and Online Game Industrial Base. The 34 ha park is described as “integrating cultural resources, technological innovation and artistic creativity to form an industrial cluster” (Sunchime 2006).
Conclusion: Clusters or Real Estate? What do these developments reveal about China’s creative economy? Will the recent proliferation of clusters, parks, precincts and zones (Table 1) produce real innovation or will they struggle with each other to survive? In the beginning of the chapter, I suggested that clustering follows the logic of socialist development theory more than market principles of competitive advantage. In China, the question often asked is: what is needed? Under the current investment friendly regime, at all levels of government, it is relatively easy to convince city planners of the logic of agglomeration. The deeper question is: what is possible? Is it possible to harvest creative dynamism in such clusters? As one new media entrepreneur wryly commented to me: “parks are for nerds,” (Personal interview, Wang 2005). As I have mentioned, clusters are not a new idea in China. However, the current phase of clustering signals intent to incorporate disparate elements, including greater degrees of international human capital and investment. Size is also an issue. China’s economic development since 1978 has been a story of many small empires rather than national champions devouring competitors. The term “duplicate construction” (chongfu jianshe) describes the process by which enterprises replicate one another’s activities, even including infrastructure, resulting in a fragmented marketplace typified by parasitic localisation and little real innovation.
Shijingshan (West)
Fengtai (S)
Xuanwu (West)
Chongwen (South CBD)
Chaoyang (East CBD)
Xicheng (West CBD)
Dongcheng (North-east inner CBD)
Recreation and ecological entertainment zone in construction incorporating Shijingshan Amusement Park, Beijing International Sculpture Institute, Radio China International, a digital amusement experience town and Post-industrial civilisation experience centre
Cultural tourism: Yonghegong (Tibetan Temple); Guozijian, Temple of Earth, Tiananmen Square; Forbidden Palace; Culture lanes (hutongs) New media: Internet gaming and animation base (Gehua Group anchor tenant) Conventions: Great Hall of People Cultural tourism: Millennium Art Museum; Great Hall of the People, National Grand Theatre, Chinese Beijing Opera Troupe; publishing and print groups; west Chang’an street culture zone Religious culture (Daoist Temple); hutong culture Business and content industries: Centre for business consultancy services, advertising, emerging potential in service and content oriented industries (CCTV, BTV and Phoenix TV relocation) Fine arts and design: Contemporary performing arts, publishing, arts, design, fashion and antiques International: Foreign embassy district Sports: 2008 Beijing Olympic Stadium Education: Chinese University of Communication (Cultural Industries Research and Training Base); Academy of Art and Design of Tsinghua University; Central Academy of Fine Arts Cultural tourism: Temple of Heaven; Traditional medicine; Religious culture (Daoist Temple, Christian and Muslim Mosque); hutong culture Sports and recreation: Sports development base Traditional cultural district: Tianjiao performing street artists; Dream of the Red Mansion backlot. Religious culture (Christian and Muslim Mosque) Fashion design; clothing production and retail
Table 1 Beijing’s cultural creative clusters, bases and centres by district (Compiled by author) District Cultural and knowledge based assets
International Media Avenue; Liulichang, Dashila commercial culture District incorporating cultural creative industry park China Vogue Brand & Fashion Promulgation Base in Dahongmen area (also known as Zhejiang Village) Capital Recreation District (CRD), National demonstration base of digital media technology industrialisation, National base for animation and game industry development
798 contemporary arts cluster, Panjiayuan antique market, Jingyuan digital photography base, Sanjianfang international animation base, Jingmian No 2. Textile Factory reconstruction project: international fashion and media centre), Zhengdong Creative Industry Park, Beijing Happy Valley, Olympic Contemporary Sports Culture Centre, Chaoyang Culture Park, Sanlitun-Gongti Fashion Culture Street, Wenyu River Green Environment district, Dahuan Culture Park, Gaojing Film, TV and Communication Park, Gaobeidian Folk-custom Culture Park. Planned Beijing Fashion Business District (FBD)
Beijing DRC Industrial Design Creative Industries Base in Deshengyuan
Beijing Gehua Cultural Creative Industry Centre; Yongheyuan Science and Technology Park; International Creative Industries Alliance (ICIA), National Performance Art Centre
Clusters, bases and centres
Film and TV production: Film distribution and services, exhibition and new releases (festivals); Copyright trade centre Fashion: Textile design (Cultural Creative Park) Visual arts and traditional culture
Huairou (North)
Cultural tourism: Great Wall (emphasis on tour groups) Traditional culture
Media: One zone, three parks (backlots) and three centres (training in software, animation and creative arts)
Daxing (South)
Changping (North) Yanqing (North) Miyun (North)
Visual arts: Large scale artist collectives and projected animation centres
Airport zone: New international airport; folk artists’ village (Banqiao) Design: Projected design zone and joint training institutes Print: Printing industry production base Exhibition: New Beijing International Exhibition Centre
Intellectual property: High tech and software centre of China; telecommunications, TV and movie institutes, emphasis on IP (patents); Digital and media content: Electronics, Internet and gaming industries, film, animation and media content production; Education: Top level universities including Peking University, Tsinghua University, Tsinghua University Science Park; Telecommunication University; Beijing Film Academy: Performance arts; Creative talent training Tourism and intangible cultural heritage
Tongzhou (East)
Mentougou (outer West) Shunyi (NE)
Haidian (North-west)
The Great Wall Culture Tourism Miyun Cultural Creative Industry Street (planned)
Western Beijing Culture Corridor incorporating visual arts, film and photography (projected) Zhongbei film & TV base; New International Exhibition and Advertising Centre within Beijing International Airport creative industry park, Shunyi Creative Industry Centre (planned), Guomen Fashion Industry Centre Sanchen cartoon and animation base, Songzhuang artists village (both incorporated within planned Beijing Cultural Creative Park) National (Weishanzhuang) New Media Production Base, Xingguang film and TV Park, Beiputuo film and TV Park; Dasenlin film and TV Park China (Huairou) Film and TV Base projected to be biggest in Asia (16 studio backlots); currently operational base of China Film Group Beijing Fashion Island Shangyuan artists village, Xiangtang Culture Village
Zhonguancun Software Park; Zhongguancun Creative Industry Pioneer Base
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The question of whether these creative clusters can break away from duplicate construction is a moot point. The key point is, even in a marketplace as large as China, even in a country so diverse, how many “creative” clusters can you sustain? The advantages of clustering – the reduction in transport costs, accessibility to services and human capital, associational activity, knowledge spillovers etc. – are likely to be negated by cities, districts and regions competing for investment in similar sectors. Furthermore, in a city such as Beijing, how many digital, new media and fashion “bases” can co-exist? Rather than providing the basis for China’s entry into the fast lane of the creative economy, many of these proliferating clusters will eventually finish as road wrecks. In some respects, the problem is an absence of creativity more than a creative zeitgeist. Creativity is something that is added, like a façade, to show loyalty to the 11th 5 Year Plan. Likewise, “cultural creative industries” has become an expedient term to justify real estate speculation and the construction of creative training centres, often based on bureaucratic models but lacking real imagination and a sense of risk-taking. Time will tell if this latest stage of collective organisation will move China forward or retard the regime’s creative vision.
References Andersson, A. E. and E. A. Andersson. 2006. The economics of experiences, the arts and entertainment. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Baldwin, R. 2006. Globalisation: The great unbundling(s). Economic Council of Finland. www. tinyurl.com/2ol2n8. Accessed on 17 May 2008. Beijing Creative Centre. 2007. Promotional material. Gehua Group. Beijing Statistics Yearbook. 2007. http:www.bjstats.gov.cn/tjnj/2007-tjnj/. Accessed on 17 May 2008. Bilton, C. 2007. Management and creativity: From creative industries to creative management. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Chen Guanzhong. 2004a. Boximiya Beijing (Bohemian Beijing). In Boximiya Zhongguo (Bohemian China), eds. Chen Guanzhong, Liao Weitang and Yan Jun, 21–51. Guilin: Guanxi University Press. Chen Guanzhong. 2004b. You yibai ge liyou bu gai zai Beijing shenghuo wei shenme hai zai zhe? (Given a hundred reasons that one should not live in Beijing, why is one still here?). In Boximiya Zhongguo (Bohemian China), eds. Chen Guanzhong, Liao Weitang and Yan Jun, 53–59. Guilin: Guanxi University Press. Cowan, T. 2002. Creative destruction: How globalization is changing the world’s cultures. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. De Muynck, B. 2007. The rise and fall of Beijing’s creative business district. Commercial Real Estate 4 (April 2007). See http://idash.org/pipermail/my-ci/2007-May/000299.html. Desrochers, P. and F. Sautet. 2004. Cluster-based economic strategy, facilitation policy and the market process. The Review of Austrian Economics 17(2/3): 233–245. Florida, R. 2002. The rise of the creative class and how it’s transforming work, leisure, community and everyday life. New York: Basic Books. Friedmann, J. 2002. The prospect of cities. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Friedmann, J. 2005. China’s urban transition. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Gibson, M. and L. Kong. 2005. Cultural economy: A critical review. Progress in Human Geography 29(5): 541–561.
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Hall, P. 1999. Cities in civilization: Culture, innovation and the urban order. London: Phoenix Giant. He, W. 2004. 718 gongchang: 798 yishu: yifen shehui shiyan de baogao (718 factory, 798 art: A report on a social experiment). In Beijing 798: Reflections on art, architecture and society in China (Chinese language section), ed. Huang Rui. Hong Kong: Timezone 8. Hui, D. 2006. From cultural to creative industries: Strategies for Chaoyang district. International Journal of Cultural Studies 9(3): 317–332. Huot, C. 2000. China’s new cultural scene: A handbook of changes. Durham/New York: Duke University Press. Keane, M. 2001. By the way, FUCK YOU! Feng Xiaogang’s disturbing television dramas. Continuum 15(1): 57–66. Keane, M. 2007. Created in China: The great new leap forward. London: Routledge. Kong, L., C. Gibson, L.-M. Khoo and A.-L. Semple. 2006. Knowledges of the creative economy: Towards a relational geography of diffusion and adaptation in Asia. Asia Pacific Viewpoint 47(2): 173–194. Landry, C. 2000. The creative city: A toolkit for urban innovators. London: Earthscan. Li, L., A. Dray-Novey and Haili Kong. 2007. Beijing: From imperial capital to olympic city. Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan. Mao, Q. and Jin, Y. 1997. Development issues and planning strategies in the Beijing metropolitan region. Ekistics 64(385–387): 203–210. Marshall, A. 1920/1986. Principles of economics. London: Macmillan. Mok, K. W. P. 2006. In search of the market in China: The regional dimension of Hong Kong’s creative industries. International Journal of Cultural Studies 9(3): 333–347. Porter, M. E. 1990. The competitive advantage of nations. New York: The Free Press. Potts, J. and S. Cunningham. 2008. Four models of the creative industries. International Journal of Cultural Policy 14(3): 233–248. Rosen, D. H. 2003. How China is eating Mexico’s lunch. The International Economy Spring: 22–25. Sunchime. 2006. Using motion to create emotion. Promotional material. Sunchime Group. Visser, R. 2004. Space of disappearance: Aesthetic responses to contemporary Beijing city planning. Journal of Contemporary China 13(39): 2777–3310. Wang, J. 2005. Author interview with Jerry Wang, CEO Goyoo Media. June 22. Wang, J. 2008. Brand new China: Advertising, media and commercial culture. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Zhang Xiaoming, Hu Huilin and Zhang Jiangang. 2004. Only thorough reform can give fresh impetus to the rapid development of China’s cultural industry. The Blue Book of China’s Culture 2004: 1–18. Zhou, Y. 2008 The inside story of China’s high-tech industry: Making Silicon Valley in Beijing. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield.
Part III
A Creative Class?
Chapter 7
The European Creative Class and Regional Development: How Relevant Is Florida’s Theory for Europe? Høgni Kalsø Hansen, Bjørn Asheim, and Jan Vang
Introduction Since Florida published his provocative book, The rise of the creative class, in 2002 it has spurred an impressive amount of attention and occasionally, heated debate among academics and policy-makers. With this paper, we aim at pushing this debate further, but not by summarizing, reviewing or contributing to the various types of critiques of Florida (for a detailed critique, see Glaeser 2004; Malanga 2004; Peck 2005; Markusen 2006; Hansen et al. 2005; Asheim and Hansen 2008; Hansen 2007; see also Chapter 8, Oakley, this volume; Chapter 9, Mok, this volume). Instead we test and discuss the relevance of the core hypotheses in Florida’s work for 445 European regions and thus contribute critical yet constructive insights into the relevance of Florida’s work for Europe. The regions are distributed across Denmark, Finland, the Netherlands, Norway, Switzerland, Sweden, Germany and the UK. There are good reasons to undertake this exercise in a European context especially as Florida is central to policy-making in Europe as well. The creative class (or classes) in Europe is carrier of different cultures, historical experiences, educational backgrounds and possibly, different value systems. The regions are embedded in different nations and super-national regimes of regulation, have different histories and cultures, and levels of urbanisation from the US. Thus, one can neither a priori assume that Florida’s work will automatically be relevant in a European context, nor take it for granted that its degree of relevance is the same across the diverse European space. The context for Florida’s work is the recognition that creativity and talents are important factors underpinning regional development (Florida 2002, 2005a, b). According to this stream of research, time–space compression has resulted in the emergence of a regionalised knowledge economy (Asheim et al. 2007) where competition for talent has increased as innovation becomes crucial for maintaining competitiveness. These insights have entered the regional policy agenda. Sub-
H.K. Hansen () Centre for Innovation, Research and Competence in the Learning Economy (CIRCLE) Lund University, P.O. Box 117, SE-221 00 Lund, Sweden e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_7, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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sequently, it has forced local and regional authorities to implement new political actions toward supplementing traditional policies aimed at attracting investments (business climate) with people climate policies. This is done with the purpose of attracting and retaining talents and members of the creative class as such. Florida’s work has played a crucial role in spurring these interests. Beyond a doubt, this literature on the creative class and the competition for talent has provided valuable insights. Yet, despite attempts at undertaking studies outside the US (and Canada), this stream of research has not been properly tested and discussed in the context of Europe’s regions. Most studies thus far have either been aggregated on the national level or focused on isolated cases (e.g. Florida and Tingali 2004). Our goal is to reduce this omission. This is done by asserting the relevance of the core of Florida’s theory by identifying and developing the key hypotheses in his work and testing them on the aforementioned 445 European regions. The empirical case study is based on original data, and allows for targeting the specific weaknesses of the current research on Florida and Europe as we use a regional dataset that includes several regions.1 This implies a more systematic approach compared to isolated case studies. The chapter begins by outlining the central elements of the creative class approach, with the aim identifying and developing the central hypotheses we later test in the empirical section. The next section introduces the method and dataset. This is followed by a section presenting and discussing the central findings. Finally, we round off the chapter by presenting some concluding remarks and pointing out the need for further research.
The Creative Class Approach: Unpacking Florida The aim of the section is to clarify what is meant by talents and the creative class, and which role they are attribute as engines in regional development in Florida’s approach. The section does not strive towards giving a detailed introduction and discussion of Florida’s work, but merely to provide sufficient content to legitimize four central hypotheses which are then tested in the empirical section.
The Creative Class and Regional Development: Theory and Development of Hypotheses Florida’s conceptualization of the importance of talents stands on the shoulders of insights generated by research in economic and urban geography on the link between globalization and the crisis of Fordism. According to this research, the
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‘Technology, Talent and Tolerance in European Cities: A Comparative Analysis’ was a European Science Foundation project in collaboration with national science foundations and other funding agencies. The Swedish part was funded by the Swedish Research Council. The project included eight national research teams and was aimed at examining the claims put forward by Florida (2002) in a context of European city regions. The project was coordinated by professor Bjørn Asheim, Lund University.
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mismatch between the institutions that underpinned the Fordist mode of accumulation through the 1970s and 1980s transformed the Fordist state into a regionalised knowledge economy (Asheim et al. 2007; Lundvall 1992), where innovative industries constitute the foundation for the competitiveness of economies of the developed world. Harvey (1989) examined this shift in strategic governance of city-regions as a move from a managerial towards an entrepreneurial approach. According to Harvey, four strategies were used in shaping competitiveness. They are: 1. Exploitation of particular advantages for the production of goods and services 2. Improvement of the competitive position with respect to the spatial division of consumption 3. Acquisition of key control and command functions in finance, government or information gathering and processing, and finally 4. Competition on the redistributed surplus from central governments These strategies were seen as elements in the increasing competition among cities at national and transnational levels. In Florida’s vocabulary, the policies mainly focusing on improving the business climate were, in Harvey’s words, building regional competitive advantage based on allocative efficiency. The core of business climate policies refers to policies targeting firms’ economic incentives. Due to the focus on business policies, the strategies were blind to the specific requirements of innovative industries and subsequently, the importance of attracting and retaining talents.
The Creative Class as Engines of Regional Development According to Florida, the creative class constitutes the core of innovative industries. Compared to other classes, the creative class poses new conceptual challenges since members of the creative class do not see themselves as members of a class (Florida 2002). In other words, the creative class fails to fit into the traditional class concept as it is defined by creative occupation, within a variety of innovative industries. The creative class can be divided into two occupational sub groups: the Super Creative Core being persons carrying out creative tasks within computing, architecture, arts, science and education, and the Creative Professionals being persons working with management, business, financial and legal issues, health care and sales management (Florida 2002: 328). The creative class – especially the Super Creative Core – contributes with the ‘raw material’ of innovative production: new ideas, new approaches and visions. Compared to research stressing the importance of the individual genius, Florida links idea-generation and thus, innovativeness to the availability of a heterogeneity of voices and perspectives. The more heterogeneous the creative class is, the more possibilities it opens for combining and mixing different ideas and viewpoints, which in turn leads to a large supply of potential innovations.
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These insights go against earlier insights that linked innovative performance to social capital. Putnam (1993) is used in many analyses of regional development to argue that social capital, understood as networks and connections, trust, common rules etc., is of crucial importance for creating learning environments, transforming knowledge into product or process innovations (e.g. Maskell and Malmberg 1999). According to this literature, innovation within industries will have better odds when strong ties between people are present. Florida (2002) comes to different results when analysing the creative class. He argues that social capital, as defined by Putnam (1993), is exclusive in the sense that social interaction is based on communities of likeness. The problem of Putnam’s social capital is that its exclusive nature eliminates diversity and hence strangles space for innovative thought. Simultaneously, the exclusive nature of strong ties makes it very difficult for outsiders, e.g. migrants, to enter social circles and, hence, mobility is lowered.2 Based on the arguments of Granovetter (1973) and Grabher (1993), Florida (2002) finds that the creative class favours quasi-anonymity based on weak ties rather then strong ones. He argues that a new social structure is emerging. People in the creative class do not want neighbours peering over the fence. Former social structures have proven restrictive and have been substituted by new ones that are weaker and hence, open to innovative and diverse mindsets. At the same time, weak ties allow for a much faster inclusion into communities favouring rapid absorption of new ideas as well as adjustment of norms and values. This, together with other factors such as labour markets characterised by high demand for qualified personnel, cultural diversity and tolerance, low entry barriers and high levels of urban service, largely determine the economic geography of talent and of creativity. This leads to hypothesis 1 (H1): H1(a): Regions with a high degree of heterogeneity will attract and retain a relatively high proportion of the creative class. H1(b): Regions with a high degree of heterogeneity will display rapid regional development. One reason why Florida has gained momentum in strategic planning is his argument that it is not enough to attract firms; the ‘right’ people also need to be attracted. Thus, he calls for complementing policies for attracting firms (business climate) with policies for attracting people (people climate). People climate can be understood as a series of ingredients that spice up the city, making it ‘cool.’ On the supply side, this covers different amenities, such as cultural organisation, bars, nightclubs, parks and Florida’s notorious bike tracks. Recently, in his 2005 work, he has also emphasised a well-functioning welfare state providing social, educational and economic comfort and security. This leads to hypothesis 2 (H2): 2
Asheim and Hansen (2008) argue that Florida’s reference to Putnam’s work suggests an understanding of social capital as bonding, i.e. rooted in civicness and thus limits, diversity and creativity. However, social capital can also be considered as ‘bridging.’ As such, it can co-exist with weak ties as this form of social capital is a result of organizational and institutional innovation at the societal level (e.g. labour market regulation and legislation in the Nordic countries).
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H2(a): Regions with social and cultural amenities will attract and retain a relatively high proportion of the creative class. H2(b): Regions with social and cultural amenities will display a relatively faster regional development. Along with the importance of attracting innovative people, Florida refers to the importance of technology and knowledge-intensive industries in fostering regional development. High concentrations of these industries are seen as the derived effect or outcome of a well-developed people climate, and a rough proxy for the business climate. An indicator of the importance of a region’s high-tech production is measured by the Tech-Pole Index. Here, we also use the Tech-Pole Index as a measure of the importance of high-tech production, but add knowledge-intensive business services and the automotive industry to the original list made by DeVol (1999). By modifying DeVol’s original index, we believe that we have transformed the index into a measure that makes a better fit for a European context, as high-tech production in Europe is not as dominating as in the USA. This leads to the following hypothesis (H3): H3(a): Regions with a relatively high proportion of technological and knowledgeintensive industries co-locate with the creative class. H3(b): Regions with a relatively high proportion of technological and knowledgeintensive industries display a relatively faster regional development. Inspired by Jacobs (1985), Florida (2002) emphasizes the importance of cities as the ultimate location for innovative industries (see also Scott et al. 2001; Scott and Storper 2003; Storper and Venebles 2004). He suggests that the heterogeneity found in cosmopolitan cities is the backbone of creativity and innovativeness. He argues that companies agglomerate in cities to draw on the concentration of talented people who generate innovation and economic development. The ability to rapidly mobilise talent from such a concentration of people is considered a tremendous source of competitive advantage for companies and subsequently, for regions. Constellations of talents and creative people, he argues, are most commonly found in large city regions, where the diversity of urbanisation economies is more abundant. This leads to hypothesis 4 (H4): H4(a): Larger city-regions will attract and retain a relatively higher proportion of the creative class than smaller city-regions. H4(b): Larger city-regions will witness a faster regional development than smaller city-regions. The importance of these factors has, according to Florida (2002), been documented by himself and his colleagues in numerous studies in the US and Canada (Florida and Gates 2002; Gertler et al. 2002). The studies have attracted much attention and sharp criticism from economic geographers. Critical researchers have alluded to how Florida’s research has been used to take attention away from the needs of the poor and marginalised (e.g. Markusen 2006; Peck 2005). Others have pointed to the weak theorising in Florida’s work and occasionally, to the existence of circularity of arguments in his work (Asheim and Hansen 2008). Finally, his data and econometrical work have been severely criticised (Glaeser 2004; Malanga 2004). The verdict is still open on these issues and it is beyond the scope of this chapter to comment in detail on these debates.
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For our purposes, it is more interesting to note that Florida and his colleagues have undertaken a large number of studies outside North America (e.g. Florida and Tingali 2004). These studies confirm the central tenets of Florida’s work. Yet, the majority of these studies have ignored the regional dimension and worked on a highly aggregated level, most often that of the national level. This prevents the establishment of any firm conclusions on the link between the creative class and regional development in a European context. To be able to answer these questions, there is a need for testing the aforementioned hypotheses on a dataset that allows for including the regional dimension. The next section will present the dataset and methods used to construct it. This provides the empirical input for the subsequent section which presents the statistical findings, that is, the statistical testing of the hypotheses in the 445 European regions.
Dataset and Methods Although North America and Europe share many common values and institutions, there are aspects of their respective societal development that show strong divergence with regard to political priorities, economic growth processes and social outcomes. Theoretical reflections on how to adapt the study to Europe ought, therefore, to take place within a broader analytical context of the ‘varieties of capitalism’ approach. Soskice (1999) and others3 convincingly argue that different national institutional frameworks support different forms of economic activity, that is, that coordinated market economies have their competitive advantage in diversified quality production, while liberal market economies4 are most competitive in industries characterised by radical innovative activities. Following Soskice, the Nordic and West European welfare states can be referred to as coordinated market economies. The main determinants are the degree of non-market coordination and cooperation which exists inside the business sphere and between private and public actors, as well as the degree to which labour remains ‘incorporated,’ and the financial
3
Numerous authors have presented research emphasizing both the importance and enduring geographical divergences of incentives and constraints regulating collective action. These include Richard Whitley (1999) and his concept of business systems, as well as Robert Boyer and Bruno Amable, with the concept of ‘social systems of innovation and production’ (Amable 1999). The central common characteristic is a focus on complementary mechanisms of coordination, i.e. the structure of collective action in general – for instance between individual companies, capital and labour – and to what extent different sub-systems of coordination counteract or complement each other. 4 While Soskice (1999) distinguishes between coordinated and un-coordinated market economies, Hall and Soskice (2001) distinguish between coordinated and liberal market economies, thus accepting that market coordination (liberal systems) should not be equated with lack of coordination (un-coordinated economies). Hence, this must be understood as a distinction between degrees of relational versus market coordination, not a distinction between coordination and non-coordination. From a conceptual viewpoint, the market is a coordination mechanism equal to others.
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system’s ability to supply long term finance (Soskice 1999) is built on in-depth rather than proxy-based allocation, monitoring and evaluation (Porter 1998). The analyses in this paper are based on data from eight European countries accounting for more than 160 million people in total. The dataset includes 445 European regions, and the proxies used in the correlations below are the result of mutual work by the partners of the European research project. Aiming at generating comparable data for 445 regions across eight countries have resulted in compromises in order to get comparable measures. Therefore, some of the critique that the proxies used in this chapter might meet can be explained by a trade-off between being able to say something based on compromises or being able to say nothing. Most data originate from national or federal central registers and consequently covers the total population. Dutch data is census based and multiplied by factors to make it reflect the actual number of inhabitants. However, all in all, data can be viewed as highly reliable. One important comment has to be made though. The creative class in Norway does not include people in the health sector. This results in a lower share of the creative class in Norway compared to the rest of the countries included in the analysis below. The consequence is that the correlations of the creative class might be less significant or less strong. If the creative class within health care was included in the data, we could expect more convincing correlations than the one presented below.
The Variables In the quantitative analyses, variables like talents, creative class, openness, and the Tech-Pole Index were used. These mirror variables employed in previous research by Florida (2002) and Gertler et al. (2002) on the geography of talent and the rise of the creative class. In addition, indicators for cultural and recreational amenities are introduced along with indicators developed to reflect characteristics of European cities and their national political economies. Further, a proxy on entrepreneurship is introduced to complement the Tech-pole variable. A variable from Florida’s original work that has spurred much debate is the Gay Index used as a proxy for openness and tolerance. Data on sexual relations are impossible to get from central registers in Europe. Therefore, this variable is not included in the analysis below. However, the variable may also be considered inappropriate in a European context, partly because gay relationship is not as controversial in Northern and Western Europe as it is in North America, and partly because no European city has concentrations of homosexuals to the same degree as, for instance, San Francisco. The Creative Class Variable Florida’s ambition is to create a new way of measuring talent by identifying creative occupations and thereby people who are creative and innovative in their
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everyday work. This Creative Class Variable is measured as the share of people in creative occupations compared to total occupied population. The creative class is the variable running through all hypotheses. The Human Capital Variable To test whether or not the creative class is a better indicator of the link between talent and regional development, we add a Human Capital Variable. Human capital is widely accepted as having a crucial impact on a region’s competitive potential (Rauch 1993; Romer 1986; Lucas 1988; Glaeser 1998), and a central critique of Florida’s work is that he is actually measuring human capital but is simply wrapping it in new, ‘fancy’ concepts (Glaeser 2004). The Human Capital Variable is based on the share of the population between 18 and 65 that holds a bachelor degree or above. The Bohemian Variable In England in the nineteenth century, canaries were taken deep into the coal mines. The canaries were used to determine the gas level of the air that the miners were breathing. If the gas level was too high, the canary would die and the coal miners would hurry up to the surface. The Bohemian Variable should be understood in the same way. If openness and tolerance toward differentness are absent in a region, bohemian people will take flight. Bohemian occupations include authors, artistes and others of such nature, and the Bohemian Variable is measured in terms of bohemians as a proportion of the total occupied population between 18 and 65. The bohemian index is used in testing hypothesis H1a and b. The Openness Variable Openness towards people representing different norms and values is difficult to measure quantitatively. We try, however, by looking at the foreign-born population as a proxy of tolerance of differentness. The Openness Variable indicates all foreign-born people as a share of the total population. A high score on the Openness Variable, equal to a high rate of foreign-born people, is understood as a positive indication of a tolerant environment. This is of course not unproblematic. High concentrations of foreign ethnic groups can lead to conflicts, and to collapse of whole city districts. Consequently, Hansen (2007) has constructed an Integration Index that measures the difference between share of ethnic Swedes and ethnic nonSwedes on the labour market in Sweden. Such a variable is seen as a supplement to the Openness Variable to get a better indication of tolerance. Unfortunately, this index is not possible to construct based on the data available in this database. Thus, the openness measure used in this chapter does not say anything about tolerance in terms of integration, acceptance, etc. However, when put together with the
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Bohemian variable, it provides an impression of the openness towards ‘difference.’ This index is used for testing H1a and b. Public Provision Variable (PPI) The Public Provision Variable (PPI) is developed to analyse the supply of public sector services, such as education, health care and social security, that is offered to the population. The underlying argument for this is that talented and creative people are believed to be drawn toward regions that can offer a high level of public service. The index primarily includes people employed within education and health care. It is measured as the number of employed people in public service industries by every 100 inhabitants in a region. For welfare states like the Nordic countries, many of the welfare functions are centrally decided and therefore, regional differences are small and often politically influenced. This creates some difficulties in the direct interpretation of the results. Furthermore, it has to be stressed that the PPI does not address the quality or productivity of the service that is provided in a region. Moreover, Hansen (2007) has shown that the variable has a tendency to be negatively correlated with the size of the population. The most plausible explanation is the relatively high threshold level for the initial provision of face-to-face-related public services, and the productivity growth with increased scale of production. The index is used in hypothesis H2a and b. Cultural Opportunity Variable (COI) While the PPI is a proxy for the public service level of a particular region, the Cultural Opportunity Variable (COI) should be seen as an attempt to measure the cultural supply within a region. The COI measures cultural supply and thus indicates the difference in supply between regions. The variable is calculated as people employed in the cultural industries by every 100 inhabitants. This variable includes not only the cultural economy, that is film and video production, museums, libraries, theatres, etc., but also amenities that make a city life more attractive, entertaining and inviting. Therefore, employment in bars, restaurants, sports activities, etc. are included. The index is used for testing hypothesis H2a and b. The Tech-pole Variable – Knowledge Based Production Florida refers to the importance of high-tech industries in building a competitive region. An indicator of the importance of a region’s high-tech production is measured by the Tech-Pole Index. Here, we also use the Tech-Pole Index as a measure of the importance of high-tech production but contrary to Florida, we add knowledgeintensive business services and the automotive industry to the original list made by DeVol (1999). These additions include consultancy services, and research and development. We do, however, still use the term the Tech-Pole Index. By modifying
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DeVol’s original index, we believe that we have transformed the variable into a measure that makes for a better fit with a European context as the high-tech production in Europe is not as dominating as in the US. However, it has to be stressed that the adjusted high-tech/knowledge-intensive production in Sweden only accounts for 10% of the total employment. Thus, 90% is not addressed with this index. The variable is used for testing H3a and b. New High-Tech Firm Formation Variable – Entrepreneurship The future economic perspective of a region is naturally very difficult to predict. The New High-Tech Firm Formation rate brings along a proxy for the entrepreneurial spirit within a region, and this can be used as a proxy for the business climate. The variable is measured as new firms in high-tech and knowledge-intensive sectors per 1,000 inhabitants. The variable is used for testing H3a and b. Total Population Variable and Population Density Variable To investigate whether the creative class thesis is an urban phenomenon, if one at all, we introduce two variables that in theory will control for the urbanisation factor. The first variable is the total size of the population. Thus, regions will be ranked based on the number of inhabitants. The second variable is population density based on inhabitants by square kilometers. This variable will, in combination with the variables based on total population, take urbanisation into account. As opposed to the former variable, this variable will distinguish between larger and thus potentially population rich regions, and regions that are rich on population due to an urbanised landscape. Both variables are used for testing H4a and b.
The Proxies As we are mainly concerned with the impact of various variables on regional development, we include three direct proxies for development: population growth, employment growth and unemployment. Annual Average Population Growth Rate: 1993–2002 The first variable is the annual average population growth between 1993 to 2002. The rationale for this variable is that everything else being equal, we can expect population growth to have a positive effect on the economic dynamics of a region. Tax incomes and demand will rise, etc. This is not in itself a sufficient proxy for regional development but when combined with the following two variables, we believe that regional development is measured from several important angles.
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Annual Average Employment Growth Rate: 1993–2002 In a way similar to the variable above, the annual employment growth rate from 1993 to 2002, is based on changes in the economic structure of a region. The variable indicates a development in economic activities that can stimulate consumption based on a growing number of people with income.
Unemployment Rate: 2002 Lastly, we use the unemployment rate as a proxy for regional development. Here, we argue that if variables correlate negatively with this variable, then it is an indication of economic improvement. By combining all three indicators on regional development, we believe that we have a broad understanding of regional development. On the one hand, population growth can generate a growing consumption but on the other hand, it is not a guarantee unless job growth follows suit. Job growths, however, do not necessarily bring along more jobs per capita, consequently we add the unemployment rate as well. By doing so, we bring together three central and interrelated indicators of regional development. Figure 1 provides a diagram linking the above presented variables to technology, talent and tolerance, and further stress the link between the 3T’s and regional development. Details of the constructed variables can be seen in the Appendix.
Fig. 1 Variables as proxies for technology, talent, tolerance and regional development
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Europe, the Creative Class and Regional Development: Statistical Findings We shall analyse, in the following sub-sections, the relationship between the variables presented above on the basis of the eight hypothesis that we have generated. Florida sees regional development as a combination of two elements: people climate and business climate. People climate addresses elements that satisfy peoples’ needs and thus, choice of location. Business climate addresses the conditions for firms and thus, the location of economic activities. All hypotheses can be linked to one of the two climates – making people climate and business climate the dimension of the analysis.
People Climate According to Florida the right people climate will attract innovative people. Coming from this line of argument, the first hypothesis is that regions with a high degree of heterogeneity will attract and retain a relatively high proportion of the creative class. Table 1a shows that strong and significant correlations can be found between the bohemian variable and the creative class, whereas this relationship is less strong between bohemians and human capital. The same pattern is identified for the openness variable though the correlations are less strong. This outcome suggests that creative class people are more sensitive to tolerance then the human capital category. Further, the correlations provide evidence that creative class people (to a larger extent than people in the human capital category) locate in settings that can be interpreted as tolerant and open, and consequently, Table 1a supports H1a. The next hypothesis stated that regions with a high degree of heterogeneity will display a rapid regional development (H1b). Table 1b illustrates the relationship between tolerance and indicators of regional development. The correlations are significant and correspond with the theoretical argument though stronger correlations would have proven the logic of Florida more Table 1a Tolerance variables correlated by creative class and human capital Bohemians 2000 (Sweden 2002, UK 2001, Openness 2002 Norway 2004, Denmark 1999) (Denmark 1999) Creative class 2000 ,664(**) (Sweden 2002, UK 2001, Norway 2004, Denmark 1999) Human capital 2002 ,309(**) ** Correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed).
,395(**)
,245(**)
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Table 1b Tolerance variables correlated by indicators of regional development Bohemians 2000 (Sweden 2002, UK 2001, Openness 2002 Norway 2004, Denmark 1999) (Denmark 1999) Annual average population ,314(**) growth rate 1993–2002 (Denmark 1995–2002, Switzerland 1990–2000) Annual average employment ,311(**) growth rate 1993–2002 (Switzerland 1991–2001, Norway and Denmark 1995–2002) Unemployment rate 2002 −,010 ** Correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed). * Correlation is significant at the 0.05 level (two-tailed).
,340(**)
,116(*)
−,148(**)
convincingly. Further, the negative relationship between employment growth and openness goes against Florida’s claim but on the other hand, unemployment rates are negatively correlated with areas where multiculturalism is high. This suggests that tolerant and heterogeneous regions witness population growth and falling unemployment rates, but that employment growth is not as intense as it is in regions that witness lower population growth rates. However, all put together, it seems that the results are in favor of H1b. Besides tolerance, the attractiveness of places are believed to be important for attracting creative and highly educated people. Here, the supply of public services and cultural amenities are often stressed. Consequently, we test if Regions with social and cultural amenities will attract and retain a relatively high proportion of the creative class (H2a). While human capital is strongly and significantly correlated with both PPI and COI, Table 2a displays positive significant correlations between the cultural opportunity variable and the creative class, but not between the creative class and public provision. This outcome can be understood in two ways. First, the findings may suggest that the creative class is more concerned with cultural amenities than with the provision of social welfare goods. If this is the case, the findings document a need to differentiate between these two variables as attractors for the creative class and subsequently, that policy-makers do not need to pay attention to the provision of social welfare goods. However, another and more plausible explanation can also be drawn from the findings. The PPI variable is very evenly distributed in Europe. Due to its political character, PPI is often used proactively to generate regional developments in more peripheral areas. Further, as mentioned when it was presented, the variable has a relatively high threshold level for the initial provision of face-to-face-related services and increased productivity with the scale of production. Consequently, more peripheral regions can be expected to get higher ratings on this variable and consequently, a negative correlation will be the outcome. So in sum, H2a is only
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partly supported by the empirical findings, but most likely because the PPI does not reflect its theoretical starting point. The next step will be to see how the variables correlate with regional development. This corresponds with the testing of hypothesis H2b on whether regions with social and cultural amenities will display a relatively faster regional development. Like in Table 2a, Table 2b provides a converse relationship between PPI and population, which differs from what we have hypothesised. Again, we have to point out the weakness of the variable in the sense that scale production and the even distribution most likely has a major impact on the outcome. Further, we cannot say anything about the quality of the public services by using the variable. That which is making the picture even ‘fuzzier’ is the fact that PPI is positive though not significantly correlated with employment growth, and fairly strong and significantly negatively correlated with unemployment, suggesting that the PPI actually has some kind of a positive effect on regional development. The COI variable and its linkage to the three indicators on regional development also supports Florida’s approach to regional development. Consequently, except for the problematic character of the PPI variable, the empirical findings support H2b.
Table 2a Social and cultural amenities correlated by creative class and human capital PPI 2002 (Switzerland 2000) COI 2002 Creative class 2000 (Sweden −,485(**) 2002, UK 2001, Norway 2004, Denmark 1999) Human capital 2002 ,306(**) ** Correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed).
,370(**)
,480(**)
Table 2b Social and cultural amenities correlated by indicators of regional development PPI 2002 (Switzerland 2000) COI 2002 Annual average population −,212(**) growth rate 1993–2002 (Denmark 1995–2002, Switzerland 1990–2000) Annual average employment ,072 growth rate 1993–2002 (Switzerland 1991–2001, Norway and Denmark 1995–2002) Unemployment rate 2002 −,304(**) ** Correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed).
,239(**)
,514(**)
−,343(**)
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Business Climate The creative class thesis underscores the positive relationship between the creative class, the technology and knowledge-intensive firms and regional development. Two variables are used as indicators – the Tech-Pole Index indicating the concentration of knowledge-intensive production based on shares of regional and national employment, and entrepreneurship in knowledge-intensive sectors measured as the rate of new firm formation. Thus, we proceed to test H3a that states that regions with a relatively high proportion of technological and knowledge-intensive industries co-locate with the creative class. The findings from Table 3a leave us with yet another ‘fuzzy’ picture. Firstly, the creative class is positive and significantly correlated with the Techpole Index but at the same time, negative and significantly correlated with start-ups of knowledge-intensive firms. Secondly, human capital is negative, however insignificantly correlated with the Tech-pole Index but at the same time, positive and significantly correlated with start-ups of knowledge-intensive firms. Consequently, the creative class tend to be co-located with high concentrations of knowledgeintensive firms. Meanwhile, high start-up rates of these firms tend to take place in regions with relatively low shares of creative class people, but where concentration of human capital is relatively high. This implies that the creative class is relevant for the competitiveness of knowledge-intensive industries but cannot be looked upon as an entrepreneurial asset. Hence, the findings here suggest that if regions wish to build a knowledge-intensive industrial structure, regional planning should focus on attracting human capital. However, if a knowledge-intensive industrial structure already exists, then it would be wiser to target regional planning towards retaining the creative class. Consequently, we must conclude that the hypothesis cannot be confirmed. Yet, due to the diverse character of the correlations, it is also premature to reject it. As Table 3b shows, it seems difficult for us as well to find strong support for H3b, which suggests that regions with a relatively high proportion of technological and knowledge-intensive industries display a relatively faster regional development.
Table 3a Technology and knowledge-intensive industries correlated by creative class and human capital Tech-pole index 2002 New high-tech firms by (Denmark 1999) 1,000 inhabitants 2002 Creative class 2000 ,280(**) −,229(**) (Sweden 2002, UK 2001, Norway 2004, Denmark 1999) Human capital 2002 −,011 ,240(**) ** Correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed).
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Significant correlations are identified but they are too weak to lead to firm conclusions. Thus, strong conclusions on business climate are difficult to draw. Based on this, results are not univocal in favor for or in rejection to H3a and H3b. A Swedish study by Hansen (2007) also suggests this lack of a firm univocal relationship between Florida’s creative class approach and indicators of regional development: the technology dimension seems difficult to underpin theoretically both in Sweden and on a European regional level. This is further supported by Andersen et al. (2008a) who in a study of the creative class thesis in a Nordic context, only shows convincing results when regions with less then 100,000 inhabitants are left out of the analysis. This brings us to the last set of hypotheses (H4a and b) on the questions of whether the approach is mainly relevant when large cities and places with high population density are addressed. H4a suggests that larger city regions will attract and retain a relatively higher proportion of the creative class than smaller city-regions. Table 4a shows that the creative class is positively correlated with size and density (also more so than the human capital variable, which again underpins its specificities). This confirms the hypothesis as the correlations document that the large and densely-populated cities and regions have a higher proportion of members of the creative class and thus, better preconditions to attract and retain larger numbers of the creative class given equal preferences for location. The last hypothesis tests if larger city-regions will witness a faster regional development than smaller city-regions. The correlations of Table 4b are not as convincing as one could suppose. There is some kind of positive tendency towards size but size and population density is not a dominating element. Therefore, based on the European data, one could argue that while the creative class is attracted by the larger cities, it does not automatically translate into marked higher rates of regional development and thus, there is no clear support for H4b.
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Table 4a Size correlated by creative class and human capital Total population 2002 (Switzerland 2000) Population density 2002 Creative class 2000 (Sweden ,466(**) ,321(**) 2002, UK 2001, Norway 2004, Denmark 1999) Human capital 2002 −,131(**) ,204(**) ** Correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed).
Table 4b Size correlated by indicators of regional development Total population 2002 (Switzerland 2000) Population density 2002 Annual average population ,163(**) ,095 growth rate 1993–2002 (Denmark 1995–2002, Switzerland 1990–2000) Annual average employment −,067 ,182(**) growth rate 1993–2002 (Switzerland 1991–2001, Norway and Denmark 1995–2002) Unemployment rate 2002 ,248(**) −,026 ** Correlation is significant at the 0.01 level (two-tailed).
Conclusion The study has set out to test and discuss the relevance of Florida’s much discussed and influential attempts at identifying the importance of the creative class for regional growth in a European context. The results are ‘fuzzy’ and do not solely favor Florida or his opponents. On the one hand, adding the more traditional human capital variable to the above analysis provides evidence that the creative class does not share location patterns equal to people in the human capital category. Some patterns are equal but not all, and the correlations are different. This enables us to conclude that Glaeser’s (2004) critique of Florida (2002, 2005b) for presenting old wine in new bottles might be misleading. The concept of the creative class does add value to our understanding of what conditions regional development. On the other hand, Florida’s understanding of people climate is already much more robust than his understanding of business climate and in that sense, his thesis has a severe problem. If conclusions should be drawn from this analysis, we have to state that the creative class actually tends to be co-located with tolerant and attractive environments and further, that linkages between tolerant environments and regional development are present in Europe. However, having said that, we also have to point to the lack of a convincing and positive relationship between the creative class, regional development and knowledge-intensive production and start-ups. Entrepreneurial spirit is actually better explained by location of human capital than
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by location of creative class people. So what this exercise tells us is that linkages between the creative class and factors that influence regional development are identifiable in a European context, but the technology dimension is not necessarily one of them and consequently, Florida’s 3Ts might have to be narrowed down to 2Ts: talent and tolerance (Hansen 2007). Further, we can state that the creative class thesis favours larger city regions and thus, must be understood as a large city phenomenon in Europe, which is also supported by the findings of Andersen et al. (2008a) in a Nordic context. The present results also serve to raise some questions. What will happen if public provision was measured differently, for example, on the basis of quality or centres of excellence, such as universities, highly specialised sections within healthcare etc.? What will happen if we leave out high-tech production from the Tech-pole Variable and only focus on knowledge-intensive services, or leave knowledge-intensive services out of the Tech-pole Variable and only measure high-tech production? These questions are worth addressing in future research in order to obtain a better understanding of Florida’s theoretical basis on the one hand, and the relationship between creative class and human capital and indicators of people climate on the other. The differences between the results from eight countries representing 445 regions in Europe and the findings in North America are substantial; at least one of three cornerstones has proven to be doubtable. Consequently, we call for further research on the topic, but with some important elements in mind. First, we believe that research within this area would benefit from a knowledge base perspective. Hansen et al. (2005), and Asheim and Hansen (2008) have taken the first step towards a conceptualisation of the creative class based on knowledge bases, arguing that not all creative class people have equal preferences. Asheim and Hansen (2008) argues that to claim that 30–40% of the occupied population share common interest for housing, urban life political statement and the like is a substantial simplification of reality. Instead, it is argued that by dividing the creative class into groups drawing on synthetic, analytical or symbolic knowledge bases in their everyday work, a more diverse understanding of the trade-off between people climate and business climate is permitted. The line of reasoning is that the more dependent people are on cultural impulses in order to fulfil their profession, the more important factors that can be seen as proxies for people climate become. Second, we believe that future research would benefit from diversifying between phases in life. Andersen et al. (2008b) provide a qualitative study of the creative class thesis in a Nordic context. Based on interviews with creative class people, it is suggested that their preferences change in the course of life. What is interesting is that while young creative class people tend to be attracted by urban living and certain types of cultural amenities, creative class people with children tend to have preferences that lean towards suburban living, with the traditional house and garden and a safe community. The last element that we suggest should be touched upon in future research is that variety of capitalism plays a major role for Florida’s line of argument (Asheim and Hansen 2008). Florida argues that the creative class is highly mobile and they easily move from one place to another. This is, however, not the case in large parts of Europe for several reasons. First, Europe is not a single large labour market
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sharing the same language. Second only a few European countries have more than a few large cities that can offer dense labour markets for the creative class and highly educated people. Finally, at least in Northern Europe, both men and women have careers, which implies that moving from one region to another often requires two attractive jobs rather then one. Thereby, friction on labour markets rises while mobility drops. Consequently, models taking national and regional specificity into account should be the first step in a second generation creative class theory.
Appendix Table 1 Creative class (SSYK) Occupations
Occupations
• •
• •
Business professionals Legal professionals
•
Legislators, senior officials and managers Physicists, chemists and related professionals Mathematicians and statisticians
•
•
Computing professionals
•
•
Architects, engineers and related professionals Life science professionals
•
Archivists, librarians and related information professionals Social science and linguistics professionals (except social work professionals) Public service administrative professionals
Health professionals (except nursing) Nursing and midwifery professionals College, university and higher education teaching professionals Secondary education teaching professionals Primary education teaching professionals Special education teaching professionals Other teaching professionals
• • •
Physical and engineering science associate professionals Life science and health associate professionals Finance and sales associate professionals Business services agents and trade brokers
•
Administrative associate professionals
• •
Police officers and detectives Social work associate professionals
• • • • • • • •
•
Table 2 High-tech industries Industry • • • • • • • •
Manufacture of pharmaceuticals, medicinal chemicals and botanical products Manufacture of office machinery and computers Manufacture of electronic valves and tubes and other electronic components Manufacture of television and radio transmitters and apparatus for line telephony and line telegraphy Manufacture of television and radio receivers, sound or video recording or reproducing apparatus and associated goods Manufacture of medical and surgical equipment and orthopaedic appliances Manufacture of instruments and appliances for measuring, checking, testing, navigating and other purposes, except industrial process control equipment Manufacture of industrial process control equipment (continued)
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Table 2 (continued) Industry • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Manufacture of optical instruments and photographic equipment Manufacture of watches and clocks Manufacture of motor vehicles Manufacture of bodies (coachwork) for motor vehicles; manufacture of trailers and semi-trailers Manufacture of parts and accessories for motor vehicles and their engines Manufacture of aircraft and spacecraft Telecommunications Hardware consultancy Software consultancy and supply Data processing Data base activities Maintenance and repair of office, accounting and computing machinery Other computer related activities Research and experimental development on natural sciences and engineering Research and experimental development on social sciences and humanities Architectural and engineering activities and related technical consultancy Technical testing and analysis Motion picture and video activities
Table 3 Bohemian occupation Occupations • • •
Writers and creative or performing artists Artistic, entertainment and sports associate professionals Fashion and other models
Table 4 PPI Industry • • • • • • •
Primary education Secondary education Higher education Adult and other education Human health activities Veterinary activities Social work activities
Table 5 COI Industry • • • • • • •
Restaurants Bars Motion picture and video activities Radio and television activities Other entertainment activities Library, archives, museums and other cultural activities Sporting activities
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References Amable, B. 1999. Institutional complementarity and diversity of social systems of innovation and production. CEPREMAP (Working Paper). Andersen, K. V., H. K. Hansen, A. Isaksen, and M. Raunio. 2008a. Nordic city regions in the creative class debate – putting the creative class thesis to a test. In The Urban turn – and the location of economic activities, ed. H. K. Hansen, pp. 165–198. Lund: Lund University. Andersen, K. V., M. Bugge, H. K. Hansen, A. Isaksen, and M. Raunio. 2008b. Regional development in Nordic regions: The impact of peoples climate and business climate. In The Urban turn – and the location of economic activities, ed. H. K. Hansen, pp. 201–224. Lund: Lund University. Asheim, B. T. and H. K. Hansen. 2008. The creative class, people climate and business climate: Knowledge bases, variety of capitalism and social capital. In The Urban turn – and the location of economic activities, ed. H. K. Hansen, pp. 227–259. Lund: Lund University. Asheim, B. T., L. Coenen, and J. Vang. 2007. Face-to-face, buzz and knowledge bases: Sociospatial implications for learning, innovation and innovation policy. Environment & Planning C 25(5): 655–670. DeVol, R. 1999. America’s high-tech economy growth, development, and risks for metropolitan areas. Santa Monica, CA: Milken Institute. Florida, R. 2002. The rise of the creative class – and how it’s transforming work, leisure, community, & everyday life. New York: The Perseus Books Group. Florida, R. 2005a. The flight of the creative class. New York: Harper Business. Florida, R. 2005b. Cities and the creative class. New York: Routledge. Florida, R. and G. Gates. 2002. Technology and tolerance – diversity and high-tech growth. The Brooking Review Winter(20): 32–36. Florida, R. and I. Tinagli. 2004. Europe in the creative age. Pittsburg, CA: Carnegie Mellon Software Industry Center. Gertler, M., R. Florida, G. Gates, and T. Vinodrai. 2002. Competing on creativity: Placing Ontario’s cities in a North American context. A report prepared for the Ontario Ministry of Enterprise, Opportunity and Innovation and the Institute for Competitiveness and Prosperity. Munk Centre for International Studies, University of Toronto. Glaeser, E. 1998. Are cities dying. Journal of Economic Perspective 12: 139–160. Glaeser, E. L. 2004. Review of Richard Florida’s the rise of the creative class. http://post.economics.harvard.edu/faculty/glaeser/ papers /Review_Florida.pdf. Accessed 15 September 2006. Grabher, G. 1993. The weakness of strong ties. In The embedded firm, ed. G. Grabher, pp. 255–277. London: Routledge. Granovetter, M. 1973. The strength of weak ties. The American Journal of Sociology 78(6): 1360–1380. Hall, P. and D. Soskice. 2001. An introduction to varieties of capitalism. In Varieties of capitalism: The institutional foundations of comparative advantage, eds. P. Hall and D. Soskice, pp. 1–68. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hansen, H. K. 2007. Technology, talent and tolerance – the geography of the creative class in Sweden. Rapporter och Notiser 169. Department of Social and Economic Geography, Lund University. Hansen, H. K., J. Vang, and B. T. Asheim. 2005. The creative class and regional growth: Towards a knowledge based approach. CIRCLE Electronic Working Paper Series 2005/15. http://65.19.180.219/PublicationDetails.aspx?PubId = 64. Harvey, D. 1989. From managerialism to entrepreneurialism: The transformation in urban governance in late capitalism. Geografiska Annaler B 71: 3–17. Jacobs, J. 1985. Cities and the wealth of nations. New York: Vintage. Lucas, R. E. 1988. On the mechanics of economic development. Journal of Monetary Economies 22: 3–42.
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Lundvall, B.-Å. 1992. User-producer relationships, national systems of innovation and internationalisation. In National systems of innovation, ed. B-Å. Lundvall, pp. 45–67. London: Pinter. Malanga, S. 2004. The curse of the creative class. City Journal Winther: 36–45. Markusen, A. 2006. Urban development and the politics of a creative class: Evidence from a study of artists. Environment and Planning A 38: 1921–1940. Maskell, P. and A. Malmberg. 1999. The competitiveness of firms and regions – ubiquification and the importance of localized learning. European Planning Studies 6: 9–25. Peck, J. 2005. Struggling with creative class. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 29: 740–770. Porter, M. 1998. Clusters and the new economics of competition. Journal of the Economics of Business 1: 35–40. Putnam, R. 1993. Making democracy work. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Rauch, J. E. 1993. Productivity gains from geographic concentration of human capital: Evidence from the city. Journal of Urban Economies 34: 380–400. Romer, P. M. 1986. Increasing returns and long-run growth. The Journal of Political Economy 94: 1002–1037. Scott, A. J. and M. Storper. 2003. Regions, globalization, development. Regional Studies 37: 579–593. Scott, A. J., A. John, S. Edward, and M. Storper. 2001. Global city regions. In Global city-regions: Trends, theory, policy, ed. A. J. Scott, 11–32. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Soskice, D. 1999. Divergent production regimes: Coordinated and uncoordinated market economies in the 1980s and 1990s. In Continuity and change in contemporary capitalism, eds. H. Kitschelt et al., pp. 101–134. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Storper, M. and A. J. Venebles. 2004. Buzz: Face-to-face contact and the urban economy. Journal of Economic Geography 4: 351–370. Whitley, R. 1999. Divergent capitalisms – the social structuring and change of business systems. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Chapter 8
Getting Out of Place: The Mobile Creative Class Takes on the Local. A UK Perspective on the Creative Class Kate Oakley
Introduction Richard Florida’s notion of a “creative class” and the role that mobile knowledge workers can play in the economic development of cities and regions have been highly influential in UK policy circles. In a climate of hunger for “evidence-based policymaking,” Florida’s attempt to quantitatively measure, through the use of “indices” of various sorts, the conditions that he deems necessary for successful city-regions, have proved popular with policymakers, keen for what appear to be empirical approaches to policy development. This chapter aims to trace and critically examine that phenomenon. In particular, it seeks to understand why the work of a hitherto respected but relatively obscure economic geographer, should prove so popular with policymakers. It argues that the combination of some much-needed “good news” for British cities, still recovering from de-industrialisation and job losses, and a technocratic approach, well-suited to the “post-ideological” politics of the time, proved an irresistible combination. Florida’s adoption of the term “creative,” for his class of knowledge workers and professionals enabled his work to become entangled with existing debates about “creative cities”, “creative industries” and the “creative economy,” and thus to gain wider currency, despite the fact that his focus is largely on high technology growth, rather than the cultural or creative industries (Pratt 2008). In other words, it appeared to build on an existing set of approaches to developing the creative industries, though I will argue that it in fact took them in a different direction. The chapter then seeks to ask three basic questions about Florida’s work on the creative class: does it work? does it travel? and is it a productive policy approach for cities in the UK and elsewhere? In examining these questions, we will look briefly at the range of methodological, economic and political critiques that have been levied at Florida’s work inter
K. Oakley () Kate Oakley, City University and University of the Arts London, 22 Stansfield Rd, London SW9 9RZ, UK e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_8, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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alia (Donald and Morrow 2003; Gibson and Klocker 2005; Peck 2005; Berry 2005; Montgomery 2005; Markusen 2005; Scott 2006; Rausch and Negrey 2006) and in particular, at the argument that while his findings may be well-suited to a North American environment, its translation into policymaking in different geographic and social contexts has proved problematic (Nathan 2005; Oakley 2006; Hui et al. 2004). The chapter concludes by considering the challenges and issues that Floridastyle approach to urban policy leaves unresolved.
The Lure of Evidence Puzzling over Florida’s apparent celebrity, Jamie Peck (2005: 741) comments, “In the field of urban policy, which has hardly been cluttered with new and innovative ideas lately, creativity strategies have quickly become the policies of choice, since they license both a discursively distinctive and an ostensibly deliverable development agenda.” And indeed one of the paradoxes of Florida’s reception has been the degree to which his work has been taken up, even in relatively small, economically struggling cities and regions, despite the fact that much work in this field (Scott 2006; Hudson 2006; Massey 2007) suggests that path dependency and the polarising nature of recent economic changes generally serve to reinforce the economic supremacy of particular cities and regions, rather than offer a counterbalance to them. But as Peck states, the appeal of Florida’s work lies both in the notion that “anywhere can do it,” and, more importantly, in the absence of many other ideas for realisable economic development. In the case of UK policymakers, another attraction was that Florida’s work appeared to build on pre-existing creative industry strategies. The degree to which economic needs, brought about by the global economic restructuring of the 1970s and 1980s, were the drivers behind creative industry and creative city strategies in the UK should not be underestimated. This restructuring created highly differentiated cities, and parts of cities, privileging some economic sectors and types of employment (Massey 2007). Britain’s 20 largest cities lost half a million manufacturing jobs between 1981 and 1999 (Turok and Edge 1999), for example, with inner cities being particularly hard hit. This in turn led to a concentration of economically deprived households in some inner city neighbourhoods, as prosperous households moved out in a general shift of population from urban areas to suburbs, market towns and rural locations. In response to this, cities such as Sheffield, Liverpool, Manchester and Newcastle have all undertaken what might be described as “culture led” economic development strategies (Evans and Shaw 2004). The low barriers to entry in some creative industries, combined with strong traditions of popular culture from pop music to comic books, convinced policymakers that developing small firms in these sectors was a realistic strategy for job generation. Their approach has been to offer a mix of subsidised workspace, job-training and support for intermediary networks in the creative industries, largely aimed at small firms. Yet despite some early success, particularly in the development of digital industries in the late 1990s, creative industry advocates and sympathetic policymakers
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generally felt marginalised. The majority of the UK Government’s “knowledge economy” and innovation polices remain focused on science and technology (NESTA 2006), and while most British cities began to reverse the decline of previous decades (Athey et al. 2007), at least to some degree, the gap between them and London and its surrounding region, in terms of economic performance, grew wider (Reed et al. 2007; Massey 2007). Policymakers at the Department for Culture, Media and Sport had successfully exported the idea of creative industries, by now renamed from cultural industries (Cunningham 2003), but at home it was not only subject to criticism (Garnham 2005), but had in general failed to lead to large-scale national investment in these sectors or what might be considered any sort of industrial policy for them (O’Connor 2007). The dot com bust just after the millennium resulted in job losses and some restructuring in the creative industries that affected even London, the centrepiece of Britain’s creative economy (Freeman 2007). Into this anxious mix, what Lloyd (2006: 68) calls Florida’s “relentlessly cheerful account of a creative economy in which alienation is a thing of the past,” was received as a ringing endorsement, both by some urban policymakers, and by arts and culture advocates. As Ann Markusen (2005: 21) has commented, these people welcomed Florida, “because they feel it makes them visible.” But not only did it make creative industry advocates in the UK feel visible, it conferred that most elusive and highly-prized quality in an area that has hitherto struggled to produce a convincing evidence base – it had numbers behind it. It is sometimes difficult to fathom, and always easy to mock, the enthusiasm of contemporary policymakers for what appears to be empirical evidence that policies “work.” And it is certainly the case that in the cultural policy world, used to endless problematic debates about culture, scarred by “culture wars,” and often accused of unsupported advocacy (Selwood 2002), the presence of what looked like serious data, not to mention data that had such a positive story to tell, was always likely to be greeted by a degree of uncritical enthusiasm. However, as others started to take a more critical look at Florida’s work itself, not only did the policy prescriptions start to look problematic, but the data itself was brought into question.
Methods and Madness Despite, or perhaps because, of its ease of reception and popularity with policymakers, Florida’s work has been subject to a remarkable degree of testing and analysis, much of it critical. Alongside his own attempts to reproduce his methodology outside the US (Florida and Tinagli 2004), researchers from Dublin (Boyle 2006) to Melbourne (Berry 2005) and many places in between, have tested his approach in their own cities. Other cities, notably in Asia, have adopted variations of Florida’s indices to measure their own aspirations towards “world city” status (Kong et al. 2006; Hui et al. 2004). Even rural areas (Mcgranahan and Wojan 2007), an unlikely setting for “hipsterisation strategies,” one might think, have been subject to the treatment. While it is impossible to do justice to the full range of critiques of Florida’s work, it is possible to group them into particular sets of issues, namely those to do
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with methodology, with economic problems and with political or social concerns. Many critiques cover one or more of these issues simultaneously, though for ease of discussion they are treated separately below. Florida’s distinctive contribution is his attempt to quantitatively measure, through the uses of “indices” of various sorts, the conditions that he deems necessary for successful city-regions. His famous analysis of the “three T’s” – talent, technology and tolerance – leads him to argue that there is a relationship between cities and regions that have high numbers on these various indices and their growing economies. As with other human capital researchers, Florida is forced to use proxies for many of these characteristics and some commentators have seized upon what they see as a lack of rigour in this approach. Patents are generally acknowledged to be an inadequate proxy for technology-led innovation, all same-sex households are probably not gay, and having a qualification is not the same as being able to do something (Berry 2005; Markusen 2005; Sheamur 2007). Transposing these proxies to the UK or other countries is even more problematic. Both the “gay index” and the “bohemian index” are said to measure a region’s tolerance and lifestyle diversity – based on Florida’s (2002: 256) argument that “a place that welcomes the gay community welcomes all kinds of people.” His measure is of coupled, same sex households living in a particular metropolitan area. The numbers are drawn from the US Census, though as the UK Census does not contain a question about sexual orientation, UK researchers attempting to do the same thing, as in the Demos “Boho” Index,1 are forced to use proxies such as number of gay clubs, bars, networks, support groups, businesses and so on – a measure of the relative confidence and openness of a gay community perhaps, but not necessarily of its size. Likewise his “bohemian” index attempts to measure the number of individuals employed in “artistic and creative occupations,” in a particular area. This aspect receives support from Markusen and King (2003: 11), who argue that not only do those employed in cultural occupations directly contribute to economic growth, but, “Artists’ creativity and specialised skills enhance the design, production and marketing of products and services in other sectors.” This argument about spillover effects is a live one and a current topic of research and policy interest (Work Foundation 2007). Empirical evidence for this assertion remains under-developed, however, particularly in the context of specific places (rather than the economy as a whole), one problem in the UK being that data about creative occupations is rather unreliable at the local level. Elsewhere however, Markusen is rather critical of what she sees as Florida’s conflation of the rather fuzzy notion of “creativity” with academic qualifications, and she argues that in doing so, Florida simply tells us that high human capital is associated with economic growth, which may be so, but has little to do with creativity. On the other hand, she argues, the creativity, inventiveness, or adaptability of large sections of the non-graduate workforce is left out. Florida’s numbers tell us little about the content of peoples’ job or the skills required to perform them. 1
See http://www.demos.co.uk/media/pressreleases/bohobritain.
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As Shearmur (2007) observes, the argument that better qualifications lead to economic growth is in itself highly contested, not least because rising qualification levels may simply be an indicator of “credentialism,” and, perhaps more importantly, it is difficult to separate “knowledge” in the form of qualifications from social status and family background. Although Florida recognises that creativity is present in a variety of jobs (including, famously, his hairdresser and housekeeper, Florida 2002: 76), his public policy prescriptions, by concentrating on particular occupations, are firmly aimed at attracting elites, a strategy which may well result in shutting out other workers essential to the running of cities (Massey 2007). Other commentators object to what they see as Florida’s simplistic treatment of complex urban economies. Berry (2005) comments that while Florida’s data presents correlations between distinct phenomena, he ignores the systematic linkages, hierarchies and asymmetries between urban centres and the degree to which this is a product of their history. As Montgomery (2005: 10) puts it, “Perhaps the most serious shortcoming is that Florida fails to relate the emergence of leading cities in the creative economy to pre-established traditions of wealth creation and innovation.” Yeoh (2005) argues similar problems are arising in South East Asia, where she claims “the use of cultural imagineering, urban mega-projects and iconic architecture” in urban regeneration is even more spatially concentrated, than elsewhere, widening the gap between those cities that see themselves as global players and those, “at the bottom of the hierarchy which are perceived to be structurally irrelevant to the current round of global capital accumulation” (Yeoh 2005: 955). This is not to say that in terms of economic performance, cities are static and that being a world city or the dominant city within a national economy is the sole criterion for either attracting a “creative class” or developing creative sectors. But it does suggest that Florida’s bandwagon is not perhaps one onto which every city should leap.
Running to Stand Still Another important question to ask about Florida’s work is the degree to which a prescription developed in the specific context of North America can be made to work elsewhere. The first thing to say is that economic development based largely on labour mobility is unlikely to work in the UK, as Britons are much less geographically mobile than people in the US. Only about 10% of households move every year in England, of which only about 1% move between regions (Donovan et al. 2002). Moreover, even in countries where geographic mobility is higher, such as Australia, the number of favoured places to which the creative class will move is generally very small. In a regional analysis (National Economics 2002), based on Florida’s work, those parts of Australia deemed to be “winning regions” (that is, those with high level of patenting, with a highly-qualified labour force, and that attracted migrants) were all in the central areas of state capital cities, predominantly Sydney and Melbourne.
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A central thrust of Florida’s argument, that work now moves to people, rather than people to work (Florida 2002: 7) is also contradicted by evidence on migration from elsewhere. Various commentators (e.g. Shearmur 2007; Boyle 2006) have argued that Florida’s arguments about causality are simply wrong – high levels of labour mobility do not in themselves create growth, rather growing cities and regions suck in migrants. In Shearmur’s analysis of migration data for Canadian cities, he finds large flows of migrants towards Toronto, Vancouver and Ottawa, and only modest flows towards Montreal, which Florida lauds as particularly creative (Stolarick and Florida 2006). Shearmur’s conclusion is that it is more reasonable to assume that human capital flows increase as economic performance improves, rather than the other way round. As he comments, it is not that the processes Florida describes never occur; no doubt some cities have managed to develop their economies by attracting or retaining graduate labour, but this cannot be generalised across cities and regions. Moreover even where cities appear to be “winning” in the contest for global talent, is it really the amenities, cultural facilities and sense of tolerance that attracts them? In a series of interviews with graduate migrants to Dublin, a city which has benefited from an economic boom in recent years, Boyle (2006) finds some evidence that the lifestyle of the city, in Dublin’s case, particularly its bar scene, does attract young migrants. But his research concludes that “differential labour market opportunities,” in other words, better jobs, remain the primary reason for migration. As Max Nathan (2005: 4) argues from his own work on UK cities, the growth of “city centre” living “has not yet changed the basic patterns of life cycle migration – people come to big cities as young singles and leave as older families”. And, as in Boyle’s work on Dublin, it appears to be consumerism, rather than the arts, which provides the lure. As one of Boyle’s Dublin migrants comments, “Dublin is so cosmopolitan it’s untrue, here they drink every night, like during the week, it doesn’t matter what night you go out” (Boyle 2006: 421); a notion of “cosmopolitan” that some arts advocates might find difficult to get fully behind. A more interesting question is why, in a country like Britain, with a relatively low level of internal migration and where graduate labour tends to move in only one direction, from the rest of the country to London and the South East (Massey 2007), such a prescription would ever be so heartily embraced. One answer is undoubtedly to do with contemporary politics. At a time when, as Doreen Massey (1994) has commented, “the seeking after a sense of place, has come to be seen by some as necessarily reactionary,” Florida’s hymn to mobility chimed with much “new economy” rhetoric about globalisation, fluidity and flexibility. This rhetoric of course sits paradoxically alongside what Turner (2007) calls the “immobility regime” of surveillance and control over migrants, refugees and other “undesirable” aliens. Nevertheless, a positive view of “desirable” migration suits those of a neoliberal persuasion (Gibson and Klocker 2005) who view cities and regions simply as players in a global market or, in Florida’s case, in a global competitiveness league. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, the UK government and others had absorbed the idea that there was an inevitability, and even desirability, in the destruction of
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old industrial capacity and the reinvention of the economy as post-industrial. In this story, the industrial values of craft, traditional skills, and embeddedness in local community had became defunct, if not downright dangerous, and the future lay in a kind of economic bohemianism, or what Eagleton (2003) calls, “the postmodern cult of the migrant.” For regional cities in the UK, this approach represents a very real challenge. On the one hand, many city leaders have absorbed the rhetoric of the “new economy” completely, economic development documents are full of rhetoric about innovation and novelty, the notion of an increasingly globalised economy is unquestioned, and the virtues of competition among places are generally celebrated. On the other hand, the shift in jobs from manufacturing to services, undoubtedly benefits some parts of the UK more than others (Massey 2007). The difficulty with competitions is that they tend to produce more losers than winners. One of the attractions of the creative industries strategies adopted hitherto by UK cities was that they were seen as attempts to release the talents and abilities of the local population. The great majority of employment in the creative industries was in the freelance, small and micro-business sectors, all of which had low entry barriers (Leadbeater and Oakley 1999), and the distinctiveness and rootedness of much cultural activity seemed to offer an opportunity for places to negotiate a role within global flows of ideas, rather than simply be “subject” to them.
Local Heroes – The Case of Sheffield A good example of this approach can be seen in the case of Sheffield in the north of England. With a history of popular music from Joe Cocker in the 1960s by way of Jarvis Cocker in the 1990s to the Artic Monkeys, two universities, and a fragile, though intermittently successful, videogames sector, Sheffield has many of the ingredients that are considered necessary in the development of creative industries. Hence the decision was taken, as far back as the late 1980s that, as part of a plan of economic diversification resulting from the collapse of the city’s steel industry, there would be a clear focus on the development of these industries. Paul Skelton who led the (then named) Cultural Industries team at the Council was aware of the need for diversification when he arrived in Sheffield, but argued2 that you needed to look at what local people can do. “Financial services were considered,” he says, “but Sheffield had no track record in it and in fact it all went to Leeds.” An approach to economic development “rooted in the community” was favoured, which resulted in the opening of the Leadmill Arts Centre, followed by Red Tape studios, a publicly-owned recording studio, and then what became the Cultural Industries Quarter (CIQ), a set of supported workspaces for small cultural businesses, on the edge of the city centre. This commitment to stimulating local production, rather than a focus on inward investment was not uncharacteristic of 2
In an interview with the author.
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creative industries developments of the time, though it was perhaps particularly pronounced in the case of Sheffield. The relative slowness to develop consumption space around the CIQ was attributed by some commentators to the city’s historical focus on steel production (Leadbeater and Oakley 1999). Sheffield had always been about “making things” rather than buying them, and this proved a hard habit to lose. The CIQ Agency, the body that now runs the quarter, reports that there are now over 300 organisations, employing over 3,000 people, within three quarter square miles of the site, a mix of private sector creative businesses, publicly-funded agencies, social enterprises and traditional or “non-creative” companies (see www. ciq.org.uk). Yet it remains dominated by micro and small businesses, in a pattern repeated across the UK. Although many cities, smaller towns and even rural areas have developed some level of economic activity in creative industries, London and the South East remain by far the biggest concentration of them, accounting for 57% of all British creative workforce jobs (Freeman 2007). Importantly, London’s concentration of business and financial services helps maintain this uneven distribution, as over half (53%) of the demand for creative industry products comes, not from households or individuals, but from other businesses. Between 2001 and 2004, creative industry employment fell by 10% in London, compared to 5% for financial and business services employment. The last year for which data is available, 2004/2005, shows a significant rebound for both. This close link between creative industries and other business and financial services allows London to confidently predict that it will “remain at the centre of creative industry growth in the UK as a whole” (Freeman 2007: 3). While other countries, even those with more “federal” political systems, such as Canada or Australia, also show this pattern of concentration of creative industry sectors, the attempt to develop creative industries in regional cities faces particular problems in the UK. The UK has a highly centralised political culture, and public investment, from sporting facilities to universities, remains concentrated in London and the South East. The development of a “knowledge economy” model of economic development in the UK has exacerbated this uneven picture (Massey 2007; Hudson 2006). As Hall (2004) argues, the UK is unusual, a small island dominated by one huge city and the “mega-city region” around it, thus as Nathan (2005) argues, even if the creative class theory worked, it would not benefit most UK cities, competing for a “creative core” of workers who will be thinly spread outside of London. Other countries will face similar choices. Although China has 90 cities with more than a million inhabitants, three regions, the Yangtze River Delta (including Shanghai), the Pearl River Delta (including Guangzhou) and the BoHai Rim (including Beijing) account for 15% of the population, but 45% of GDP. There is thus a clear question about the degree to which concentration matters, about the links between the creative sector and other business services, and about what level or scale is required to realistically undertake development in these sectors. But rather than investigating these questions and perhaps developing
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strategies that genuinely play to local strengths, many policymakers have seemed content (or have seen little option) but to play a sort of ‘me too’ game; even one they can only lose. In this way, the acceptance of Florida’s arguments, in many ways the reverse of what Sheffield and other UK cities were trying to do in the 1980s and 1990s, represents an exhaustion of possibilities, rather than an opening up of them.
Creative Anywhere A look at the latest attempt to revise and restore Sheffield’s fortunes shows how Florida’s idea has been absorbed into the bloodstream of economic development thinking in the UK. The current incarnation comes in the form of a “city regeneration company” branded Creative Sheffield. The title is not an accident, though its remit in fact covers the whole economy and has nothing to do with the creative industries per se. Like many “city marketing” strategies, the primary audience for “Creative Sheffield” appears to be outside the city. “People, businesses and investors,” we are told, “are all becoming increasingly sophisticated consumers of place,” (Creative Sheffield 2005: 13). No longer is this distinctiveness understood as being inherent in the place, it is now the job of the city regeneration company to “create a distinctiveness for Sheffield,” in order to combat what is described as its “low profile” nationally. As Barnes et al. (2006) argue, in the UK, creative city strategies had hitherto concentrated on or at least prioritised, the development of creative industries, whereas in Australia, and in parts of South East Asia (Yeoh 2005) it has been more common for councils to interpret creative city strategies as being focussed on consumption spaces such as cafe districts, retail, landscaped parks and public spaces. Sheffield, it seems, is now following this route. For “Creative Sheffield,” while the creative industries are mentioned as part of the city’s economy, they are simply listed alongside a collection of other economic activities, from sports science to biomedical and healthcare technology. Inward investment, which was very consciously not promoted as a driver of the city’s earlier creative industries strategy, has now become the foremost part of the “wealth creation agenda,” and Creative Sheffield’s mission is to “increase demand” for the city. Far from building on its heritage in steel production and manufacturing, we are told that the city does have an easily recognised raison d’etre, something which will presumably come as something of a surprise to its citizens. The vision of the future presented is that of one decoupled from the past. Unlike another former steel town, Florida’s old home of Pittsburgh, which he lambastes for being “trapped in the culture of a bygone era (2002: 216),” Sheffield is being made anew. The question is, does such an approach stand any greater chance of success than the creative industry strategies that preceded it?
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The Politics of Attracting the Creative Class Perhaps the most stinging critiques of Florida’s work have been those that have concentrated on the potential social consequences of a Floridian urban strategy. North American critics (Peck 2005; Scott 2006; Markusen 2005) have accused him of legitimising gentrification, and paying insufficient attention to the issues of inequality and racial discrimination. Hui et al. (2004: 30), while refraining from criticising Florida directly, suggest that his attack on social capital (Putnam 2000) and seeming celebration of more individualistic pursuits and weak community ties are unlikely to work with the grain of “Asian values.” Markusen (2005) argues that Florida’s treatment of diversity is “glib,” focussing on the presence of gay people and migrants in the population, while paying relatively little attention to the exclusion of African-Americans from the picture. Florida admits (2002: 80) that the paucity of black faces in “the world of high tech creativity,” poses an “intriguing challenge to the kind of diversity that members of the creative class are drawn to.” Given the undoubted cultural influence of African Americans in everything from popular music to fashion and the language patterns of young English speakers everywhere, it is hard not to conclude that Florida’s slight treatment of the race issue reflects his desire to present an optimistic picture of the urban changes his creative class is leading. Others argue that Florida’s urban policy prescriptions are not only insufficiently attuned to the problems of inequality, but actively promote them. In terms of public spending on culture, for example, Florida’s (2002: 259) preference for “streetlevel culture” means that resources may be made available for certain kinds of cultural consumption (restaurants, bars, night-clubs, a music scene), while others (such as historic buildings) may be neglected. While funding for cultural amenities has always reflected certain kinds of taste preferences (traditionally high art over popular culture), an over-concentration on the amenities that attract the young or bohemian at the expense of others could be equally counter-productive, as well as undemocratic. Other sorts of public spending can similarly be skewed. As Barnes et al. (2006) argue, in their study of Port Kembla (a suburb of Wollongong in New South Wales), undergoing a “revitalisation” strategy, Florida’s ideas have become almost “canonical” among Australian local government policymakers. The refashioning of Port Kembla as an idealised “urban village” is not a simple process of a particular urban vision being imposed on disempowered social groups but nevertheless, the preference of elderly residents for a high street that provided basic services such as a supermarket, a doctor or a bank, is likely to be superseded by one with “alfresco dining, street markets and decent coffee (Barnes et al. 2006: 348).” It is clear that focusing attention on the actions and investments needed to attract the creative class (for which read young, single men) may well lead to a neglect of other policies, from affordable childcare to good schools, or public transport that may apply to older or poorer citizens or female workers. The “non creative” class are thus marginalised twice; once because their consumption preferences and needs do not reflect that of the creative class, and secondly because the effect of an
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influx of the creative class may well raise land and housing prices and drive out the provision of more basic services (Massey 2007).
Conclusions While it builds on the work of other human capital researchers and attempts to quantitatively measure the phenomena it describes, there are clear problems with the uncritical acceptance of Florida’s work by many urban policymakers. The first is that very few cities and regions in the world are likely to be successful in this particular global race; the second is that where they are, “success” will be unequally shared in a context of growing inequality. While Scott argues that the recent resurgence of film and music industries in different parts of the globe, together with changes in technology and rising education levels, presents at least the potential for a more polycentric global future with a variety of centres of global cultural production, he also warns that, “a vision of the world’s cities marching towards some sort of creative utopia, needs to be held strongly in check” (Scott 2006: 12). As we have seen in our discussion of the UK, the number of cities that can realistically hope to have the creative industries as a major sector in their economy is relatively small and even in this case, as Scott (2006: 12) argues, “developments of this type will most likely continue to exist only as enclaves in an urban landscape where poverty and social deprivation still widely prevail.” Florida’s prescriptions and the acceptance of them by policymakers thus take place within a context of knowledge-based development that is leading to increasing polarisation and inequality (Berry 2005; Hudson 2006; Massey 2007) across the world. Florida’s own work suggests that in the US, city-regions that rank highest in terms of the development of a “creative economy” (using his measures) also rank highest in economic inequality. Similarly, Hudson (2006) argues that in the UK, regions with a more service-based economy and higher-levels of highly qualified workers have more unequal patterns of income distribution. Even in London, the UK’s most “successful” knowledge based economy and the centre of its creative industries, official accounts admit that “formidable wealth-generating capacity coexists with truly staggering levels of economic disadvantage” (GLA 2002: ix). As Hudson (2006) comments, this means that even governments with stated egalitarian aims or political histories will find themselves “running to stand still” in terms of tackling income inequality. This leaves them with formidable challenges, particularly in the context of cities, where many of these issues are concentrated. While criticism of Florida’s work within an Asian context has focussed on its normative prescriptiveness (Kong et al. 2006) or its insensitivity to Asian cultural values (Hui et al. 2004), rapidly growing spatial and social inequality will increasingly pose a series of political questions that current “knowledge based” economic approaches seem unable to answer.
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The UK’s story may be instructive here. Creative city and creative industry strategies, explicitly developed in the context of de-industrialisation and job losses, have been replaced by ones that look certain to exacerbate the problems brought about by those changes. In the former case, it could well be argued that creative industry economic development has done little to improve the position of regional cities vis a vis London or the position of marginal groups vis a vis the already advantaged (Oakley 2006); in the latter case there is no intention to even attempt this. The challenges facing policymakers should not be underestimated, as even Florida’s most severe critics (Peck 2005) admit there appears to be precious few options out there, particularly in developed economies. The UK’s particular experience in these sectors has not been without its failures, but the embrace of a new set of approaches, based on Florida’s creative class idea, seems likely to bring neither greater economic success, nor a liveable urban future for many citizens. Acknowledgements Thanks to Justin O’Connor, Lily Kong and Mirko Petric for comments on an earlier draft.
References Athey, G. Nathan, M., and C. Webber. 2007. What role do cities play in innovation, and to what extent do we need city-based innovation policies and approaches? NESTA/Centre for Cities Working Paper 01. Barnes, K, Waitt, G., Gill, N., and C. Gibson. 2006. Community and nostalgia in urban revitalisation: A critique of urban village and creative class strategies as remedies for social ‘problems’. Australian Geographer 37(3): 335–354. Berry, M. 2005. Melbourne – is there life after Florida? Urban Policy and Research 23 (4): 381–392. Boyle, M. 2006. Culture in the rise of tiger economies: Scottish expatriates in Dublin and the ‘creative class’ thesis. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 30(2): 403–426. Creative Sheffield. Business Plan. 2006–7. http://www.creativesheffield.co.uk. Accessed 31 August 2007. Cunningham, S. 2003. The evolving creative industries. http://eprints.qut.edu.au/archive/00004391. Accessed 22 August 2007. Donovan, N., Pilch, T., and T. Rubenstein. 2002. Geographic Mobility, PIU Discussion paper. www.pm.gov.uk/output/page699.asp. Accessed 20 August 2007. Donald, B. and D. Morrow. 2003. Competing for talent: Implications for social and cultural policy in Canadian city-regions. Canada: SRA, Department of Canadian Heritage. Eagleton, T. 2003. After Theory. London: Penguin. Evans, G. and P. Shaw. 2004. The contribution of culture to regeneration in the UK: A review of the evidence. London: DCMS. Florida, R. 2002. The rise of the creative class: And how it’s transforming work, leisure, community and everyday life. New York: Basic Books. Florida, R. and I. Tinagli. 2004. Europe in the creative age. London: Demos. Freeman, A. 2007. London’s Creative Sector: 2007 Update. Working Paper 22. London: GLA Economics. Garnham, N. 2005. From cultural to creative industries: An analysis of the implications of the ‘creative industries’ approach to arts and media policy making in the United Kingdom. International Journal of Cultural Policy 11: 15–30.
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Gibson, C. and N. Klocker. 2005. The cultural turn in Australian regional economic development discourse; Neoliberalising creativity? Geographical Research 43(1): 93–102. GLA. 2002. London divided: Income inequality and poverty in the capital. London: GLA. Hall, P. 2004. Is the greater South East a mega city region? Paper for IPPR Commission on Sustainable Development in the South East. London: IPPR. Hudson, J. 2006. Inequality and the knowledge economy: Running to stand still? Social Policy & Society 5(2): 207–222. Hui, D., Ng, C-H., and P. Mok. 2004. A Study on Hong Kong Creativity Index, Interim Report. University of Hong Kong: Centre for Cultural Policy Research. Kong, L., Gibson, C., Khoo, L.M., and A. Semple. 2006. Knowledges of the creative economy: Towards a relational geography of diffusion and adaptation in Asia. Asia Pacific Viewpoint 47(2): 173–194. Leadbeater, C. and K. Oakley. 1999. The Independents. London: Demos. Lloyd, R. 2006. Neo-Bohemia, arts and commerce in the post-industrial city. New York: Routledge. Markusen, A. and D. King. 2003. The Artistic Dividend: the Hidden Contributions of the Arts to the Regional Economy. Minneapolis, MN: Project on Regional and Industrial Economics, University of Minnesota, July. Markusen, A. 2005. Urban development and the politics of a creative class: Evidence from the study of artists. Paper presented to RSA Conference on Regional Growth Agendas, Aalborg. Massey, D. 1994. Space, place and gender. Cambridge, MA: Polity. Massey, D. 2007. World city. Cambridge, MA: Polity. Mcgranahan, D. and T. Wojan. 2007. Recasting the creative class to examine growth processes in rural and urban counties. Regional Studies 41(2): 197–216. Montgomery, J. 2005. Beware the ‘creative class,’ creativity and wealth creation revisited. Local Economy 20(4): 347–343. Nathan, M. 2005. The wrong stuff, creative class theory, diversity and city performance. Discussion Paper No 1. IPPR Centre for Cities. National Economics. 2002. The state of the regions, national economics and the Australian Local Government Association. Melbourne. NESTA. 2006. The innovation gap, why policy needs to reflect the reality of innovation in the UK. London: NESTA. Oakley, K. 2006. Include us out – economic development and social policy in the creative industries. Cultural Trends 14(4): 283–302. O’Connor, J. 2007. The cultural and creative industries: A review of the literature, A report for creative partnerships. London: Creative Partnerships. Peck, J. 2005. Struggling with the creative class. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 20(4): 740–770. Pratt, A. 2008. Creative accounting? From the creative class to cultural production as the dynamic of urban regeneration. Forthcoming in a special issue of Geografiska Annaler Series B, Human Geography, 90(2): 107–118. Putnam, R. 2000. Bowling alone: The collapse and revival of American community. New York: Simon & Schuster. Rausch, S. and C. Negrey. 2006. Does the creative engine run? A consideration of the effect of creative class on economic strength and growth. Journal of Urban Affairs 28(5): 473–489. Reed, M. and M. Johnson. 2007. The Northern Economic Agenda. IPPR North (forthcoming, 2007). London: Institute for Public Policy Research. Scott, A. J. 2006. Creative cities: Conceptual issues and policy questions. Journal of Urban Affairs 28(1): 1–17. Selwood, S. 2002. Measuring Culture. www.spikedonline.com. Accessed on 25 August 2008. Shearmur, R. 2007. The new knowledge aristocracy: The creative class, mobility and urban growth. Work Organisation, Labour and Globalisation 1(1): 31–47. Stolarick, K. and R. Florida. 2006. Creativity, connections and innovation: A study of linkages in the Montreal region. Environment and Planning A 38: 1799–1817.
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Turner, B. 2007. The enclave society: Towards a sociology of immobility. European Journal of Social Theory 10(2): 287–303. Turok, I. and N. Edge. 1999. The jobs gap in Britain’s cities: Employment loss and labour market consequences. Bristol: The Policy Press. Work Foundation. 2007. Staying ahead, the economic performance of the UK’s creative industries. London: Work Foundation. Yeoh, B. 2005. The global cultural city? Spatial imagineering and politics in the (multi)cultural marketplaces of South-east Asia. Urban Studies 42(5/6): 945–958.
Chapter 9
Asian Cities and Limits to Creative Capital Theory Patrick Mok
Introduction Richard Florida’s (2002a) highly cited book, The Rise of the Creative Class, has stirred an ongoing debate on the relationship between culture, creativity and economy, and on the usefulness of the concept in devising policy prescriptions for urban development (Lang and Danielsen 2005; Peck 2005). Written in accessible language appealing to business and policy-making audiences, the book popularizes a new concept of the “creative class,” arguing that creative people are a key driver of urban economic growth. Urban cities with such specific conditions as the presence of creative talents, and the availability of technology industries and environments embracing cultural diversity are conducive to the accumulation of “creative capital”, which can be turned into economic value. In the sequels, including The Cities and the Creative Class (Florida 2005a) and the Flight of the Creative Class: The New Global Competition for Talent (Florida 2005b), Florida continues to elaborate this refreshing, compelling but controversial “creative capital theory.” In essence, the theory explains why “people climate” matter in attracting talents, and how such a socio-cultural environment of diversity and openness correlates with economic prosperity in the urban cities of “creativity-haves” and economic failure in the cities of “have-nots.” Disputes that have arisen from the creative capital theory are not just about the methodology in measuring the creative class or in verifying the causation between the presence of the class and economic growth. It is also about how likely policy prescriptions can be designed so that policymakers who are looking for the elixir of urban economic growth can turn their cities into an attraction for talents and investments (see Chapter 8, Oakley, this volume). This paper offers a brief review of Florida’s theory and highlights its limitations, particularly when applied to Asian city contexts. It argues that there are different paths to economic growth, as seen in the case of two Asian cities. The processes of socio-economic restructuring as demonstrated in the
P. Mok () Cheung Kong Centre for Creative Industries, Shantou University 3/F, Tower E3, Oriental Plaza, 1 East Chang An Avenue, Beijing 100738, China e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_9, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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cases of Hong Kong and Macau are far more dynamic and complex than Florida’s creative capital theory suggests. More importantly, even though we recognize the positive impact of the creative class on employment, there are heightening concerns about the socio-economic discrepancies that a creative city will lead to.
The Myth of the Creative Class There now exists a rich body of literature on the development of the contemporary urban economy. In contrast to the “old economy,” these studies project a new economy, fueled by intellectual assets and knowledge instead of physical resources or capital that had once been the most important economic inputs (APEC 2002; OECD 2002; UNESCO 2005). Florida subscribes to this view and postulates that what follows the transformation of knowledge economy is the emerging class of creative workers; the creative class generates new ideas and innovations for economic growth, and it forms the core of the working population. Those countries or places where there is a high concentration of creative people would have a brighter economic future and enjoy greater competitive edge in the global economy than those places where the creative class is underdeveloped. Statistical figures presented in Florida’s study are appealing and indeed, offer evidence in favour of his argument: the American creative class, for instance, accounts for about 30% of the workforce in the 1990s, and the rising population of the creative class in the United States has increased from less than 20 million in the 1980s to 38.3 million by 1999 (Florida 2002a: 72–77). The growing number of the creative class in America is indeed impressive. More importantly, the rise of the creative class underlines the changing social structure in American society. The notion of the creative class, however, refers to not just creative artists, but is defined more broadly according to Florida. It has two major sub-components – a super creative core and creative professionals. While the first group comprises a wide range of occupations from computer and mathematical-related occupations, to architecture and education, arts, design and media occupations, the creative professionals include management, business and financial operations, legal and healthcare practitioners, and high-end sales and sales management (Florida 2002a: Appendix A). Florida justifies this definition by arguing that the notion of the creative class is more accurate in defining the real source of economic value-creation. People in the creative class add value through their creativity and they are compensated monetarily for their creative output (Florida 2005a: 4). In short, the creative class is the economic locomotive, adding economic value to and driving the knowledge society by and large. Besides, according to “creative capital theory,” the creative class serves as the indicator of changing class structure, reflecting shifts in values, norms and attitudes. Florida believes that members of the creative class share similar ideas, desires, preferences, consumption and buying habits as well as social identities. Throughout the book The Rise of the Creative Class, Florida portrays a social class that embraces individuality, meritocracy, diversity and openness; members of the creative class would place high value on challenging jobs, flexibility, flexible working hours, casual dress code, latitude power and organizational structure, and experimental lifestyles (Florida 2002a). In a recent publication, The Flight of the Creative Class, Florida
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extends the theory to track the global creative class. Based on the statistics obtainable from the International Labour Organization (ILO) database, he draws the conclusion that there are many countries in the world that are in transition towards a creative economy, where the creative class is growing and makes up a sizeable percentage of the workforce. By comparison, the United States ranks 11th worldwide in the percentage of its workforce in the creative sector, while Ireland, Belgium, Australia and the Netherlands have taken the first four rankings (Florida 2002b: 135–136).1 The exercise of measuring the size of the creative class is a key component of creative capital theory. Taking one step forward, the theory explains why a high concentration of the creative class is found in some cities but not in others, and how the geographic distribution of the class in the United States is correlated to economic doom and failure in individual regions. The “3T’s” for economic growth, or the “creative capital theory,” which is statistically manifested in terms of the measurement of the Creative Index, offers the key to understanding the geography of the creative class and its effects on economic outcomes. There is no need to reiterate the statistical findings of the Index which Florida devised in an early attempt for measuring the creative class of the United States. The essence of this index tool lays the argument that places that possess the vital factors – technology, talent and tolerance – attract creative people to come and look for jobs. Florida posits that a healthy ecology is one in which there is a strong combination of these three factors, conducive to the growth of new ideas, innovation and economic prospects. Creative people are highly mobile; they come in flocks, looking not only for job opportunities but also a quality place where the social and cultural environment is open, diverse and offers low barriers to entry. Once the cluster of creative people grows, a high concentration of the creative class produces a positive spiral effect that attracts more talents to come, and more importantly, this helps foster the exchange of new ideas and innovation for local and/or regional economic development.
The Riddle Indeed, Richard Florida’s creative capital theory is valuable for placing value on human creativity, taking it to be the essential factor accounting for economic growth. It is not disputed that creativity is central to all economic activities. Additionally, the notion of cultural diversity and openness is universally embraced. Yet, there is doubt as to whether the theory is really more powerful than other theoretical ideas in explaining economic growth. In particular, the rich tradition of human capital theory explains economic growth in terms of the exogenous factor – education. Generally speaking, investment in education (human capital) will promote economic growth in the long run. In a number of studies of a broad
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In fact, Florida has exported his creative capital theory for some years. In 2002, he gave a measure of the creative occupations of Ontario in Canada (2002b), and his theory was adjusted to the European context in 2004. The latter study composes the Creative Index by measuring the creative class in 14 European, Scandinavian and Nordic countries and comparing the findings with the data of the United States.
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set of countries, including both developed and less developed ones, measures of human capital based on educational attainment generally support a positive effect on economic growth (Mankiw et al. 1992; Barro 2001; Glaeser 2003). Florida does not oppose the human capital thesis, and his creative index has even included a sub-index of human capital. If human capital theory has already offered a convincing analysis, what is the contribution of Florida’s creative capital theory? Answers to this question are mixed. According to Glaeser (2004: 3–4) who ran regressions using Florida’s data, the creative class variables become negative and statistically insignificant on the urban economic growth in the United States in the 1990s. However, in the European context, Florida’s thesis receives warm support. One study using data for more than 450 regions in eight European countries shows that there is a close relationship between the presence of bohemians and other categories of the creative class according to Florida’s definition at the regional level in Europe (Boschma and Fritsch 2007: 20–22). Another study by two economists examines Florida’s claims that the creative class offers a more accurate methodology than the conventional human capital theory measured by educational levels. Based on the data obtained from a cross-section of Dutch cities, it finds positive correlations between a city’s share of creative class and highly educated people respectively with employment growth. The measure of creativity using Florida’s definition is as good as human capital theory, and in technical terms it is a better measure of those persons who are in the market (Marlet and Van Woerkens 2004). Therefore, the only difference between the two frameworks – human capital and creative-class – is the use of human capital. For reasons good or bad, highly educated people may end up without jobs, leaving their human capital largely unused. Since highly educated people are not necessarily working at all, using human capital measure may serve as a weak predictor of job creation. While the creative class are essentially working, it can offer a slightly improved measure of economy with real growth in occupational jobs. Creative capital theory also places high value on technology. Florida strongly believes that high-tech industries should be the driving force of regional economies. To stay at the leading edge of high-technology industries enhances the overall competitiveness of a place. Not surprisingly, he included three sub-indices in creative capital theory relating to this dimension – high-tech index, high innovation index and R&D index. They are measured respectively by the numbers of patents, share of high-tech industries in the local economy (or number of high-tech patents in the European survey) and the share of R&D expenditure in GDP. Although there exist studies which agree that increasing outputs of patents and high-tech industries in some countries are correlated to the growth of the regional economy, it is arguable whether high-tech industries are the only promising pathfinder of local or regional economic development. Research done by the National Commission on Entrepreneurship, for instance, using data of 394 areas from the US Labor Market Areas (LMA), examines fast-growing companies which create new jobs during the period from 1992 to 1997. Its findings show that fast-growing companies are widely distributed across all industries, including manufacturing, business services and retail industries (NCE 2001). In a recent study, Amar Bhidè (2006) examines the idea of the innovation system and the diffusion and economic impacts of IT sectors in the United States in the past two decades. He argues
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that policy makers may misapprehend the economic contribution of upstream high-technologies while at the same time, neglect the consumption and use of innovation, which is also generating economic productivity. As Bhidé argues, the productivity growth of the US economy in the 1990s is very much attributed to the pervasive consumption of IT products (products of innovations). Diffusion of information technology in the US sweeps across sectors not only in the hightech industries but also in retail, wholesale and financial intermediation. It is this intensive use of IT that drives the overall growth of productivity. For the diehards who believe that producing more cutting-edge technologies will lead to economic growth, a lesson can be learnt from Bhidé’s study. Contrary to the hope that adding to the stock of knowledge in terms of increasing numbers of patents or high-tech innovations means wealth generation, excessive focus on the upstream elements for innovation will lose sight of the rewards of middle- and down-stream application of innovation, leading to an unproductive and excessive stock of patents without generating economic value. Instead, widespread use of innovations in the US, particularly in the business sector as reflected in the ratio of IT expenditures to GDP, helps to improve productivity in many sectors of the economy. For this reason, the US is still leading other competitors in Europe, Japan and China, though the latter group of countries are catching up in producing more high-tech innovations. The riddle of creative capital theory is not just about whether or not it provides a useful and better measure than human capital theory. It is also about its selfindulgence in the statistical construction of an economic class. Knowledge and skills required in local economies vary from one context to another, and that is reflected in the respective constituents of their occupational classes. Therefore, the right question to ask is not whether the presence of a particular economic class would have an effect on economic growth, but what kinds of forces determine the pattern of occupational structure in a local economy. In short, it is all about how the creative class (if there is one) emerges, and what factors take effect on a society where knowledge, skills and creativity are translated into occupations and employment. Besides, creative capital theory aggrandizes the role of high-technologies in driving economic growth. The urban economy is always a complex and dynamic system that may lead to diverse paths of growth and decline. It is neither theoretically sound nor realistic to assume the universal path of economic development largely driven by technological creativity, and by the generic notion of diversity and openness. The section that follows examines the relevance of creative capital theory in explaining the economic development of some Asian cities, and pinpoints how the theory neglects the multiple trajectories of local economies in their drive for growth.
Creative Capital Theory and Its Relevance to Asian Economies For many understandable reasons, the mass media is obsessed with ranking. Certainly, city rankings of creativity offer appealing stories for coverage (Spiegel 2007a, b). In China, Florida’s The Flight of the Creative Class has recently been
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translated into Chinese. Meanwhile, lifestyle magazines embrace the notion of the creative class wholeheartedly. One magazine has declared the dawn of the creative age, and that the creative class in China is booming.2 The Hong Kong government has even commissioned research on its creativity index. The objectives of the study are to draw comparisons with Florida’s work, and to offer a more general framework for measuring creative outcomes in Hong Kong and the various underpinnings that affect the nurturance and articulation of creativity (HKSAR 2005). Similarly, the Shanghai Creative Industry Centre has invented its own creativity index comprising five sets of sub-indices (creative industry index, R&D index, cultural environment index, human capital index and social environment index) (SCIC 2006). However, uncritical adoption of creative capital theory without appraisal of its relevance to Asian contexts does not help us comprehend the dynamics of economic development of Asian cities. Taking the creativity issue seriously, it is better to start with a thorough examination of the changing economic structure of individual Asian cities in order to test the validity of the notion of the creative class. The following discussion draws on two cases – Hong Kong and Macau – to highlight the limitations of the theory.3 It argues, following Florida’s broad definition of the creative class, that these economies have been or are moving towards the knowledge-driven economy where creativity is an essential asset. However, they are not the type of economy that Florida envisages, which thrives on technology inventions and flourishing high-tech industries. Hong Kong is one of the few Asian cities enjoying significant economic growth in the past decades. Although the economy was hit by the Asian financial crisis in 1997 and the global economic downturn in 2001, Hong Kong rebounded in recent years and its economy remains in a course of sustained growth. Macau, renowned for being a gambling city, also recovered from the recession between 1997 and 1999, and has set a new course towards an economy based on cultural tourism, leisure and gaming activities. It has also attained impressive economic growth in recent years.4 Yet the two cities have been outperformed by well-developed countries in the OECD on several technology measures including patents applications, R&D investment as well as numbers of researchers per million people (see Table 1). According to Florida’s definition, they are hardly the city economies driven by high-tech industries. However, Hong Kong maintains a higher level of ICT expenditure than the average of high-income countries in the OECD, which reflects that downstream innovations or use of technologies could be extensive in the city. Further evidence in support of this observation could be found in increasing investment on IT equipment and software as a ratio of gross fixed capital formation in the business sector. In 2005, it accounted for 8% as compared to 4.9% in 2
See “Creative Class”, Xin Shijiao (New Vision), issue 48, April 2006. The two cities are selected because of the fast-changing structure of the two economies as well as their occupational structure, which sheds light on the development path of the cities. There is no claim to representativeness of an “Asian model”, but they do help to highlight the uniqueness and different development paths Asian cities could have. 4 A summary of the two cities’ GDP growth is attached in Appendix 1. 3
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Table 1 Measures of high-tech innovation in OECD, Macau and Hong Kong, 2002 (From World Development Indicators Database) OECD (high income) Macau Hong Kong Patents applications (non-residents) Patents applications (residents) ICT expenditure as % of GDP R&D as % of GDP Researchers in R&D (per million people) a Based on figure in year 2000. N.A. – Data not available.
349,357 734,686 7% 2.4% 3,776.5
12 N.A. N.A. N.A. 40.5*
9,018 112 7.6% 1% 1,563.7
1998. Besides, the proportion of business firms undertaking activities relating to organizational, marketing or strategic innovation rose from 16% in 2001 to 48.5% in 2005 (C&SD 2007). These findings would validate the limitation of the growthmodel based on technological creativity, which seems to be feeble in explaining the economic growth of Hong Kong and Macau. City economies like Hong Kong and Macau absorb creativity and market-driven innovations in the service sector. Furthermore, even the path of economic development in these cities is significantly different from each other if one looks closely at their occupational and economic structure. Florida places high value on creative people and their contribution to local economic development. While enormous efforts have been spent on counting the creative class, there is little interest in how the class emerges (Boschma and Fritsch 2007; Acs and Megyesi 2007; Marlet and Van Woerkens 2004). Yet, it is far more important to investigate the factors and economic environment that place substantial demand on knowledge workers than to focus only on how substantial the numbers of the creative class might be. Looking at the occupational structure of Hong Kong and Macau in the past decade, a rising trend of the creative class based on Florida’s broad definition is noticeable (see Table 2).5
5
Figures presented in the table are compiled from the ILO dataset which allows us a degree of comparability of occupational figures in Hong Kong and Macau. However, some limitations are noted. The ILO classification code (ISCO-88) has nine categories of occupation, of which the first three groups are roughly equivalent to the creative occupations according to Richard Florida’s concept of the creative class. Florida has not produced corresponding codes of the ILO and his own classifications although in the study Europe in the Creative Age (Florida and Tinagli 2004: 42), he made use of the former for comparisons between European countries and the United States. Therefore, the corresponding codes between the ILO classification and the creative occupations, enclosed in Appendix 2, are based on Boshma’s survey (Boshma and Fritsch 2007). Besides, we do not make further distinction among the “creative core,” “creative professionals”and “Bohemians”, for they are basically covered in the ILO data. The corresponding table, however, reveals inconsistencies on the criteria that distinguishes creative from non-creative occupations. For instance, “teaching associate professionals” are excluded in Boschma’s survey but the exclusion seems lacking sufficient justification. Details of employment figures by occupation in Hong Kong and Macau are enclosed in Appendix 3.
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Table 2 Total employment by occupation, Hong Kong and Macau, 1996 and 2006 (From ILO Online Database) Hong Kong Macau AAG % AAG % (1996–2006) (1997–2006) Senior officials and managersa 1.27 Professionalsa 3.71 Technicians and associate professionalsa 4.37 Clerks −0.56 Service, shop and sales workers 1.71 Skilled agricultural and fishery workers −5.03 Craft and related trade workers −2.61 Plant and machine operators and assemblers −2.89 Elementary occupations 1.89 Average annual growth of total employment (%) 1.05 a Creative class according to the definition of Richard Florida. AAG – average annual growth.
4.85 7.27 6.01 5.93 3.19 0.00 −0.20 −1.04 4.28 3.42
In general, people working in the fields involving management and professional skills increase in substantial numbers, though the degree of growth varies from one place to another. The share of the creative class in Hong Kong’s total workforce, for instance, rose from 28.9% (or 888,100 persons) in 1996 to 36% (or 1,226,900 persons) in 2006. In Macau, only 15.3% (or 30,000 persons) of the workforce belonged to the creative class in 1997, but this rose to 18.8% (or 49,900 persons) in 2006. Besides, two salient features are noted. First, the two urban economies are speeding up in the successful transformation of their occupational structure by increasing managerial, professional and skilled jobs while at the same time recording negative growth in employment in low-skill sectors and marginalised industries (particularly in the case of Hong Kong). That is clearly reflected in the average annual growth of these occupations, which is higher than the growth of overall employment market in both cases. Second, along with the increase in creative occupations, low-skill jobs such as service workers (e.g. housekeeping, salespersons and restaurant services workers) have also grown in numbers. Elementary occupations and clerks such as construction workers and office and customer service clerks have increased substantially in Macau, reflecting the positive effect brought by new investments in hotels, casinos and construction projects. Urban economists, who are concerned with the economic transformation of Hong Kong, point out that the city has been turned into a producer-service economy, where it now serves as the headquarters for financial, banking, logistic, manufacturing and trading companies with their economic activities spreading over the neighboring regions and countries in South Asia, South East Asia and in mainland China (Wong and Tao 2000; Zhu et al. 2002; Hutton 2004). This process of transformation cannot be attributed only to such generic factors as openness and diversity. Of course, Hong Kong is well known for its free market economy, and its business-friendly environment ranks high in a couple of world indices
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relating to economic freedom and competitiveness (World Bank 2006; IMD 2006). The transformation of Hong Kong, however, went through different stages and contingent developments. The historical factor of the city as a long-time entrêpot and regional centre, undertaking a large portion of China’s trade in the past century, is favourable for the city’s economic restructuring. More importantly, recent developments, such as the relocation of manufacturing industries to China’s Guangdong province since the late 1970s, and the growing foreign direct investment in the province, helps build a web of economic nexuses – the vital linkages that facilitate the flow of goods, talents and monies between Hong Kong and its hinterland. While Macau enjoys an increase in the creative class, the working population in low-end service sectors is also increasing, showing a robust service economy in place. It would be a misconception to categorise Macau as an economy weak in the creative sector, or ranked low according to creative capital theory because of its lack of high-tech industries and relatively slow development of the creative class. Macau has recovered from the negative growth in 1998 to achieve a growth of 2.9% in GDP in 2001, and 16.6% in 2006. International tourism at Macau has boomed in recent years, and the number of arrivals has increased from 7 million in 1997, to 21.9 million in 2006 (DSEC 2007). These figures strongly support the notion that the economic prospect of Macau is driven by international tourism and a robust service sector; in particular, the gaming industry is the most important pillar of the local economy.6 In The Rise of the Creative Class, Florida did find a case of a city with a sound record of economic growth but which ranks low in creative capital theory, and this is Las Vegas. It is a major tourist centre, known for its casinos and for the gaming industry. Drawing parallel comparisons to the case of Macau, Florida might rank Macau the least creative. However, as argued in this paper, occupational pattern is structured by different paths of economic development. While Hong Kong has been successfully transformed into a regional centre of trade, service and finance, Macau prospers on the base of a tourism economy or in Florida’s conception, a low-end service economy. Yet, it is this so-called lowend service economy that creates wealth and job opportunities, promotes economic growth and more importantly, attracts further investment for the development of the local economy7 Indeed, foreign investors in gaming, hotel, real estate and banking industries are interested in the flourishing economy of Macau; not only do investors come from Las Vegas, they also come from Hong Kong, pouring further monies into hotel, retail and banking businesses in the city. It would be a misconception to view the creative class as largely referring to artists, designers and other cultural practitioners with distinctive lifestyles. In fact, the creative class described by Florida is a broad stratum, comprising mainly 6
The number of casinos in Macao rose from 11 in 2002 to 27 in 2007. Gross revenue from different gaming activities surged from 23.4 billion patacas (MOP) in 2002 to 57.5 billion in 2006. The city has dethroned Las Vegas and has become the world’s biggest gaming centre (Economist 2007; DICJ 2007). 7 According to one estimate, the gambling industry contributes about 50 billion patacas (MOP); and unemployment rate in 2005 is 4% (Ceng 2006).
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managerial, professional and skilled occupations. This definition is still meaningful only in the sense that it gives us a convenient category for measuring the changing occupational structure in Asian cities, as shown in the cases of Hong Kong and Macau. However, creative capital theory has profound weaknesses when it comes to explaining the underlying economic forces that work in favour of the growth in these cities. The main weakness of the theory, as far as the empirical cases have shown, is its incapability of understanding the different strategies for economic growth. It fails to point out, for instance, the key sectors with economic potential, the resources and conditions conducive to growth, and how local economy could be developed. Translating this into the language of policy, creative capital theory might even offer little insight to address the development issues of cities. Labour issues such as unemployment patterns in the creative class, economic upgrading of low-skill labourers, or ever widening income disparity between the creative-haves and have-nots are recurrent issues that the so-called creative cities would encounter. Yet, the theory sidetracks the real issues but serves as accomplice to flatter those policymakers who are indulgent in excessive design and beautification of urban environments (Peck 2005; Malanga 2004), or in exaggerated promotion of a “live-work-learn-play community” with buzzing street-level culture, diverse neighborhoods and mixed-use facilities (Florida 2002a: 164–170, 2005a: 167). Believing that these strategies work, and that they help attract talents and investment, would reinforce the myth of the creative class but would not offer a creative solution to city development issues. Appendix 1 Real GDP growth in percentage in Hong Kong and Macau, 1990–2006 (From Commission on Strategic Development, HKSAR, Creation of Employment, Paper No. CSD/EDC/7/2006, 31 October 2006; The Statistics and Census Service (DSEC), Macau, Online Database) Hong Kong Macau 1990 4.0 1991 5.7 1992 6.5 1993 6.3 1994 5.6 1995 3.9 1996 4.2 1997 5.1 1998 −5.5 1999 4.0 2000 10.0 2001 0.6 2002 1.8 2003 3.2 2004 8.6 2005 7.3 2006 8.0 a a First quarter figure. N.A. – not available.
N.A. N.A. N.A. N.A. N.A. N.A. N.A. N.A. −4.6 −2.4 5.7 2.9 10.1 14.2 28.4 6.9 16.6
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Appendix 2 Corresponding table of the ILO occupational classification and the creative occupations defined by Richard Florida (From Boschma and Fritsch 2007, Table 1) ILO occupational classification (ISCO-88) Definition of the creative class Major Group 1 Legislators, senior officials and managers 11. Legislators and senior officials 111. Legislators 112. Senior government officials 113. Traditional chiefs and heads of villages 114. Senior officials of special-interest organisations 12. Corporate managers 121. Directors and chief executives 122. Production and operations department managers 123. Other department managers 13. General managers 131. General managers Major Group 2 Professionals 21. Physical, mathematical and engineering science professionals 211. Physicists, chemists and related professionals 212. Mathematicians, statisticians and related professionals 213. Computing professionals 214. Architects, engineers and related professionals 22. Life science and health professionals 221. Life science professionals 222. Health professionals (except nursing) 223. Nursing and midwifery professionals 23. Teaching professionals 231. College, university and higher education teaching professionals 232. Secondary education teaching professionals 233. Primary and pre-primary education teaching professionals 234. Special education teaching professionals 235. Other teaching professionals 24. Other professionals 241. Business professionals 242. Legal professionals 243. Archivists, librarians and related information professionals 244. Social science and related professionals 245. Writers and creative or performing artists 246. Religious professionals Major Group 3 Technicians and associate professionals 31. Physical and engineering science associate professionals 311. Physical and engineering science technicians 312. Computer associate professionals 313. Optical and electronic equipment operators 314. Ship and aircraft controllers and technicians 315. Safety and quality inspectors 32. Life science and health associate professionals 321. Life science technicians and related associate professionals
Creative professionals
Creative professionals
Creative professionals
Creative core
Creative core Creative core Creative professionals Creative core
Creative professionals Creative professionals Creative core Creative core Bohemians [x]
Creative professionals
Creative professionals
(continued)
146 Appendix 2 (continued) ILO occupational classification (ISCO-88)
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Definition of the creative class
322. Modern health associate professionals (except nursing) 323. Nursing and midwifery associate professionals 324. Traditional medicine practitioners and faith healers 33. Teaching associate professionals [x] 331. Primary education teaching associate professionals 332. Pre-primary education teaching associate professionals 333. Special education teaching associate professionals 334. Other teaching associate professionals 34. Other associate professionals Creative professionals 341. Finance and sales associate professionals Creative professionals 342. Business services agents and trade brokers Creative professionals 343. Administrative associate professionals [x] 344. Customs, tax and related government associate Creative professionals professionals Creative professionals 345. Police inspectors and detectives Bohemians 346. Social work associate professionals [x] 347. Artistic, entertainment and sports associate professionals 348. Religious associate professionals Major Group 5 Service workers and shop and market sales workers 51. Personal and protective services workers [x] 511. Travel attendants and related workers 512. Housekeeping and restaurant services workers 513. Personal care and related workers 514. Other personal service workers 515. Astrologers, fortune-tellers and related workers 516. Protective services workers 52. Models, salespersons and demonstrators Bohemians 521. Fashion and other models [x] 522. Shop salespersons and demonstrators [x] 523. Stall and market salespersons [x] – occupational groups not included in the creative class.
163.3 523.7
584.6 439
10.2
356
276.5
563.2
161 426
561.6 434.4
11.9
341.2
300.8
535.4
–
3,073.3
Total employment
3,163.6
–
247
301.1
Senior officials and managersa Professionalsa Technicians and associate professionalsa Clerks Service, shop and sales workers Skilled agricultural and fishery workers Craft and related trade workers Plant and machine operators and assemblers Elementary occupations Miscellaneous
1997
1996
Hong Kong
3,122
–
568.9
270.9
347.5
9.1
578.2 443.8
165.4 490.2
248.2
1998
3,112.1
–
571.3
259.5
327.8
8.5
568.1 440.6
168.5 525.2
242.6
1999
3,207.3
–
586.9
263.4
332.7
8.9
588 461.5
182.7 549.8
233.3
2000
3,251.3
–
606.7
248.8
306.4
6.5
558.4 474.3
198.1 573.7
278.4
2001
3,220.3
–
610.1
236
286.4
9
535.1 468.7
198 574.3
302.6
2002
3,197.4
–
616
232.8
269.3
7.1
527.3 481.1
204.5 586
273.3
2003
3,276.5
–
607.2
232.9
265.8
7.9
542.3 513.6
212.4 611.9
282.4
2004
3,340.8
–
612.4
224.3
265.4
7.8
544 524.9
230.2 617
314.8
2005
Appendix 3 Total employment by occupation in Hong Kong and Macau, 1996–2006 (1,000 persons) (From ILO Online Database)
3,411.6
–
645.4
224.3
261.9
7.1
531.1 514.7
231.8 653.4
341.7
2006
1.05 (continued)
–
1.89
−2.89
−2.61
−5.03
−0.56 1.71
3.71 4.37
1.27
AAG % (1996–2006)
9 Asian Cities and Limits to Creative Capital Theory 147
35.9 41.7 1.3 26.8 28.2 31 196.5
36.2 41.3 1.4
28.4 27.8
30.8 195.8
Creative occupations according to Florida’s definition.
a
10.9 5.3 15.5
11.1 5 13.9
Senior officials and managers Professionals Technicians and associate professionals Clerks Service, shop and sales workers Skilled agricultural and fishery workers Craft and related trade workers Plant and machine operators and assemblers Elementary occupations Total employment
1998
1997
Macau
Appendix 3 (continued)
32 196.1
24.5 28.8
35.5 39.2 1.2
11.9 5.9 17.2
1999
33.3 195.3
24 24.9
37.4 39.4 1.3
12 6.1 16.8
2000
36.3 205
25.1 30
37.3 40.7 1.3
10.7 6.2 17.4
2001
35.3 204.9
23 27.7
36.2 43.4 1.3
12.2 6.9 18.9
2002
36.4 205.4
22.7 25.3
39 40.8 1.9
12.2 7.8 19.3
2003
36.8 219.1
23 25.8
44.7 45.3 1.9
13.5 7.8 20.4
2004
40.4 237.5
24.8 26.7
51.1 48.5 1.2
15.8 7.5 21.4
2005
44.9 265.1
27.9 25.3
60.8 54.8 1.4
17 9.4 23.5
2006
4.28 3.42
−0.20 −1.04
5.93 3.19 0.00
4.85 7.27 6.01
AAG % (1997–2006)
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References Acs, Z. J. and Megyesi, M. I. 2007. Creativity and industrial cities: A case study of Baltimore. JENA Economic Research Papers 2007-024: 1–29. APEC. 2002. The new economy in APEC: Innovations, digital divide and policy. Singapore: APEC Secretariat. Barro, R. J. 2001. Education and economic growth. In The contribution of human and social capital to sustained economic growth and well-being, ed. J. F. Helliwell, Proceedings of an OECD/ HRDC conference, Quebec, 19–21 March 2000. Ottawa: Human Resources Development Canada, OECD, 14–41. Bhidè, A. 2006. Venturesome consumption, innovation and globalization. Joint Conference of CESIFO and Center on Capitalism and Society: Perspectives on the Performance of the Continent’s Economies. Venice, July 2006. Boschma, R. A. and Fritsch, M. 2007. Creative class and regional growth? Empirical evidence from eight European countries. JENA Economic Research Papers 2007-066 (September): 1–33. Ceng, K. 2006. Growth of the Macau tourism and gambling industries is getting slow down. Zijing Magazine, no. 185 March. http://www.zijing.com.cn/200603/GB/channel3/index.html. Accessed 4 July 2007. Census and Statistics Department (C&SD), HKSAR. 2007. Hong Kong as a knowledge-based economy: A statistical perspective. Hong Kong: Science and Technology Statistics Section, Census and Statistics Department. Commission on Strategic Development, HKSAR. 2006. Creation of employment. Paper No.: CSD/EDC/7/2006, 31 October. Economist. 2007. Betting on growth. http://www.Economist.com. Accessed 25 January 2007. Florida, R. 2002a. The rise of the creative class. New York: Basic Books. Florida, R. 2002b. Competing on creativity: Placing Ontario’s cities in North American context. A report prepared for the Ontario Ministry of Enterprise, Opportunity and Innovation and the Institute for Competitiveness and Prosperity. Florida, R. 2005a. Cities and the creative class. London: Routledge. Florida, R. 2005b. Flight of the creative class: The new global competition for talent. New York: HarperCollins. Florida, R. and Tinagli, I. 2004. Europe in the creative age. London/Pittsburgh: Software Industry Centre, Carnegie Mellon; co-published with DEMOS. Gaming Inspection and Coordination Bureau, Macau (DICJ). 2007. Online database. http://www. dicj.gov.mo/EN/index.htm. Accessed 25 January 2007. Glaeser, E. 2003. The new economics of urban and regional growth. In The Oxford handbook of economic geography, eds. G. Clark, M. Feldman, and M. Gertler, 83–98. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Glaeser, E. 2004. Review of Richard Florida’s the rise of the creative class. www.economics. harvard.edu/faculty/glaeser/papers/Review_Florida.pdf. Accessed 25 January 2007. HKSAR. 2005. A Study on creative index. Hong Kong: Home Affairs Bureau. Hutton, T. A. 2004. Service industries, globalization, and urban restructuring within the AsiaPacific: New development trajectories and planning responses. Progress in Planning 61: 1–74. IMD. 2006. The IMD world competitiveness yearbook 2006. Lausanne, Switzerland: IMD International. Jacobs, J. 1993. The death and life of great American cities. New York: Modern Library. Lang, R. E. and Danielsen, K. 2005. Review roundtable: Cities and the creative class. Journal of the American Planning Association 71(2): 203–220. Malanga, S. 2004. The curse of the creative class. City Journal Winter 14 (1): 36–45. Mankiw, N. G., Romer, D., and Weil, D. N. 1992. A contribution to the empirics of economic growth. Quarterly Journal of Economics 107(2): 407–437.
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Part IV
The Making of Creative Cities
Chapter 10
The Creative Industries, Governance and Economic Development: A UK Perspective* Calvin Taylor
Introduction The title of ‘creative economy’ is much sought after by cities around the world. This new soubriquet in the vocabulary of urban esteem captures at a glance the zeitgeistian coupling of culture with economic value. With a renewed emphasis on place and the qualities of locality as the locus of development, there is a strong interest from policy-makers in the role of culture in economic development, particularly in the guise of the so-called ‘untraded inter-dependencies’ (Storper 1995) of shared values, trust and social capital. Similarly, once seriously neglected in studies of economic development, culture as both the context for and possible source of economic growth also now appears at the heart of new ways of thinking and practising economic development (Radcliffe 2006; Clammer 2005). Whilst different conceptualisations of the creative economy abound, the most common approaches reference the idea of the creative industries as a potential driver of industrial and economic development. Since 1997, there has been in the United Kingdom an upsurge of government, private and third sector interest in the contribution of the creative industries to the UK economy and society (DCMS 1998, 2001, 2007; The Work Foundation 2007), a contribution which a number of commentators have posited as a key source of future competitive advantage (NESTA 2006; Cox 2005). With annual growth rates at twice the average for the economy as a whole (DCMS 2007), the attraction of the creative industries for policy-makers is clear. With a combination of above-average growth statistics and something of the zeitgeist, the creative industries feature in virtually every regional and local economic strategy in the UK. However, it is this widespread adoption that needs to be scrutinised.
* This chapter is, in part, based on project work undertaken for the Huddersfield Creative Town Initiative in 1998–2000. Some of the material presented here was previously published in Taylor(2000).
C. Taylor () School of Performance and Cultural Industries, University of Leeds, Leeds LS2 9JT, UK e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_10, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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This chapter argues that current conceptualisations of the creative industries within development thinking in the UK are over-economised at the expense of the cultural dynamics of creativity. The desire to accrue the economic pay-off from creative industries investment strategies has obscured what it is about such industries that have historically made them attractive to localities. The chapter draws on critiques of early experiments in local culture-led regeneration – the forerunner of the contemporary interest in the creative industries – to consider the issues that are raised when creative industries strategies are seen in the context of new models of local and regional economic development. The chapter argues that current strategic thinking about the creative industries underplays the ‘cultural’ role of such industries within a locality, and that it is this cultural role, with all its connotations of shared identity, vision and historical narrative, that requires strategies for promoting the creative industries to also take into account local political cultures. The chapter concludes that the apparent aspiration for a ‘politics-lite’ route to successful economic development through culture risks both repeating past errors and missing out on what these industries can genuinely offer. This chapter draws on a number of studies of city development in which culture has figured as a key feature to re-connect the debate about the value of the creative industries to questions of politics and ideology. The chapter begins with a brief review of how earlier commentators addressed the politics of culture-led city development and draws out a number of themes that inform the argument of the chapter. These themes might be broadly stated in the following terms. First, the earlier literature pointed to what was the inherently political nature of culture – as a space of negotiation and contest. This would suggest a critical reading of contemporary creative industries strategies in which in general terms this politics goes unacknowledged. Second, if creativity is an essential part of culture, we have to question models of the creative industries that see creativity as simply an individually-held ‘factor of production.’ If creativity is not culture-neutral, then strategies for promoting creativity must attend to its situated nature and part of that situated-ness is the inherently political nature of culture.
The Creative Industries and Local Economic Development Contemporary political discourse has clearly identified the media (publishing, film, software and music, for example) and their associated producer services (design and advertising) as the source of the particular comparative economic advantage thought to be enjoyed by the creative industries in the UK. The tendency towards technological convergence in information technology, e-commerce and media communications heralds their ascendancy to the pinnacles of advanced industrial development. However, whilst contemporary political discourse favours the term creative industries, this has developed on the back of nearly 20 years of localised strategic development in the uses of culture, often in the guise of the cultural industries, in the context of urban regeneration. These kinds of strategies have been the subject of much academic analysis, especially in the field of local and regional development. The potential social and economic contribution of cultural activity appears to have been first acknowledged in the US in the 1970s (Snecdof 1985; Whitt 1987;
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Zukin 1989). One response to the urban fallout of the oil crises of the 1970s was to find strategies for encouraging the re-population of neighbourhoods blighted by industrial closure and shrinking government aid budgets. By attracting a demographic mix of artists, crafts-people, media workers, students, middle-class professionals in pursuit of bohemian lifestyles and migrants, it was thought that neighbourhoods could stabilise their populations and economies (Zukin 1989, 1995). In Europe, many localities adopted a related kind of culture-led regeneration in the early 1980s. Initially with the aim of regenerating Europe’s rapidly deindustrialising major cities as embodiments of a European civilised ideal (Bianchini and Parkinson 1993), in more recent years, the programmes of the European Structural Funds have increasingly highlighted the employment and economic growth potentials of culture, particularly through the work of the creative and cultural industries (European Commission 2005). In the UK, city-based initiatives were developed in London (Lewis 1990; McGuigan 1996), Sheffield (Sheffield City Council 1988; Oatley 1996), Liverpool (Comedia 1991), Manchester (Urban Cultures Limited 1992), Birmingham (Boden 1988) and the North-east (Cornford and Robbins 1992). These strategies have been extremely varied in their objectives, in many cases having to address seemingly quite competing constituencies and audiences. The ways in which they have been strategically used are usefully summarised by Bassett (1993, 1996) in the following terms: 1. A concern with opening up traditional institutions such as museums and theaters to wider public use, by increasing access and encouraging more involvement in the local community 2. An expanded program of support for community arts, ethnic minority cultures, and socially and culturally deprived neighborhoods 3. A new focus on the infrastructure necessary for cultural production, embracing investment in studios, workshops, marketing and support organisations, and the planning of ‘cultural districts’ 4. An extension of traditional cultural policies to include support for new technology sectors, such as television (cable and video), central to the whole field of popular culture 5. A recognition of the role of the arts in urban regeneration, typically involving the launch of ‘flagship’ development projects for arts centers, theaters and concert halls in inner-city areas 6. The launching of high profile events or festivals often linked to local heritage themes, to encourage cultural tourism However imaginative and varied these programmes and initiatives have been, they have often found themselves negotiating a number of policy dilemmas (Bassett 1993; Lim 1993; Griffiths 1995). In their review of a number of urban-based cultural strategies, Bianchini and Parkinson (1993) highlighted three of these dilemmas in particular. First, they point to the inherent dangers of center-periphery conceptualisations in urban cultural planning, which can foster gentrification and exclusivity. Second, they identify the potential conflict over resources and influence that can arise from strategies torn between calls for investment in cultural
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production and facilities for cultural consumption. Third, they point to the tension that can arise between the short term value of one-off events – festivals, for example, which help to raise the profile of a locality and temporarily engage it s citizens and visitors, and the demand for longer term sustainable solutions. Lewis (1990) and McGuigan (1996) similarly point to the political complexities facing the urban cultural strategist resulting from the potential range of competing local demands and objectives. A fundamental policy conflict may exist between social and economic priorities. Should cultural strategy address itself to issues of social exclusion, educational opportunities and the problems faced by marginalised communities (Matarasso 1997), or should it be geared to industrial development in the form of employment initiatives in the cultural industries (Williams 1997)? This is particularly acute where differing definitions of culture operate within the policy networks of localities, a situation often compounded by the competition for scarce resources.
Culture, Creativity and the Contemporary Politics of Local Economic Strategies It is against this historical background that some of the debates about the cultural and creative industries intersect with debates about the characteristic modes of economic organisation in post-industrial economies. Indeed, for some commentators, in their organisational characteristics, working practices and products, these industries are regarded as paradigmatic of the networked vertically disintegrated post-industrial economy (Schapiro et al. 1992; Lash and Urry 1994). What guarantees the significance of the policy issues and tensions identified above is that the cultural and creative industries are also to some extent, by definition, regarded as highly localised assets. In his review of the economic arguments for developing these localised creative and cultural industry assets, Williams (1997) observes that economically peripheral regions appear to have been more adept at exploiting their cultural resources than the more obvious metropolitan centers (1997: 140): Is it, for example, the economic restructuring experiences of peripheral regions which have resulted in their being more active? Or is it the political cultures prevalent in such areas? Moreover, is activism in policy formulation any indicator of their success in cultural industry development?
Tony Bennett’s (1998) Culture: A Reformers Science reminds contemporary readers of the relationship between culture and politics, at a time when the contemporary proliferation of initiatives in the cultural realm risks losing sight of this connection. In his book, Bennett demonstrates that the Victorian pioneers of public cultural initiatives (Great Exhibitions, design schools, trade fairs, public museums and galleries, etc.) harboured no reservations about this connection. In the nineteenth century’s ‘multiplication of culture’s utilities’ (Bennett 1998), it celebrated Empire, humanised industry, instructed the illiterate and redeemed the immoral. Modern sensibilities may feel uncomfortable with the patrician motives of such nineteenth century cultural entrepreneurialism, but what it reveals is the inherently political
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nature of cultural policy-making. What that prompts is to ask an analogous set of questions about the contemporary relationship between culture, creativity, politics and development.
Regions, Local Economies and Models of Economic Development For us to be able to pose those questions, we need to briefly review the main characteristics of the local economic development field. Concern for the resurgence of the region as a level of economic co-ordination sui generis (cf. Asheim et al. 2006) has arisen for a number of reasons while the fact of globalisation poses the more general question of whither the region and locality? In his discussion of the re-territorialisation of the European economy, Rhodes (1995) argues that regions now matter for three rather more specific reasons. First, liberalisation and globalisation have restricted the capacity of nation-states to undertake unilateral macro-economic management. Second, regions have, in any event, been a major consideration in earlier periods of structural economic adjustment. Third, the recent experience of particular regions shows that some are capable of generating the conditions for the development of significant growth. Piore and Sabel’s (1984) now famous claims concerning the Second Industrial Divide and the regional nature of the flexibly specialised systems of production that typify it have given rise to a range of inter-locking analytical issues. The main ones concern: the role of institutionalised relationships in fostering local economic development, particularly in the form of industrial districts; and the role of interfirm networks in embedding knowledge and securing comparative advantage and the region as a vehicle for innovation and learning. We will review each of these briefly in turn and then consider their implications for understanding the role of the creative industries within models of local and regional development.
Institutional Relationships, Networks and Embedded Knowledge In their original contribution, Piore and Sabel (1984) argued that examples of industrial districts such as ‘Third Italy’ show that flexible specialisation requires extra-economic underpinning from the political and social spheres. In their examples, support is provided by arrangements as diverse as family ties, trade associations, co-operative enterprises and so on. In effect, the creation of dynamic industrial districts, and the processes of industrial agglomeration on which they are based, are premised upon the existence of common cultural ties supported by institutions. Agglomeration economies can be achieved either formally or informally. For example, at the level of formal institutions, agencies concerned with design, innovation and technology transfer ensure that innovations arising at one point
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in the network can be disseminated throughout, in theory, to the advantage of all. Examples of informal agglomeration economies include personal contacts, membership of associations, clubs and what are often described as the ‘cafeteria effects’ of close working proximity. This is one approach to conceptualising the economic architecture of industrial co-operation. Storper (1995) develops a further insight. One facet of the industrial district literature that has risen to prominence concerns not so much the transferable aspects of agglomeration, but their non-transferable features. This is what Storper (1995) describes as their ‘un-traded interdependencies.’ This is in part derived from ideas contained in the work of Nelson and Winter (1982) on evolutionary economics and Dosi and Orsenigo (1985) on path-dependent technological development. In essence, choices concerning the uses of technology are based upon interdependent relationships between enterprises, between users and producers and between producers and other producers. Choices take place against a broader cultural background and are dependent upon a range of un-traded factors, including the state of local labor markets, public institutions, locally or nationally-derived rules of actions, customs, values, etc. The importance of un-traded interdependencies is the role they play in securing, for a given region or industrial district, a non-transferable and by and large, non-replicable economic advantage. Moreover, that advantage is grounded in culture. Storper does admit that the identification of such un-traded interdependencies is somewhat difficult. However, other contributors to these debates have sought to flesh out what these might be in more detail (Amin and Thrift 1994a; Raco 1998, 1999). A necessary, but necessarily insufficient condition for the creation of un-traded interdependencies is the presence of interacting institutions within a given region. This includes “firms; financial institutions, local chambers of commerce; training agencies; trade associations; local authorities; development agencies; innovation centres; clerical bodies; unions; government agencies providing premises, land and infrastructure; business service organisations; marketing boards” (Amin and Thrift 1994b: 14) and so on. The successful institutionalisation of these relationships and the development of a sense of common purpose bears six results (Amin and Thrift 1994b): the persistence of local institutions; the localised accumulation of both codified and tacit knowledge; institutional flexibility; a commonly enjoyed innovative culture; the extension of trust and reciprocity and a sense of inclusiveness that helps to avoid, for example, having to re-invent the wheel every time change occurs. In other words, they become locally and culturally embedded. Assuming that the right kinds of relationships can be instituted, the major problem faced by local economies is the degree to which such relationships possess any degree of permanency. The extent of such permanency is subject to a number of factors including changes of personnel, changes of roles, externally impacting factors and so on. In response to these potential difficulties, the literature on local and regional economic development has turned to the concept of embeddedness. The key to embeddedness is the formation of a culture of trust within networks of enterprises. In his account of the role of trust in economic transactions, Granovetter (1985) argued that concrete social relationships between economic actors are a determining factor in, for example, the placing of contracts and the passing of
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information on customers and suppliers. Such concrete relationships should not be regarded as the unacknowledged social content of otherwise wholly economic relations (neo-classical economics) nor as the ultimately socially determining context of economic transactions (sociology). According to Granovetter, empirical analyses of actual transactions demonstrate that on-going economic relationships require more than simply rationally calculating individuals and automatic market clearing mechanisms. As he explains: “[t]he widespread preference for transacting with individuals of known reputation implies that few are actually content to rely on either generalised morality or institutional arrangements to guard against trouble” (Granovetter 1985: 490). The important point of Granovetter’s ideas is that the economic relations between enterprises in a networked industrial district are enabled by the development of trust between businesses. This brings the analysis to the third major strand of the regional economic development literature – the idea of regions or networks as learning and innovation vehicles. There have been a number of approaches to the idea that territoriality is the basis for the development of a culture of innovation. The idea is particularly important in connection with current ideas about regional economic development because security for future development will depend upon the extent to which such capacity is embedded and therefore relatively place-dependent. There are at least four subtly different approaches to the concept of territoriallybased innovation. These include the learning region (Asheim 1996; Simmie 1997), the regional innovation system (Cooke et al. 1997; Braczyk et al. 1998), the milieu innovateur (Camagni 1991a, 1991b, 1995) and collective learning or regional innovative capacity (Nelson and Winter 1982; Lawson and Lorenz 1999). The essence of such approaches to the development of innovation is the idea that knowledge, its dissemination, development and implementation flourishes best in practice, when it is territorially grounded within a specific set of localised relationships. Where the above-named approaches differ is their respective accounts of the innovation process. In the idea of the learning region or the regional innovation system, the focus is placed upon the contribution of both inter-firm and inter-agency relationships to the innovation process. By contrast, the idea of the innovation milieu and the collective learning process, whilst not specifically excluding the role of other agencies, accent the collective innovatory capacity of inter-firm relationships. In addition, as Raco (1999) observes, these are constructed from interacting sets of social, political and economic relations. In order to understand, therefore, what occurs in the context of local economic development, an analysis of the relationships between local capacities and wider political processes is required.
Economic Development and Local Governance Perhaps the most often cited consequence of the globalising tendency of contemporary capitalism is the widely held perception that national governments have had to learn to live within new disciplinary constraints. Administrations with historically
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strong commitment to the principles of universal provision and social redistribution have been obliged by a complex of economic, political and demographic factors to respond to the disciplines of global competition. The pressures of globalisation are perhaps most acutely felt at the local and regional levels. It is at these levels where de-industrialisation, industrial re-location and their concomitant social and personal impacts take effect. One potentially countervailing tendency to globalisation has been the recognition (albeit often in limited and begrudging ways) by governments of the significance of the local and the regional as distinct spheres of economic and political activity. This has particularly been the case in the European Union (Michie and Fitzgerald 1997). In Europe, the regional accent has been underpinned by the emphasis of many European Union programmes (European Social Fund [ESF], European Regional Development Fund [ERDF], etc.). This intensifying local and regional economic focus has seen parallel changes in the form and function of local governance. In the UK, openly hostile central government attitudes to local government in the 1980s gave way, in the 1990s, to a centre-local political accommodation based upon the reformulation of local government from service provider to strategic enabler. This impacted local governance in a number of ways. Perhaps the most important of these were the competitive privatisation of certain public services, the corporate reorganisation of internal management and policy-making structures, the adoption of performance measurement in the provision of customer services and the fostering of a co-operative attitude towards working with the private and third sectors. What these in particular have meant is the creation of more distributed models of local governance. These models have been particularly important in the context of economically peripheral regions. The growing emphasis upon the localised focus of economic development has shifted attention from an evaluation of the factors that contribute to individual business competitiveness, to the identification of those factors that constitute local competitive advantage as a collectively held social attribute (Brusco 1986). This necessarily entails a shift of focus from the operational to the strategic. Thus, whilst a locality’s competitiveness may depend upon the extent to which it can capture the new industries, their potential to give the locality a competitive edge depends upon a number of other significant factors. Those have already been identified above: institutional capacity, embedded expertise and knowledge, networked relationships and a localised culture of trust. In theory, therefore, the key to competitive advantage is the identification of potential growth sectors that not only bear the characteristics of post-fordist industrial organisation, but which are also inextricably intertwined with these local assets. A number of regions and industries have achieved a relatively high profile upon these activities. What is particularly telling in the combined literatures of regional studies, local economic development and the economics and sociology of institutions and organisations is an acknowledgement of the centrality of political cultures to the patterning of successful economic development. At a more general level, this acknowledgement of the key role of political cultures and the growth of new models of governance is clearly at the heart of what has become known as the ‘new urban politics’ (Cox 1993, 1995).
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The New Urban Politics and Governance Towns, cities and regions at the periphery of the global economic arena have been obliged to re-think how they address their roles (Oatley 1998). In the UK, a number of factors have created a new context within which the apparatus of local governance has been both expanded beyond the traditional institutions of local government and internally re-structured. It has been argued earlier that these developments have occurred as a result of local, national, international and increasingly regional responses to the more directly felt pressures of global economic forces. Thus, the global–local interface in economic development is matched in the local imprint of global politics. Indeed, in the realisation of the direct global–local interface, local politics has increasingly been redesigned as the regulation of local economic competitiveness (Moore 1991). A number of features characterise the changes in local and urban governance in the UK in the course of the last 20 years. Arguably, the most important feature is the changing nature and quality of the relationship between central and local government, in which new forms of local governance have been required that permit a much wider range of stakeholders to contribute to the shaping of local policy (Hoggett 1991; Stewart 1994; Oatley 1998). The second factor is that local governance began to undergo a process of redefinition driven by two imperatives. On the one hand, a combination of measures specifically targeted at public sector service delivery and management (market-testing, competitive tendering and performance measurement) changed the characteristic ways of working for local authorities. On the other hand, the increasing number of centrally-controlled bidfunds, including the administered European Structural Funds, requiring local co-ordination changed what it was that local authorities did. In practical terms, these twin pressures lead to the translation of the function of local authorities from that of primarily service provider to that of enabler of service provision, whether by the private sector, the voluntary sector or by public–private partnerships (Cochrane 1993; Atkinson and Moon 1994; Hambleton 1998). The third factor is closely related to the second. Local authorities could no longer see themselves as the sole arm of local governance. In having to work with the private and voluntary sectors in more structured and deliberate ways, local authorities found they had to enhance their enabling role by strategically placing themselves alongside representatives of other sectors (Hutchinson 1994). As Stewart (1998: 78) puts it: “competition (through City Challenge and the Single Regeneration Challenge Fund) demanded the creation of new structures of local interest representation and leadership.” The fourth factor concerns the change of emphasis in urban policy from an essentially welfare model of priorities and objectives, to a model geared to enterprise and place promotion (Jessop 1997; Griffiths 1998). As Oatley (1998) explains, this process has three factors. First, under the pressures of global economic re-structuring, towns and cities now have to compete for their places in the urban hierarchy. This means aligning urban policy with “improving the competitiveness of business and localities” (Oatley 1998: 4). Taking a European-wide perspective,
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Newman and Verpraet (1999: 488) detect this as a more generalised process with particular implications: European economic integration has drawn cities into international competition and to a reorganisation of space around zones for high level services, new technologies, airports and leisure uses.
This process is in particular reinforced by the development of competitive funding mechanisms (Griffiths 1998). The competitive funding mechanisms established by the UK government and their corollary in European Structural Funds have presented local economies with the resources to exploit their local cultural and creative industrial assets.
The Creative Industries, Local Economic Development and Governance A number of contributors to the debates about the economic significance of the creative industries have focused less on the quantified extent of their contribution than on their particular qualitative characteristics. These have centered upon two issues. First, the extent to which the creative industries are regarded as exemplars of flexibly specialised activities. The second issue is the significance of place for the development of the creative industries. To this, however, we need to add a third: the role of political cultures in fostering such industries. The general case for regarding the creative industries as typical examples of flexibly specialised productive organisation has been made by a number of commentators. Acknowledging that a variety of neo-fordisms might exist in some creative industries (some types of publishing and television broadcasting), Schapiro et al. (1992) argue that not only does it appear that the creative industries are in the vanguard of industrial development, but that one in particular – advertising – is the paradigmatic industry of a post-fordist world. Their prognosis in 1992 was that: Not only are the cultural industries de-differentiating from each other, but industry in general is de-differentiating from the culture industry. As they get more alike, we are suggesting that what they get more alike is advertising. (Schapiro et al. 1992: 192)
From their first-hand research, they identified a number of organisational and product characteristics of the creative industries that more generally supported their view of the developmental trend towards post-fordist flexible specialisation. These are evidence of flexibility, the growing contractual significance of intellectual property rights, the intrinsically innovative nature of the product, the value of branding as a commodity, and evidence of the creative industries evolving as business services. They discuss a number of examples of different creative industries. One in particular, however, illustrates the processes of vertical and horizontal disintegration that have characterised the movement towards flexible specialisation. This is the film industry. Drawing upon initial work by Christopherson and Storper (1986), they argue that the economic pressures upon film, brought about by mass television
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consumption, heralded the way for the accelerating flexibilisation of the production process. Flexibility, they argue, was evidenced in three ways. First, directors, actors and writers (the creative capacity of the film industry) achieved a degree of autonomy from the film studios. Second, studio functions such as technical labor and production skills were packaged into smaller production vehicles. Third, the facilities and infrastructure of the film industry, for example, movie theaters, film archives and studios were themselves hived off into separate companies. The fordist vertically integrated structures of the old studio system have increasingly been replaced by geographically concentrated networks of transaction-rich small enterprises (Schapiro et al. 1992) that have the capacity to innovate. The innovatory process by itself, however, is not enough. The danger inherent in the development of regionally-based innovatory industries is that once they begin to innovate, they can only fully realise the potential of their innovation once it has an identity that can be recognised and identified with by potential customers. Undifferentiated innovation, however good, will be short-lived if it cannot achieve a degree of shelf-life. Schapiro et al. refer to this, in the language of accounting for intangibles, as “branding.” In practice, it is the establishing of a recognisable identity for the product that forms the basis for generating value. In their updating of Schapiro et al.’s original paper, Lash and Urry (1994) drew a very specific conclusion from this process. One tempting conclusion is to argue that the translation of culture into branding is further evidence of the on-going and deleterious processes by which culture is increasingly industrialised. In their view, this conclusion is erroneous. The objective of achieving brand status, on the part of creative industry enterprises and those who work within them, is the routine objective of post-industrial producer and business service industries. Increasingly, the competitiveness of other industries is dependent upon the extent to which they can secure brand identities and other intangible qualities for their products. The effectiveness of these is dependent upon precisely the qualities that mark out the cultural product, and are the stock-in-trade of creative industry activity. Thus, in general terms, as those such as Schapiro, et al. and Lash and Urry argue, the creative industries should be regarded as the paradigmatic industries of flexibly specialised economies. However, that insight carries with it much more far-reaching implications than the well-rehearsed contemporary creative industries strategic narrative seems to be aware. When culture is conceptualised as the necessary underpinning of economic processes – in the form of social and cultural capital, shared identity, language, etc. –, and as a typifying advanced industrial activity, it cannot become anything other than highly politically charged. Commentaries on cultural approaches to urban regeneration in the 1990s understood the cultural politics of the cultural and creative industries explicitly even before the creative industries had become subject to the level of policy scrutiny that they have received since the late 1990s. Re-connecting the creative industries with questions of governance and ideology is particularly timely. As the creative industries are adopted around the world by countries with deeply differing systems of governance, it is perhaps more appropriate now than ever to ask under what political conditions the creative industries can best flourish?
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Chapter 11
Shanghai’s Emergence into the Global Creative Economy Li Wu Wei and Hua Jian
Introduction China has been experiencing rapid industrialisation ever since the beginning of the twenty-first century. At the same time, China also faces challenges of the new knowledge economy. Within this context, China is experiencing the development of creative industries, a context that differs from the process in developed countries such as in Western Europe or Japan where the notion of creative industry emerged during the post-industrialisation era. Instead, Chinese economy has maintained a growth rate of up to 7% for more than 20 years since the early 1980s (Table 1). The need for high value-added industry is growing as a marked result of economic growth. From the late 1990s to the early twenty-first century, China’s cultural creative industries1 have been developing. During this period, China is expected to change considerably into an energy-saving, ecologically-friendly, land-saving and highly efficient economy, relying mainly on scientific and technological progress. The central government, provincial and city administrations are paying more and more attention to the creative industries. This chapter documents Shanghai’s creative industries in the terms framed by the city government, and describes the tracking and documentation, policies and regulations in this rapidly developing city. Among various cities and regions in China, Shanghai is where creative industry is developing fastest and which has the most potential. Shanghai has a conducive 1
In 2004, China’s central government produced statistics on Chinese cultural industries for the first time. These statistics included the GDP contributed by cultural industries, the number of employees as well as identifying the main sub-sectors. Beijing, Shanghai and Shenzhen had also begun to use the concept of “cultural industry”; but at the same time they began to adopt the term ‘creative industry’ from the UK, Singapore and Hong Kong. However, in many Chinese cities, ‘cultural industry’ and ‘creative industry’ are often used interchangeably. Therefore, we adopt the term ‘cultural creative industry’.
J. Hua () Culture Industry Research Center, Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences, Room 1504, No.1610, Zhong Shan Xi Road, Shanghai 200235, China e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_11, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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Table 1 Growth of Chinese GDP, 1980–2006 1980 1990 2000 2002 Chinese 4,517a 18,548 99,215 GDP a Unit: RMB (100 million yuan).
164,791
2003
2004
2005
2006
121,103
159,878
183,085
209,609
700 650
600 549.4 493.1
500 400 300 200
279.2 240.8 201.3
100
consultation and planning
building design
88.2
170.2 136.8 114.4
100.3 98.7 41.2 49.4
research and design
60.1 20.8
culture and media 2004
fashion innovation 2005
23.6
40.2
Total production value
2006
Fig. 1 Shanghai’s creative industries, production value (2004–2006)
environment for the development of creative industry due to a number of factors. First, Shanghai has a well-developed industry infrastructure. Second, as the cradle of modern Chinese industry, Shanghai possesses a historical industrial heritage. Third, historically as well as today, the mix of Eastern and Western cultures has given Shanghai a distinctive diversity in culture. Fourth, Shanghai has attracted talent from all over the country and around the world due to the China’s open-door policy.2 In spite of the promising context and conditions, Shanghai’s creative industries are still in their primary phase. In 2006, Shanghai’s creative industries comprised five chief parts, 38 categories and 55 segments3 (Fig. 1). Compared with other top cities in china, Shanghai’s creative industry Shanghai’s creative industries display their own distinctive characteristics, borne of the combined conditions of industrial clustering, government agency promotion, and policy support. Attention to the creative industry section became especially apparent from 2005 when the city government defined the key sectors, learning from their experience of
2
Since the 1980s, China’s central government has adopted a series of open-door policies, which include attracting foreign investment, establishing industry parks and hiring foreign talents. 3 Total production value was 65 billion yuan, with a growth rate of 18.3%, forming 6.3% of the city’s GDP. Among them, the research and design industries contributed 27.92 billion yuan, building design 10.03 billion yuan, culture and media 6.01 billion yuan, consultation and planning of 17.02 billion yuan, and the fashion industry 4.02 billion yuan.
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developed countries. A statistical indicator for creative industry was developed within the larger framework of statistical indicators used by the state. In the same year, the “11th 5-year Plan for creative industry in Shanghai” was completed, followed by the publication of the innovative “City creativity indicators for Shanghai” and the “2006 Shanghai creative industry development report”. Shanghai also gradually established a set of policies and regulations for enhancing the development of creative industries. The most important is the “Regulations for the Construction and Administration of Shanghai Creative Industry Concentration Areas” passed in Shanghai in 2006, on the instruction of the Shanghai Economic Committee. Accordingly, each district has set corresponding policies for their creative industry concentration areas including policies for tax reduction or exemption, for the physical environment, attraction of investment, attraction of talents, offering of discount loans, and other forms of financial support.
Key Sectors in Shanghai’s Creative Industries In 2005, the Shanghai Economic Committee together with the Shanghai Bureau of Statistics published “Guidelines for Shanghai’s Creative Industry Development”. This document highlighted five key sectors of Shanghai’s creative industry development from 2006 to 2010. These were: research design; architectural design; culture and media; consultancy and planning; and fashion. Research design refers mainly to research and development related to industrial production and computer software, including industrial design, arts and crafts design, software design, etc. Architectural design refers mainly to design related to architecture and environment, including project investigation design, architecture and interior design, etc. Culture and media refers mainly to the production and distribution of culture and arts, including artistic creation, live performance, broadcasting, television and movies, etc. Consultancy and planning refers mainly to providing various business consultancies and planning services to both individuals and enterprises, including market surveys, stock counselling, and exhibition planning etc. Fashion mainly refers to creative industries related to everyday consumption and entertainment, including sports leisure, entertainment leisure, wedding planning and photography production etc. Among them, some industries are already gaining prominence, such as software design, animation and games, fashion design, architectural design and craftwork design. The development of software design is especially striking. Shanghai’s software industry has maintained more than a 50%, growth rate in the last 5 years. In 2005, the operating income was 45.5 billion yuan, which was 9.6 times the operating income in 2000, and 1,596 software enterprises with 120,000 employees. In May 2006, the 28th International Conference on Software Engineering, themed “Chinese software engineering is in harmony with the world”, was held in Shanghai. It was the first time in 30 years that the conference was held in a developing country, demonstrating how the Shanghai software industry is poised to join the global market. Within China, Shanghai is the most developed in the software industry. The main features of the city’s software industry are twofold. Most important is the rapid growth of software exports. In 2000, Shanghai software exports were
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worth $52 million, while in 2005, it had increased to $681 million, taking up 19.4% of the nation’s total software exports. Instead of solely carrying out overseas orders, independent software corporations have developed their own software and begun to sell these products overseas. In addition, a huge number of software enterprises have emerged as market leaders. Currently there are 43 enterprises with a yearly income of more than 100 million yuan each. Among them, are 27 state-key enterprises,4 generating up to one-sixth of the nation’s yearly income. Six of Shanghai’s software enterprises have been listed overseas. As a result, many software product brands have emerged. In basic software research & development, the accumulated number of independent intellectual property software products has now reached 3,332. In 2005, independent intellectual property product sales income took up 40% of the nation’s software sales income. In companies like China Standard Software Co. Ltd., the operating system and office ware produced have already been bought by the General Office of the State Council and more than 20 provinces and municipal governments.
Existing Creative Industry Cluster Parks One of the key areas in which the Shanghai government has concretely implemented its creative industry policy is in its development and support of creative clusters. By the end of 2006, 75 Creative Industry Cluster Parks with a total area of 221 ha had been established by the Shanghai government. More than 3,500 creative enterprises from more than 30 countries including the United States, Japan, Belgium, France, Singapore and Italy have located in these clusters. These companies have hired over 27,000 employees. Each employee’s production value reaches 600,000 RMB, which is far beyond the country’s average level of production. Within these 75 Creative Industry Cluster Parks in Shanghai, there are four distinct types. The first is located close to universities. Creative industries are the product of the wider knowledge economy, and are supported by reputable universities and academic institutions through technical support and human resources. When located in close proximity, the enhanced interactions can promote co-operation through collaborative research and production. For example, Chifeng Road in Yangpu District is a cluster called Architectural Design Street, and its proximity to Tongji University, one of the top universities in architectural design in China, benefits from the synergies and collaboration with university researchers. The second kind of creative industry cluster park includes old factory workshops and warehouses, located in the central areas of the city which have been renovated. The development of the creative industries is mainly reliant on personal creativity, which in turn demands a level of self-cultivation. However, the creative role of the 4
State-key enterprises are large state-owned corporations which receive central government support.
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environment cannot be neglected. The unique atmosphere in these old warehouses, combining traditional and modern, eastern and western, classical and popular elements, is very attractive to artists. For example, the art street TianZiFang is considered the “Soho of Shanghai”, though Moganshan Lu by the Suzhou Creek is probably more authentic as an artists’ cluster. The third kind of creative industry cluster park arises from new urban spaces created especially for the creative industries. With increased urbanisation and economic growth, some new development zones have been established, and they offer a great opportunity to set up creative industry cluster parks. Zhangjiang Culture and Technology Creative Industry Base (located in Zhangjiang High-tech Industry Park in the Pudong District of Shanghai) is a good example. The General Administration of Press and Publication of the People’s Republic of China has recognised it as the National Online Game & Cartoon Industry base. The last kind of creative industry cluster park is based on the existing infrastructure of more traditional cultural industries. For example, the largest animation film production base in China is located in Shanghai, supported by Shanghai Animation Film Studio, which was established in 1957.
Institutional Infrastructure In order to support the development of creative industries in Shanghai, there exists an elaborate institutional infrastructure, comprising more than a dozen different government departments. In particular, a close collaboration has formed between the Propaganda Department of the Chinese Communist Party (Shanghai Committee) and the Shanghai Economic Commission. The former is a department which aims to control ideology and the media. The latter is a department in the Shanghai Government which aims to guide Shanghai’s economic development. These are also supported by about ten related departments of the Shanghai government and each of the city’s district governments. The departments include the Shanghai Development and Reform Committee, Shanghai Construction Commission, Shanghai City Planning Administration, Shanghai Real Estate Administration, Shanghai State Assets Inspection and Management Committee, Shanghai Science and Technology Commission, Shanghai Statistics Bureau, Shanghai Intellectual Property Administration, Shanghai People’s Government External Affairs Office, and Shanghai Municipal Bureau of Foreign Experts. Meanwhile, professional centres such as the Shanghai Creative Industry Center have also been established. With the support of these multiple agencies, seven public service systems have been established. They deal with intellectual property internet information, investment consultancy, human resources training, trade exhibition, R&D design and international communications. Of these, the issue of intellectual property is particularly significant for China and will be elaborated upon below.
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Intellectual Property Creativity is crucial to the stimulation of innovation. In turn, innovation systems rely crucially on the protection of intellectual property. In Shanghai, the creator, the enterprise and the professional association are all seen as essential components of the creative industry sector, and play different roles in protecting intellectual property, in concert with one another (Table 2). In particular, some related professional agencies were established to support these operations. In October 2006, the Shanghai Creative Industry Intellectual Property Center was established with the joint investment of Shanghai Creative Industry Center, Shanghai Intellectual Property Service Center, Intellectual Property Center of Shanghai Xieli Law Firm and Shanghai Creative Industry Investment Company. As one comprehensive service agency for intellectual property, it specialises in the application, management and strategy of intellectual property, and engages in providing creative enterprises with intellectual property services, from development to the industrialisation of intellectual property. At the beginning of 2007, the Shanghai Creative Industry Center proposed the forming of the Shanghai Creative Industry Intellectual Property Protection Alliance, which is a professional development organisation for its members. It has a number of objectives. First, it aims to improve professional self-discipline, monitor the conduct and promotion of intellectual property management systems in accordance with national laws and regulations and restrict the violation of intellectual property. Second, it is to carry out training and publicity and improving member enterprises’ capacity for protecting intellectual property. Third, it is to guard the intellectual property rights of member enterprises and provide related services. Fourth, it is to mediate disputes related to intellectual property among member enterprises. Fifth, it is to communicate the member enterprises’ opinions and suggestions to government. Sixth, it is to provide member enterprises with consultation and information services involving intellectual property issues. Table 2 Roles of creative industry principals in protecting intellectual property Principal players Task Function Government
Professional associations
To make regulations and policies for protecting intellectual property To provide services for protecting intellectual property
Enterprises
To develop intellectual property and make them into products
Creators
To tap into creativity, with knowledge and skills
To maintain balance between benefits to creators and those to the wider society To offer suggestions to enterprises and ensure the development and protection of intellectual property To become the principal part and major force for developing intellectual property To become the original source of developing intellectual property
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Challenges and Opportunities Despite the strong potential, Shanghai’s creative industry faces some problems. First, compared with New York, London, Tokyo, and Hong Kong, Shanghai’s creative industry sector is still in infancy in terms of both the number of employees and productivity per worker. Second, the strategic development policies for Shanghai’s creative industry sector need further improvement. More effort needs to be put into encouraging investment and finance, offering tax concessions, providing import and export support and conducting talent training, especially for small and medium sized enterprises which need more government attention in terms of their capacity for intellectual property protection. Third, the market system of the Shanghai creative industry sector needs further improvement. The development of a city’s creative industries calls for a multilayered market environment. However, at present, service and retailing systems for creative corporations are relatively primitive. An evaluation system and a trade system of creative products should be introduced in order to facilitate the business development of creative ideas and products by both individuals and enterprises. However, with the 2010 World Expo approaching, the Shanghai creative industry sector is faced with new opportunities. EXPO 2010 Shanghai will open on May 1 and close on October 31. It is estimated that this event will attract around 70 million visitors from both home and abroad, becoming the greatest event with the largest audience after the London 1851 World Expo. By May 2007, around 130 countries and international organisations had confirmed their participation in EXPO 2010 Shanghai, including the United Nations, the World Bank, Arabian Alliance and the United States, Japan, France, Germany, Ukraine, Sweden and New Zealand. The 2010 World Expo is undoubtedly a significant opportunity for Shanghai’s creative industries. The 2010 World Expo will have multiple impacts on Shanghai’s creative industry sector. In particular, inputs from creative industries are needed in many aspects of the 2010 World Expo, including theme design, park planning, exhibition hall design, activity design, brand design, souvenir design and others. A rapid growth in these sectors is expected. At the same time, global creative industry resources are likely to be attracted to Shanghai, while local creative industries will be drawn ever more into the global arena. Finally, there is likely to be an enlargement of Shanghai’s creative industry market. In sum, the Shanghai creative industry sector faces great opportunities as well as competition during a very important period of development. Amidst economic globalisation and China’s rapid economic development, a unique city brand is emerging: Shanghai as a creative city.
Chapter 12
Shanghai Moderne: Creative Economy in a Creative City? Justin O’Connor
The Writing on the Wall How are we to approach the question of creative industries in China? Understanding the narrative framework within which the creative industries are embedded seems to me critical for any coherent approach to the issue. This becomes all the more pressing when we address the specific question of the city – in this case Shanghai – as one of the privileged sites for the development of a creative industries policy narrative. That the creative industries are produced discursively as an object to be acted on by policy has been discussed by many commentators (Cunningham 2001; O’Connor 2004; Pratt 2005), as has its transposition or ‘export’ from the West (or even the UK) to East Asia (Wang 2004; O’Connor and Gu 2005; Kong et al. 2006; Keane 2007). In this chapter I want to expand the time frame slightly within which this narrative is positioned. The issue of creative industries is part of the question of China’s future – its relationship of difference from and similarity to the West – as it is also a question of China’s past – what influence will that past have on its future trajectory, is it a resource for, or burden on, this future? Shanghai embodies these difficult issues in a particularly heightened form. It is China’s historic ‘modern’ city, now freed to pursue a new round of economic expansion, its past re-activated as resource for a new global market. It is Beijing’s only rival for the position of China’s creative capital. How then do these questions play themselves out within the specific context of Shanghai? Let us try and look then at what is at stake in these narratives of past and future around creative industries and creative cities in China. I want to use Will Hutton’s The Writing on the Wall (2007) as a particularly useful exemplar of the sort of narrative framework we should avoid; useful because it is a particularly cogent ‘New Labour’ argument for the historical
J. O’Connor () Creative Industries Faculty, Queensland University of Technology, Creative Industries Precinct Z1-515, Musk Avenue Kelvin Grove, QLD 4059, Australia e-mail:
[email protected]
L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_12, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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superiority of western-style capitalism in an era of the ‘knowledge economy’.1 Hutton argues that China needs to adopt western political democracy and its attendant values not just because these are more desirable in themselves (though they are) but because they underpin the economic success of western capitalism, the only viable model on offer. The book is given some extra interest in the context of this paper because Hutton has recently been involved in a series of major research and policy papers for the UK’s Department of Culture, Media and Sport (Work Foundation 2007) embracing strongly the notion that the creative economy is to be one of the UK’s (and indeed the West’s) main sources of economic competitiveness in the coming decades. Hutton’s argument is straightforward. Western capitalism became globally dominant because it grew up in conjunction with ‘Enlightenment values’. These values emerged out of a new public sphere mediating between the state and the individual. This allowed a free circulation of knowledge and the contestation of tradition; the rule of law facilitating new forms of property, trade and finance; and the increasing restraints on the action of states by ‘opinion’, demanding that its actions should be rationally justified. The emergence and global success of European capitalism is absolutely inseparable from these Enlightenment values and it is they that made the difference when the European system encountered the powerful Qing Empire in the early nineteenth century. These four elements – the pluralism developed by nearly continual war and state competition; profitable long-distance trade and the companies it created; a robust soft institutional infrastructure; and the universalisation of technology – kindled Europe’s miracle and allowed it to overtake China…. Uniting, underpinning, and embodying all four elements was the Enlightenment, and the public institutions it underwrote. (Hutton 2007: 58)
For Hutton, the collapse of communism has now removed any doubts as to the superiority of capitalism but the linkage of capitalism to these Enlightenment values has been forgotten by the existing global great power and ignored by that emergent state which aspires to global status. The USA is retreating into protectionism and neo-liberal distrust of any state regulation of, or ‘interference’ with, the free market. The national and international (public) institutions which it helped establish, enabling a flourishing of the global trading system after WWII, are increasingly seen as ‘drags’ on US competitiveness and to be jettisoned. The Chinese, on the other hand, are stuck in a half-way house – they have pushed state-led market reforms as far as they can go. Only by introducing more economic pluralism, political democracy and strengthening civil society – that is by embracing Enlightenment values – can an immanent economic and therefore political collapse be avoided. Only if the USA, rather than demonising China, remembers its commitment to global democratic values and China embraces these too, will we avoid serious global economic problems and maybe large scale military conflict. How does this geo-political argument relate to that of the creative industries policy discourse? For Hutton and others, the lack of economic pluralism, derived
1
Hutton has long been associated with the New Labour agenda since his ‘The State We Are In’ – an intelligent and forceful call for a break with Conservative neo-liberalism – and has become increasingly part of the ‘think tank’ cluster around the current government.
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from the dominance of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) across all aspects of state and society, leads inevitably to real problems with productivity, competitiveness and innovation. The state can use the market to drive the economy to a certain level – as recognised by Deng Xiaoping – but it hits a limit. The absence of democratic accountability, an independent judiciary, really independent public companies and the scrutiny of an open civil society have allowed corruption, business appointments based on political considerations, cronyism, aversion to risk, bad loans and appalling pollution to proliferate. Where these problems really bite is in the sphere of the knowledge economy, and this is of direct relevance to the creative industries debate. The absence of economic and political pluralism has seriously hampered creativity and innovation within the knowledge intensive high-tech and service industries. The West has much higher levels of productivity and innovation; more tellingly, democratic India is overtaking China in terms of software just as other newly democratic countries such as South Korea, Taiwan and Japan are producing global brands at a much greater rate than China. Crucially, China is lacking not just Enlightenment values but ‘Enlightenment attitudes’ (Hutton 2007: 51). The separation of state and society, the accountability of the latter to the ‘reasoned collective judgement’ (Hutton 2007: 170) of the former is the essence of Enlightenment, and this public sphere also underpins ‘good economy and society’ (Hutton 2007: 170). These are non-market institutions which allow the market to be so successful because they link it to the aspirations of the individual to ‘substantive freedom and the capacity “to choose a life that one has reason to value” ’ (Hutton 2007: 171). So here is the mechanism, plural public institutions; and here is a consequence, human happiness. Enlightenment institutions need Enlightenment people to breath life into them; modernity has to be won by real people who are prepared to imagine a life that they themselves want to make and are prepared to act on that concept, leaving behind the universe in which preferences are inherited and fixed…. [T]his involves a mental shift from the traditional to the modern. (Hutton 2007: 171)
Getting these non-market institutions is not about a ‘technocratic transplant or copying’ (Hutton 2007: 170) but of a revolutionising of the Chinese public sphere. However, as the above quote makes clear, this is also a cultural change – it demands the production of modern Enlightenment subjects who can breathe life into Enlightenment institutions. I shall return to the implications of this cultural deficit in section “Brushing History Against the Grain” below, but there are obvious implications here for the creative industries. Hutton does not address them in any great detail, but is clear from his discussion in the conclusion and elsewhere that it is the knowledge economy that will continue to represent the West’s great advantage – not just the ‘hard knowledge’ of science, technology and skills (which is now more easily acquired by countries such as China) but ‘soft knowledge’: … the bundle of less tangible production inputs involving leadership, communication, emotional intelligence, the disposition to innovate, and the creation of social capital that harnesses hard knowledge and permits its effective embodiment in good and services and – crucially – its customisation. Their interaction and combination are at the heart of the knowledge economy. (Hutton 2007: 311)
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Soft knowledge, soft skills – what he calls ‘tacit interactions’ – are central to the knowledge economy; it is these which will continue to give the West its edge. These skills in turn rest on a shift to the kind of ‘post-materialist’ values that Inglehart and Weizel (2005) have repeatedly identified. Creative industries then, like the knowledge economy as a whole, demand a cultural as well as a political revolution from the Chinese. One is not possible without the other. Hutton makes clear what often only implicit in the literature on creative industries in China. Here, short-term imitation, corruption, cronyism (guanxi), political before business considerations (duplication of infrastructure as well as political appointments), lack of public debate (around clusters for example), an uncreative education system and, of course, censorship are all seen to be obstacles to the development of a creative economy. These lock Chinese creative industries into pirating, subcontracting, imitation and so on, rather than a really creative and innovative sector (cf. Keane 2007). But for Hutton, no amount of exhortation to be more creative will work unless the Chinese political system and the culture which it sustains are changed. This change will represent a transition to a complete modernity, a break from the Chinese past and a full embrace of those universal values derived from the European Enlightenment which alone can underpin the global community.
Enlightenment and Violence The pluralist economic and political system of the West, derived from the Enlightenment, has now generated a new spate of knowledge-based development. It has allowed the West to move beyond manufacture – the historical sign of its global superiority – to the knowledge economy with its soft skills, tacit interactions and sophisticated consumer market. Inglehart’s ‘post-materialist’ or ‘postmodern’ values are ‘reflected in the quest for spirituality and happiness, but also in the quest for goods and services that exactly meet the specifications of particular consumers’ (Inglehart and Weizel 2005: 310). China has been trying to move beyond cheap assembly and manufacture into the ‘hard knowledge’ of science and R&D, but, lacking the requisite public institutions and the cultural dispositions derived from these, it is a long way from being able to compete with the West in the crucial softer end of knowledge economy. This might give comfort to Hutton’s anxious western readers – as it is intended to do – but for Chinese readers it could be seen as a restatement of the classic western-centric account of development. The West represents the only viable future and the rest must play catch-up. Except that they never do, or not fully – and never on terms that they set themselves! The notion of ‘catching up’ raises the spectre of China’s confrontation with ‘the West’, and the whole issue of imperialism – a word Hutton studiously avoids (preferring ‘global trade’). I would suggest that the possible connections between Enlightenment values and imperialism must be examined if we are to avoid falling into some very old traps. The dialectic of violence and Enlightenment of course forms the central part of the book in which the term ‘culture industry’ was first coined. In that book, Adorno and Horkheimer (1979) argue that universal reason of
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Enlightenment refused to acknowledge particularity and difference, resulting in an ever more barbaric recourse to violence. But at this stage I would prefer to address this question via the historiographical debates around ‘the great divergence’ between East Asia and the West. The debate is far too big to discuss in anything like its full detail here, but I think it is important to register that there is such a debate when faced with a new round of calls – provoked by the knowledge economy and creative industries policy – for China to ‘become modern’. For Hutton, the take-off of capitalism in Europe relies upon the emergence of a public sphere, which in turn was made possible by the lack of a single dominant state. Incessant inter-state competition and warfare both made room for the migration and circulation of knowledge, required increased taxation which gave rise to demands for political representation, and gave new autonomy and power to those who financed the competing states – the merchants and bankers. This combination of knowledge, a public sphere and the burgeoning institutions of business and finance allowed long distance trade to take off, giving rise in its turn to the notion of the public company and all the attendant institutions and legal arrangements that went with these. ‘Growth produced its own culture of modernity: a willingness to accept that economic and social systems would not remain static but would always evolve’ (Hutton 2007: 58). Capitalism, driven primarily by The Netherlands and Great Britain, spread across the globe alongside the culture and values of Enlightenment/modernity. The question as to how Enlightenment/ modernity encountered ‘tradition’ outside of its European heartlands will be discussed below. First it is important to clarify that markets are not the same as capitalism. Markets and money economies have existed since classical times. Polanyi (1957) puts extended systems of monetary exchange back into pre-modern times. China had an extended market economy which could be favourably compared to that of Europe; Hutton (2007: 39) tells us that in 1800 it accounted for around 33% of global GDP. The West’s encounter with China was emphatically not that of a market- with a feudal-agrarian non-market-society. ‘China had markets, technology, sophisticated agriculture, and private property rights. The ingredients that had produced economic success in Europe all existed in China’ (Hutton 2007: 49). The key difference was that ‘Europe succeeded in creating a network of independent, empowering, nonstate, but nevertheless public institutions that acted as mediators and arbitrators of the relationships between the state and the individual’ (Hutton 2007: 49). In Hutton’s account it was these that enabled the ‘experimentation, cross-learning, openness, and competition’ which gave rise to ‘cultural and economic dynamism’ (Hutton 2007: 49). It is the cultural dimensions of modernity which are key, all made possible by the public sphere. Hutton (2007: 50) quotes Joel Mokyr, who argues that the spirit of the philosophical enlightenment – Kant’s ‘dare to know’ – was transplanted to the economic sphere in a parallel ‘industrial enlightenment’. The state then, despite its origins in violent conflict, is gradually brought within the public sphere and evolves into democracy: If the competition between warring European states set in motion the construction of this public sphere and the accompanying institutions and culture, then the European enlightenment completed it, beginning the western European democratic tradition. (Hutton 2007: 50)
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There are however other stories to be told about the role of the state in the emergence of capitalism. Keith Pomeranz’s recent (2000) survey of the evidence around ‘the great divergence’ further underlines the notion of China and the West being economically on a par, and for him nothing suggests in the mid eighteenth century that Europe was about to take-off in the way it did. For him two things made a difference. First, Britain’s access to cheap new resources of energy in the form of coal allowed a capital intensive and technology-led high growth economy. Second, the raw materials and food stuffs made available for import from the North American colonies allowed the rapid and extensive shift of labour from agriculture to industry. It was not that China was somehow ‘isolated’, looking inward and refusing foreign trade. In fact it imported extensively from its South Asian hinterland (along with huge amounts of American silver) – but its relationship to this hinterland was not that of guarantor for companies running export-led commercial colonies. It dealt with long settled communities and states not amenable to the sort of capital intensive exploitation found in the North American colonies. To a large extent, for Pomeranz, it was these two geographical accidents (especially the huge American ‘windfall’) rather than some intrinsic politico-institutional essence that released Europe from its Smithian ‘high-level equilibrium trap’2 that had begun to seriously impact on China as it had on Europe. Others have argued that the ability to exploit this windfall was not fortuitous. The commercialisation of the North American colonies was inconceivable without the active involvement of powerful states. The Chinese state might have encouraged and regulated trade and exchange – and there were powerful merchant dynasties and trading empires across Southeast Asia linked to the Chinese diaspora – but their agenda never captured that of the state. This is what happened in Europe. Hutton portrays this in classic Whig terms suitably updated for the age of the knowledge economy: the rise of the middle classes and the subjection of the state to the control of the public sphere allowed a ‘rational’ space within which land, labour, capital – and now, knowledge – could circulate freely. The market economy captures the agenda of the state and both become subject to the regulation of modern Enlightenment values. Marx, of course, famously suggested that the modern state had become a committee for managing the common affairs of the bourgeoisie; whilst this is far too reductive even for Marxist historians, it underlines a clear distinction between the states of Europe (or maybe northern Europe) and China. Historians such as Braudel (1985) and economists such as Polanyi (1957) have argued in great detail that the market economy becomes fully capitalist only when the state adopts its agenda. Hutton ignores the ways in which the state monopoly of violence was able to push through this agenda against a whole array of oppositions and obstacles. The process described by Polanyi (1957) in The Great Transformation is one where a series of small isolated markets centred on the towns were gradually organised into a national market regulated by mercantilist states (in certain ways 2
A vicious circle in which increasing levels of prosperity increased population and put more and more pressure on land, energy and other resources.
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comparable to China, though he does not say this). For Polanyi it was the next step, the separation of the market from its regulation by the state and ‘social authority’ – indeed the separation of the market from society as such and the creation of a separate ‘self-regulating’ economic sphere – that resulted in the industrial revolution. Crucial to this was the transformation of land, labour and money (which for Polanyi were not commodities at all) into commodities like any other, subject exclusively to the laws of the market. In many ways Polanyi’s work is a plea to bring back the self-regulating market under the control of ‘social authority’; and I have little doubt that Hutton places himself very much in this tradition. He wants to recall the USA back to its enlightenment values and bring the market under social control; but his willingness to elide questions of state and capital with Enlightenment seriously undermines this position. Three key points emerge from Polanyi’s account. First, the state itself became an agent of a new, aggressively expansionary capitalism. The British state played a central role in removing the traditional social, political and cultural barriers to the conversion of land, labour and money into commodities – with disastrous consequences for nineteenth and early twentieth century society (and leading to collapse of the international system between 1914 and 1945). The second point – again something Hutton ignores in his re-writing based on knowledge economy – is that the industrial revolution was simply not possible without the systematic commodification of labour, including acts of violent dispossession which Marx termed ‘primitive accumulation’. It allowed the shift of industrial production from the orbit of mercantile commerce to that of capital intensive manufacture and drove the search for profits beyond Europe onto the global stage. Third, we might therefore see the industrial revolution not as some natural outgrowth of a European modernity rooted in the late middle ages but as a distinct acceleration or ‘take-off’ which was a clear break or divergence from a previous European history. This interpretation certainly can be disputed; what seems less disputable is that the ‘great transformation’ came at a price of huge social, political and cultural dislocation and violently suppressed internal opposition which is completely effaced by Hutton’s royal road of Enlightenment and knowledge. Braudel also charts this in terms of the increasing mercantilism of states in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Markets organised around independent cities (or city-states) are gradually absorbed into markets organised around big cities closely bound to the increasingly powerful states that used and promoted them. These big cities not only created and dominated their domestic markets but they were already involved in an international trading and financial system which had emerged in Europe in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The salient point here is the way in which Venetian and Genoese bankers began to finance European states, initially their wars but gradually their commercial and imperialist activities. The Genoese financing of the Iberian Empires brought huge profits and (mostly invisible) influence. But of course the Spanish state was never capitalist. It was the United Provinces which first began to link a commercial agenda directly to that of the nation-state (or protonation-state) and used this to systematically create a trading empire. Hutton puts The Netherlands with Great Britain as first developing the modern form of the company;
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but the absolutely crucial link between this and their growing mercantile empires (rather than simply ‘long distance trade’) is never discussed. For Hutton, the invention of the public company is crucial to the ‘soft infrastructure’ of capitalism – but this a capitalism directed outwards towards the systematic exploitation of colonies and international trade. The Dutch East India Company and its British and French successors certainly provided the organisational model to deal with ever more long distance, capital intensive and financially complex trade. But it was also backed by the powerful nation-states who could provide the military resources to systematically impose its trading framework on its target territory as well as defend it against rivals. In North America and in a different way in the East Indies, these companies were sponsored by the state to systematically exploit natural and trading resources at ever higher levels of capital intensity. The expanding global mercantilist system generated not only the raw materials to allow the industrial take off in the late eighteenth century but also the high levels of capital necessary to sustain it. It also expanded the world trading system under a new dynamic – the endless drive to accumulate. The old debates about indigenous versus exogenous factors in the emergence of capitalism have in many ways become less relevant; those working around world systems theory suggest that European capitalism was implicated from the beginning in an expanding world system which demanded increasing regulation and intervention by increasingly powerful and territorially effective states. Such state action did not simply involve ‘holding the ring’ for the rule of law, it opened up new areas for the ever more hungry requirements of capital expansion. For this is what capitalism becoming the agenda of the state means – as Arrighi (2007) forcibly argues in his extensive discussion of Adam Smith. A sophisticated market society following what Smith called the ‘natural path’ (and Polanyi called the mercantile system) exists on the exchange of commodities to increase wealth. The formula might be G(oods)-M(oney)-G(oods). Capitalism inverts this relation and its logic of M-G-M means that accumulation without limit is the central goal of the system. Thus a Chinese state concerned with the promotion of trade for the prosperity of its citizens is confronted by those western states amongst whose primary goals is the facilitation of capital’s drive to endlessly accumulate more capital, irrespective of how or in what form this is achieved. A capitalist world system is driven to expand; but this expansion is not just about Schumpeterian entrepreneurial energy, it requires a state that regulates the whole commercial, financial and military system within which this endless accumulation takes place. Arrighi and others have shown how this task of managing the ‘world system’ became ever greater as the sphere of its operation expanded – the city-state (Genoa) gives way to a proto-nation-state (United Provinces), then to a fully fledged nationstate (Great Britain) and eventually, in the twentieth century, to a continental sized state commanding vast global resources (USA). From this perspective ‘primitive accumulation’ is not some original sin, a one off act of force necessary for the transition to modernity – which is how it was justified by Stalin and Mao – but is part of an ongoing requirement of the international capitalist system for social and spatial ‘fixes’. David Harvey prefers the term ‘accumulation by dispossession’, and this is
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built into the system in a way that gives it a restless dynamism that has systematic recourse to destruction and violence. The aggregate effect is…that capitalism perpetually seeks to create a geographical landscape to facilitate its activities at one point of time only to have to destroy it and build a wholly different landscape at a later point in time to accommodate its perpetual thirst for endless capital accumulation. Thus is the history of creative destruction written into the landscape of the actual historical geography of capital accumulation. (Harvey 2003: 217)
We need not go further along this line of argument. The key points I want to make here concern the historic transformation of market society into a capitalism driven by unlimited accumulation; the link between this and Europe’s capital and technology intensive industrial take-off; the continuing need for spatial fixes across ever great territory; and, crucially, the key role of the state in these on-going transformations at all levels of the national and international system. In this context Hutton’s identification of European capitalism’s dynamic expansiveness with its Enlightenment generated knowledge economy and cultural values risks that elision of one into the other, the one as mask for the other, which was the key contention of its communist opponents. We need to find a space between the two, and this can only be done by an acknowledgement of the implication of Enlightenment in violence. Recent accounts, for example, have stressed the way in which the Dutch East India Company was responsible for generating new, distinctively modern, ‘scientific’ accounts of the world as part of its creation of commercial opportunities (cf. Cook 2007). Longer established critiques of the association of the human and social sciences with imperialism’s drive to classification and the production of ‘useful’ knowledge need only be acknowledged here. Without some internal critique, the kind of historical account found in Hutton, concerning Europe’s knowledge economy and its impact on the world beyond, cannot but fall into ideology. In Hutton’s work specifically, the Western-centric view of the world risks being imported lock, stock and two-smoking-barrels into creative industries policy discourse. This becomes abundantly clear in Hutton’s staging of the encounter between China and the West in the nineteenth century. Very quickly this turns from one of parity in everything – technology, markets, private property etc. – except ‘Enlightenment’ into a stark opposition of modernity and backwardness. A dynamic economic maritime power encounters a Qing state which has become closed on itself, the over-bureaucratic state weighing on its people and unable to think outside the tried and tested ruts of feudal tradition. The Qing state could not modernise, so it fell and a much harsher route to modernisation took place. The shift from Voltaire (‘enlightened despotism’) to Hegel (‘Asiatic despotism’) is played out in a few pages, just as the word ‘feudal’ becomes increasingly prominent in his narrative (cf. Peyrefitte 1992). Hutton’s chapter refuses to consider the role of military violence as anything other than a symptom of Europe’s more advanced knowledge economy. At the same time he ignores the clear fact that it was not, as Marx had it, British commodities that finally broke down the ‘Chinese wall’ of tradition, but British cannon shot. And despite the favourable treaties negotiated as a consequence western commodities still barely penetrated nineteenth century China. It took a state backed opium cartel to achieve this.
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It is not my intention to directly debate the rights and wrong of imperialism, nor to reduce Enlightenment to capitalism, or to violence. I simply wish to acknowledge the links between them as a basis of self-critique and to find a different way of writing a contemporary account of the new round of knowledge-economy driven modernisation in China.
Brushing History Against the Grain China’s encounter with Western modernity was, for Hutton, mainly about ‘humiliation’; he is not insensitive to this nor to its role in driving forward its modernisation projects, from the 1911 republican revolution through to its more ambitious and successful 1949 communist one. But Hutton has nothing to offer this humiliation but the plea to become more modern, more Western. For him China’s ‘century of humiliation’ was only superficially caused by military defeat; at bottom lay the backwardness of its institutions and culture. Communist modernisation, both under Mao and his ‘market-socialist’ successors, has certainly broken with the ‘feudal’ past but it remains at a basic level. The modernisation evoked by the current Chinese leaders will be a chimera without a final bout of western-inspired political and cultural modernisation. This Euro-centric theory of modernisation ignores two historical realities. First, the difficulty in transforming a huge country such as China (compared to the smaller, more centralised Japan, for example) cannot be reduced to questions of ‘openness to new ideas’ or the ‘dead hand’ of a feudal state. Not only is this reduction of the issue to ‘backwardness’ a travesty of the complexities and conflicts in nineteenth century China, it also ignores the systematic disruption of Chinese attempts to self-modernise by Western powers. Second, it massively underplays the traumatic impact of western knowledge on China and the radical fractures in its sense of history, identity and imagined future that this provoked. In these and other ways, discourses of modernisation have presented non-Western countries with the challenge of always catching-up, always being in ‘the waiting room of history’, the forever ‘not yet’ (Chakrabarty 2000: 8–9). The impact of modernity on non-western nations and peoples has been to underline an ever incomplete present trying to emerge out of an always redundant past. Here we might look at Dipesh Chakrabarty’s attempt to put post-colonial theory and history together in his book Provincializing Europe (2000). In this account there are two histories. History 1 is the history of capital and modernity – of the nation-state, labour, capital, citizenship, secular politics and the social sciences which codified these. Interleaved with this is History 2 (or 2s), those other aspects of ‘pre-modern’ intellectual and artistic traditions, customs and lived experiences which make up the everyday life-world running alongside and intersecting with History 1 in ways that are only occasionally acknowledged. History 2(s) are either ignored, or relegated to pre-modern ‘remnants’ or ‘drags’ upon full political modernity. Chakrabarty’s project for a post-colonial history is not a rejection
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of this modernity (historical justice cannot be thought of outside the modern legal categories of evidence and justification) but an attempt to put it into some sort of tension with the traditions and lived experiences that modernity sees as irrelevant or as obstacles. It is an attempt to retranslate the abstract universals of modernity into the lived experience of history 2(s), to allow these lived experiences to speak from the gaps opened up in the dominant secular political-economy language of modernist social science and history. In trying to build on Chakrabarty’s work, Meng Yue, writing about Shanghai (2006), makes two key points. First, that this putting into tension need not be conceived just as the task of the historian (recovering or ‘retranslating’ these lost experiences) but also a project of historical actors themselves. These actors might actively attempt to re-translate History 1 – western modernity and capitalism – into the terms of their own distinct life-experience and cultural traditions. The second point then is that History 2 need not be considered as always somehow inside that of History 1, already absorbed within the framework of capitalist modernity, but can also stand outside it – locating itself in a different history of ‘non-capital’. For Meng Yue the very size and power of China did place it outside the history of western capital well into the nineteenth century. China’s growing confrontation/ encounter with the West produced zones of tension – ‘unruly spaces’ – in which this encounter could be thought and rethought by local actors in a range of different ways, not just in terms of the opposition between modernity and backwardness. Meng Yue suggest that, rather than seeing Shanghai as the place in which western modernity made its first landfall on a pre-modern China, we can also see it as a space in which both Western modernity and the orthodoxies of the Qing state could be contested and re-translated into a new Chinese context. It was an unruly space, in short, where alternative modernities might be imagined and elaborated. The issue here is how to think of China’s encounter with the West in a way that goes beyond the fixed oppositions of modernity/backwardness found in the ‘selfstrengthening movement’ and the more radical May Fourth movement. The first held to a notion of ‘Western means, Chinese essence’ – a formula which allowed for the survival of the Qing state and its orthodox legitimation but made room for the acquisition of ‘hard’ commercial, technological and especially military techniques. May Fourth, coming after the collapse of the Qing dynasty, was more radical in its wholesale rejection of the Chinese political and cultural past in order to push through a rapid and thoroughgoing modernisation programme – something realised by the CCP after 1949. Hutton sees the Maoist legacy as having achieved a basic level of economic modernity but without any western political values. Deng Xiaoping might have continued this adaptation of ‘western means’ to the Chinese communist essence, but remaining purely external to the system it is a project destined to failure. The economic reasons put forward by Hutton for this impending failure are extensive, and not something we can discuss here. The main point is that for Hutton there can be no Chinese essence – maybe local colour but no substantive alternative to western modernity. He explicitly rejects any specifically ‘Asian values’ which might be set as alternatives to western democratic pluralism (cf. pp. 199–207).
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Indeed though a Chinese sense of humiliation has given great energy to its modernisation drive – and is welcomed as such – the main effect of ‘Chinese essence’ is the stultifying legacy of the Chinese state. Time and again the CCP is made equivalent to the Imperial state and its Confucian bureaucratic infrastructure, weighing down on a barely existent civil society, keeping the system intellectually and politically closed. We are back to the classic colonial bind: a full transition to modernity is the only option but the local resources of history and identity are at best peripheral and at worst a debilitating drag on this path to modernity. To become modern is to become Western; but the reality of the local past means that this achievement will be endlessly deferred. Meng Yue’s portrait of Shanghai attempts – following Walter Benjamin – to ‘brush history against the grain’.3 Shanghai emerges as site of encounter between a Chinese culture already beginning to challenge the orthodox Confucian heritage (and, gradually, the legitimacy of the Qing state) and new ideas coming not only from ‘the West’ but also Japan, the colonial worlds of Southeast Asia and India, the ‘subaltern nations’ of Europe itself – such as Ireland and Poland – and rebels, revolutionaries and malcontents from all over. The nature of Shanghai, sited at the edges of empires, allows it to rethink not just Chinese history in the face of modernity, but western modernity itself in the light of Chinese cultural traditions. These ‘unruly spaces’, made possible by the overlapping jurisdictions of different states, staged (unequal and provisional) encounters between History 1 and History 2(s). The examples used by Meng Yue are aesthetic (public gardens), intellectual (a publishing house) and urban cultural (popular theatre entertainment). They represent attempts to re-envisage the world as a Chinese cosmopolitan space, a space of a more equal, open and fluid encounter between cultures than that of ‘backward’ China and a modern West. They set up dialogues with new ideas and other places which put a question mark next to both the orthodoxies of the Qing state and an ever more powerful Western modernity. For example, the Jiangnan Arsenal project attempted to find a way of putting Chinese and Western knowledge into some sort of productive dialogue; the Commercial Press educational publishing house attempted an encyclopaedia in which the universalisation of the Linnaeus plant classification system could be put next to the context of both Japanese and Chinese botanic traditions, including those of popular medicinal uses. Meng Yue also discusses the New World and the Great World entertainment centres where local Chinese entrepreneurs were given space to present a version of the World Exhibition or World Fairs that had proliferated across the globe after the mid-century. These imperialist visions of the world, displayed as objects for consumption/contemplation for the western eye, were re-translated into a particular melange of a Chinese cosmopolitanism. These huge shopping and entertainment malls, financed by local Chinese capital, were read as vulgar parody by western observers. For Meng Yue, they were a uniquely cosmopolitan site in which the Chinese world (including its diaspora) could represent its interactions and aspirations with regard to the world(s) outside – and not just the West. 3
The phrase is from Benjamin’s ‘Theses of the Philosophy of History’ written in 1938.
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Meng Yue contrasts this unruly Shanghai with the decadent Shanghai Moderne of the 1930s, which remains the image most available to the western imaginary. The harsh, chaotic, commercial city in which all forms of exotic spectacle and pleasure were available for those who could pay was in fact already controlled and policed by the Kuomintang (KMT) and its underworld allies. The Shanghai of the 1880s to the late 1920s, one of great intellectual and cultural ferment, is effaced by the decadent playground of the 1930s, where cultural and political dissent was curtailed. The ‘unruly spaces’, in which Chinese culture took an active role in envisaging different modernities, were shut down by the radical, western inspired modernisation programmes of the KMT and the CCP. The Communists of course saw Shanghai’s decadence as a symbol of Western (and to some extent Japanese) Imperialism and to be effaced accordingly. Paradoxically it is this Shanghai Moderne which is currently being revived as a crucial resource for contemporary Shanghai, as we shall see.
Modernity and the Cultural Critique of Capitalism These glimpses of alternative modernities evoked by Meng Yue are not just part of a West/non-West encounter, nor even of anti-colonial struggles but are equally part of an internal critique endemic to modernity itself. The singular universal of capitalist modernity, has been contested since its inception. Leaving aside the political challenges to the dominance of capital, we can see, for example, Romanticism and its various rejections of industrialism, parliamentary democracy, urban society, rational self-interest and so on, as a powerful and continuing critique of modernity itself. Carlyle and Ruskin, Baudelaire and Rimbaud, Wagner and Nietzsche, Pushkin and Dostoyevsky all founded their work on a radical rejection of modern society. Modernist art itself was always caught in an ambiguous place between a celebration and condemnation of modernity. Europe then has always had its glimpses of alternative modernities. But this endemic and powerful cultural critique is ironed flat by Hutton, becoming just another indicator of Europe’s superior knowledge economy and to be mobilised as part of its competitive creative industries policy; it becomes part of ‘culture as resource’ that, as George Yudice (2003) argues, has become the dominant logic in the globalisation of culture as ‘symbolic capital’. This mobilisation of an unruly past into a contemporary cultural resource can be seen in Shanghai. Ackbar Abbas’ (2002) discussion of historical preservation during an ‘unprecedented building boom’ points to the mobilisation of the city’s past (as embodied in its built heritage) not as a corrective to the disruptions or disorientations of the present but as a process of amnesia. [A]n unproblematized sense of continuity with the past can only be achieved at a price; that is, by forgetting the history of imperialism by inducing a kind of historical amnesia. ‘Historical continuity’, then, is not a solution to the problems of the present; it is more a symptom of how the present appropriates the past for its own purposes. (Abbas 2002: 48–49).
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These purposes are about real estate and the global image of Shanghai: Invoking a continuity with a legendary past – no matter how ambiguous that past may be – enhances the city’s attractiveness, gives it historical cachet and, hence, allows it to compete for foreign investment and tourism on more favourable terms. It creates symbolic capital. … Recreating Shanghai as a City of Culture then means … creating it as a series of spectacles that is marketable. … The spectacle of Shanghai produces a delirium of the visible that erases the difference between old and new… because “old” and “new” are simply different ways of creating Shanghai as a City of Culture in the new global space. (Abbas 2002: 49–51)
In this context the use of the Shanghai Moderne as cultural resource stages an encounter between contemporary Chinese cultural modernisation and a new global cultural space which can be seen as collusion. Shanghai is willing to mobilise the past that will most effectively play to a western imaginary and thus enhance its global symbolic capital. There can be no doubt that this resource is being mobilised with great effectiveness; its cultural cachet feeding not only the continuing real estate boom but also the positioning of Shanghai as an emerging media city to rival Beijing. We might ask how a new Shanghai modernity can come out of such amnesia; or we might see this as an example of how a contemporary Chinese government is fully capable of mobilising culture as a new kind of soft knowledge resource. The mobilisation of cultural critique (or unruly histories) as a resource for the further expansion of symbolic (and indeed ‘real’) capital, goes beyond the image, heritage and real estate economies of global cities. In the last 40 or so years there has been a mobilisation of a certain kind of anti-capitalist critique to both produce a new kind of post-Enlightenment (or ‘post-Materialist’) subject and a new kind of capitalism closely linked with it. There are a number of versions of this account, from the systematic to the anecdotal (see also Sennett 1998, 2006, 2008; Honneth 2004; Illouz 2007); but the connections made between what Boltanski and Chiappelo (2005) call the ‘artistic critique of capitalism’, or what others might call ‘counter-culture’ or ‘bohemia’, and the cutting edge of contemporary capitalism is now increasingly commonplace (e.g. Brooks 2000; Frank 1997). The ‘romantic’ cultural or ‘artistic’ critique of capitalism, a rejection of the alienated and inauthentic life-world of industrial and urban modernity, always had a complicated relationship to the ‘social critique’ (Boltanski and Chiapello 2005) of capitalism, concerned with questions of exploitation and social equality. In these accounts 1968 stands as symbol for the direct confrontation of this artistic critique with the modern bureaucratic or ‘Fordist’ state. It extended the realm of democratic contestation (and hence the public sphere) beyond the formal spheres of political representation into the ‘private’ realms of gender, ethnicity, sexuality and of ‘identity politics’ more generally. At the same time it might be seen to have uncoupled itself from the ‘social critique’ and elaborated a new set of social and political demands centred less on the equitable distribution of material rewards than on meaning, purpose and the authenticity of the self. Based on these premises, two clear critical characterisations of contemporary capitalism emerge. First, this contestation of capitalism resulted in a new set of post-bureaucratic or post-Fordist arrangements whereby the search for authenticity
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and meaning have been promoted as key values within the world of work. For many this has moved the responsibility for individual ‘success’ and ‘failure’ away from formal organisational roles and structures to the personal capacities of individuals themselves. They are expected to be self-motivated, creative, mobile, multi-skilled and highly networked. In short, they are to become a new kind of subject whose ideal outlines were prefigured in the bohemian and counter-cultural worlds of the artistic critique. Second, the search for authenticity and self-fulfilment, as Hutton recognises, might involve a new spirituality, but they also feed into new kinds of consumption associated less with functionality and more with meaning and identity. The implication of previously counter-cultural or bohemian values with the cutting edge of contemporary consumer capitalism, as well as the wider implication of the cultural economy in the restructuring of western capitalism since the crisis of the 1970s has been extensively noted (see Hesmondhalgh 2007). Hutton’s putting together of Inglehart and Weizel’s (2005) ‘post-materialist’ values and a new kind of sophisticated consumer culture is a version of this shift from ‘Fordism’ to ‘postFordism’ which is central to the narrative of the knowledge economy as well as the new round of globalisation that began in the 1970s. It is this narrative within which the cultural industries move from remnant of the old to the cutting edge template for the new economy – and within which they are renamed ‘creative industries’ (O’Connor 2007).
Chinese Creative Industries: More of the Same? How does this leave the prospects for the creative industries discourse in China? From Hutton’s point of view, China is not going to be catching up with the West in the near future. China has only partially modernised – leaving the creation of the requisite Enlightenment institutions and subjects to one side in its communist-led modernisation. It is in the knowledge economy that this lag is felt at its sharpest; China might have ‘hard knowledge’ but the creative, emotional and interpersonal skills required for the high-value end of a post-Fordist knowledge economy cannot be achieved outside of western democratic political and civil society institutions. If the enormous challenge of such a political transformation of the Chinese state is obvious to even the most critical observers – it is not going to happen ‘overnight’ – then what of the challenge to create post-materialist or post-modern subjects out of those who have only a one-sided experience of modernity. Having caught up in manufacture, markets, financial instruments and high-tech research another ‘not yet’ appears on the road to full modernity. To this might be added the specific bind of the ‘global culture industry’ for developing countries; how to kick start a creative industries sector in the presence of an already well established, powerful network of global companies that frequently inhibits the growth of indigenous industries and certainly their expansion onto a global stage. China’s economic strength, its huge internal market, and the state’s strong regulatory power have gone a long way to overcoming these
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obstacles; but it might be that the lack of new post-modern Chinese subjects holds back the development of the softer forms of ‘media capital’ identified by Curtin, for example – that is, concentrations of creative talent alongside finance and regulatory muscle. Keane (2007) certainly identifies how censorship, weak intellectual property enforcement, lack of space for loosely networked small enterprises, heavy top-down management styles and so on, are hampering Chinese creative industries, locking them into imitation rather than innovation. But it is not at all clear that China cannot deal with these issues without a transition to democracy, or that the creation of such post-modern creative subjects entails a full Enlightenment agenda. We saw above the ways in which Shanghai has mobilised an ambiguous, unruly past as a source of symbolic capital. China has long experience of adapting ideas from the West and of trying to make them work in specific and different local circumstances. As discussed extensively in this volume, the notion of cluster, for example, has been widely adopted in Shanghai and other cities. There is a lot of hit and miss, as Keane (2007) shows. But there seems little reason to doubt that the different cities will find ways of adjusting and amending their management to produce better results, and in the process may draw on collective policy traditions very different from those in the West (Keane 2007). These may not be entirely amenable to Western notions of creativity. On the other hand, we might also see the adoption of a creative industries policy by cities such as Shanghai not just as a new accommodation between culture and economics (jobs, regeneration, innovation, etc.) but as a way separating out politically safe forms of cultural production, moving them from policy groups around content regulation to those more directly concerned with marketled economic development. In so doing it is quite conceivable that we will find new post-modern subjects suitable for a more quiescent political culture. This is how we put it elsewhere: Wang (2004) also makes the point that the creative entrepreneurs who are charged with this modernisation process are in fact very different from the socially responsible bohemians of the western imaginary; ‘the rising “creative class” in Beijing and Guangzhou have deep pockets, networking capital with the state, and a lifestyle characteristic of the nouveau riche’ (2004: 17). Our experience also suggests that the 4×4 driving denizens of Beijing’s Chaoyang district or Shanghai’s Suzhou Creek have little concern with any wider social responsibilities. From this perspective the ‘cultural modernisation’ implied by the ‘creative industries’ may involve as much an abandonment of the residual social responsibilities represented by ‘communism’ as it does the Trojan Horse of liberalization. (O’Connor and Xin 2006: 277)
If this is the case then at the very least, it is clear that that there are ‘post-modern’ human resources being mobilised within China which may not be reliant on Western political pluralism. In addition, this may not just be a ‘distorted’ or ‘underdeveloped’ form of creativity, but might make us question the emancipatory potential of these values, this soft knowledge in the West. The freighting of the creative industries with a discourse of democratic post-materialist Enlightenment might be increasingly compromised in the West by its ever closer association with an expanded round of consumerism and a new kind of capitalism. Exporting the creative industries discourse is in part to export a new kind of ‘connexionist’ (Boltanski
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and Chiapello 2005) or post-bureaucratic (Sennett 2006) capitalism. How these might translate into the very different circumstances of China is a moot question. If post-materialist values can be adapted to a much more state controlled or collectivist society, then they might also result in much sharper implementation in terms of new kinds of work and the subjects required for this. How are the Chinese animation workers organised and managed; how far are they different (or indeed similar) to the creative clusters of the West? The subtle niceties of new media workplace discipline identified by Ross (2003) in New York might look very different in Shanghai (as his later work Ross (2006) tentatively suggests). Post-Fordist creative work here might take on a very different set of discourses than post-materialist self-fulfilment. But of course in many respects the complex mix of modern and postmodern values which so characterises the rapid development of China was identified in the 1990s by Jing Wang (1996) and is now visibly present in popular and ‘elite’ cultures. It might be that these discourses, these new values become transformative in ways different than the West has come to expect. They might hide unruly potentials in ways we cannot as yet discern. What is clear is that the demand that Chinese need to become ‘post-modern subjects’ on a parliamentary democratic capitalist model before they can become fully creative can easily turn into the kind of imperialist discourse that cuts them off from the resources of their own past and culture. The key difference is that China represents the first non-Western challenger to the global system currently run by the USA. Hutton wants to welcome China to the system without any substantive change; if only the USA would remember its Enlightenment heritage. It is a strangely naïve argument which grows out of that failure to see any link between capitalism, Enlightenment and violence which we have pointed to above. Without Enlightenment, China’s rise can only be a threat. The knowledge economy and the creative industries are one last point of leverage: if China wants to move beyond manufacture then no more modernisation without Enlightenment. The idea that the arrival of China might challenge Western Enlightenment in ways that might be productive is not countenanced. Current debates within China concern how the market does or does not, should or should not, relate to the state’s ‘residual’ commitment to socialism. ‘Left’ and ‘right’, ‘hard’ and ‘soft’ liners, modernisers and traditionalists; one question not yet shut down is of some possibility other than that of western modernity as exemplified in the USA-led modern world system. Simply the possibility of such a question must allow us to think about the creative industries agenda in a different way. Not only a wariness of the downside to the postmodern world of work and the consumerist bohemianism of self-fulfilment, creativity and material reward. But also perhaps a new accommodation between the social and the artistic critique; that the latter might be possible without the former is clearly an option on offer to many in the West as it is in China. What might a creative industries discourse look like that refused such a separation and took social equity as seriously as innovation and creativity? One that did not lapse into the anti-market discourse of ‘art’ but, in welcoming the market, refused the fundamental logic of endless, unlimited capital accumulation before all else?
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References Abbas, A. (2002) Play It Again Shanghai: Urban Preservation in the Global Era. In Gandelsonas, M. (Ed.), Shanghai Reflections. Architecture, Urbanism, and the Search for an Alternative Modernity, pp. 33–55, Princeton Architectural Press. Adorno, T. W. and Horkheimer, M. (1979) Dialectic of Enlightenment. London: Verso. Arrighi, G. (2007) Adam Smith in Beijing. Lineages of the Twenty-First Century. London: Verso. Benjamin, W. (1969) Theses on the Philosophy of History, Illuminations. London: Fontana/ Collins p. 259. Boltanski, L. and Chiapello, E. (2005) The New Spirit of Capitalism. London: Verso. Braudel, R. (1985) Civilisation and Capitalism, Fifteenth-Eighteenth Century, Vol. 2, The Wheels of Commerce. London: Fontana. Brooks, D. (2000) BOBOs in Paradise. The New Upper Class and How They Got There. New York: Touchstone. Chakrabarty, D. (2000) Provincializing Europe. Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cook, H. (2007) Matters of Exchange: Commerce, Medicine and Science in the Dutch Golden Age. Yale: Yale University Press. Cunningham, S. (2001) From Cultural to Creative Industries: Theory, Industry, and Policy Implications, Culturelink, Special issue pp. 19–32. Frank, T. (1997) The Conquest of Cool. Business Culture, Counterculture, and the Rise of Hip Consumerism. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Harvey, D. (2003) The New Imperialism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hesmondhalgh, D. (2007) The Cultural Industries. Second edition. London: Sage. Honneth, A. (2004) Organized self-realization: Some paradoxes of individualization, European Journal of Social Theory, 7(4): 463–478. Hutton, W. (2007) The Writing on the Wall. Why We Must Embrace China as a Partner or Face It as an Enemy. London: Little, Brown. Illouz, E. (2007) Cold Intimacies: The Making of Emotional Capitalism. Cambridge: Polity. Inglehart, R. and Weizel, C. (2005) Modernization, Cultural Change, and Democracy: The Human Development Sequence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Keane, M. A. (2007) Created in China: the Great New Leap Forward. London: Routledge. Kong, L., Gibson, C., Khoo, L. M., and Semple, A. L. (2006) Knowledges of the Creative Economy: Towards a Relational Geography of Diffusion and Adaptation in Asia, Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 47: 173–194. O’Connor, J. (2004) Cities, Culture and “Transitional Economies”: Developing Cultural Industries in St. Petersburg. In Power, D. and Scott, A. (Eds.), Cultural Industries and the Production of Culture, pp. 37–53. London: Routledge. O’Connor, J. (2007) Creative Industries: A Critical Bibliography. London: Arts Council of England. O’Connor, J. and Gu, X. (2006) A New Modernity?: The Arrival of “Creative Industries” in China, International Journal of Cultural Studies, 9(3): 271–283. Peyrefitte, A. (1992) The Immobile Empire. New York: Alfred Knopf. Polanyi, K. (1957) The Great Transformation: The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time. Boston, MA: Beacon. Pomeranz, K. (2000) The Great Divergence: Europe, China and the Making of the Modern World Economy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Pratt, A. (2005) Cultural Industries and Public Policy, International Journal of Cultural Policy, 11(1): 31–44. Ross, A. (2003) No-Collar. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Ross, A. (2006) Fast Boat to China. Lessons from Shanghai. Corporate Flight and the Consequences of Free Trade. New York: Pantheon. Sennett, R. (1998) The Corrosion of Character. New York: W.W. Norton.
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Sennett, R. (2006) The Culture of the New Capitalism. Yale: Yale University Press. Sennett, R. (2008) The Craftsman. London: Allen Lane. Wang, J. (1996) High Culture Fever. Politics, Aesthetics and Ideology in Deng’s China. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Wang, J. (2004) The Global Reach of a New Discourse: How Far Can ‘Creative Industries’ Travel? International Journal of Cultural Studies, 7(1): 9–19. Work Foundation (2007) Staying Ahead. The Economic Performance of the UK’s Creative Industries. London: DCMS. Yudice, G. (2003) The Expediency of Culture. Uses of Culture in the Global Era. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Yue, M. (2006) Shanghai and the Edges of Empires. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
Part V
The Politics of the Creative City
Chapter 13
Urbanity as a Political Project: Towards Post-national European Cities Eric Corijn
The world is in a transition period with far-reaching social changes. The umbrella metaphor for these changes is the “process of globalisation.” Both the term and the scale of globalisation are a matter for discussion. At least one important dimension of the process is the precarious nature of the balance between the market driven world system on the one hand and the political system of nation-states on the other hand. The global order is under reform. Within that tension, the increased urbanisation adds a specific dynamic. For the first time in history, the majority of mankind lives in an urban context. In the most industrialised continents that amounts to more than three quarters. The quantitative process does not in itself imply a qualitative shift. In the framework on the global restructuring of governance though, the urban systems tend to burst out of the national frames they have been caught in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It is in that context that we agree with those like Davis (2006: 1), who are radicalising the importance of the transition: “it will constitute a watershed in human history, comparable to the Neolithic or Industrial revolutions.” The discussion on creative cities finds its full importance at the centre of this paradigm shift, where creative industries and actors are not merely a new kind of economic entrepreneur beneficial for post-industrial economies, but where creative cities are thought of as society builders of a new kind (Castells 1996, 1997, 1998; Featherstone 1990; Harvey 1989; Lash 1994).
Cities Enter Different Time-Spaces The global-local nexus, glocalisation and the effects of globalisation on places have been discussed basically as the outcome of the rescaling of markets, production and distribution sites, and regulation mechanisms. The “original sin” at the core of the constitution of the modern state system (Wallerstein 1984, 1991a, 1991b, 1996; Arrighi, 1994) is the separation between the eco-
E. Corijn () Social and Cultural Geography and Centre for Urban Research, COSMOPOLIS, City, Culture & Society, Vrije Universiteit Brussel, Pleinlaan 2, 1050 Brussels, Belgium e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_13, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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nomic realm and the social and political regulation mechanisms, introducing differentiated time-spaces. Political philosophy and the social sciences have developed models of sovereignty and governance within a multiple society paradigm, that is, the identification of societies with countries. Democratic regulation and social integration were matters of people, their nations and their state institutions. Economic practices were accepted to have their own logic, based on private interest and regulated exchange, and not really subjected to the scales and formats of social and political frames. As long as the bulk of economic interactions could be contained within the national regimes, the original divide between the world system and the system of nation-states was veiled. Since post-war developments are increasingly intertwined with business cycles and long waves, further development of the capitalist mode of production disrupted the frail equilibriums within national modes of regulation. They ultimately put into question the existing modes of social reproduction and made “culture into the ideological battleground of the modern world system” (Wallerstein 1990: 31). The cultural realm was put into movement and under the umbrella of postmodernism, the restructuring of cultural production and social cohesion could be understood in terms of a shift between state and market, between production and consumption, between the collective and the individual (Lash and Urry 1987, 1994). Whatever critical accounts of the importance of these shifts and the respective positioning of nation states in the world system (Brenner 1977; Garst 1985; Holton 1998; Skocpol 1977), it is now generally accepted that the world is going through a profound rescaling process in which the nation state formations are under huge pressure. The renewed importance of cities has at first been emphasised as the locus of a number of these processes. Globalisation takes place and restructures spaces of flows and spaces of places, thus repositioning cities and regions on a wider scale than just their national environment (Castells 1983, 1989). In the European context, this is not alien to the European unification process that is both part of and a reaction to globalisation. The development of a single European market and of continental modes of regulation is specifically confronted with the timeless development of the national structures and cultures. These have gradually formatted nearly all modes of existence of the social, including the urban system. The resurgence of the urban in the late medieval and renaissance period ran parallel with the long logistical wave installing the European world system (Braudel 1996; Wallerstein 1984; Taylor and Flint 2000). The urban network, partially built on remains of the old Roman network and partially on new concentration of surplus value from agricultural hinterlands, formed a space of commercial flows. It sought its own forms of regulation at odds with the feudal structures of domination. Here is the origin of the specific realm of citizenship, individual rights and freedom, self-government and the “living with strangers” that have brought the distinctive ingredients of “urbanity.” The cities took their specific European form with town halls, towers, and belfries with civic clocks and bourgeois freedoms separated from feudal and religious rule. That all-European network has been overtaken by the system of nation states, installing national urban systems in which inter-urban connections were caught in the inter-national framework.
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Europe of Nations or of Regions? Globalisation sets off an all-encompassing rescaling process. Not only is there the construction of the European Union with now 27 member states, regulating at least half of our daily lives, within the national states, important decentralisation processes are also occurring, transferring socio-economic regulation in a competitive environment to smaller entities with more or less proper rule. The European Committee of the Regions has 344 representatives of regional and local governments. They play an important role in attracting European money to regional development. There is a shift of emphasis to regions and metropolitan zones. This process of rescaling is also part of the demise of the Keynesian welfare state to be replaced by an entrepreneurial (Schumpeterian) workfare state. Competitive regions and cities undermine national solidarities and favour glocal growth strategies with a state at the service of global competition. Looking at cities and the global–local nexus in a European context thus introduces immediately the question of urbanity as a pre-and a post-national register, and thus as a para-national domain. Cities are not just part of the country (Brenner 1998). Two aspects have caught our special attention. First, in as much as globalisation causes a disruption of the national inclusion models, the city becomes a junction for political and social reconstruction of another kind. The combination of growth and post-welfare social equity are at the centre of the urban. That opens the specific agenda of new models of urban governance and urban democracy. Second, as these national inclusion models are built on a specific position of (dominant) national culture, one has to differentiate an urban perspective of culture and its position in social bonding. Urban culture is not especially built on common history and tradition but is a constructed culture, and it is here that the “creative city” takes all its significance. In other words, urban cultural dynamics are not only important economic vectors, or specific institutional or sector activities, but mainly different ways in the making of social bonds or in socialising. If cities have to be centres of innovation, cultural creativity stands not only at the forefront in designing new commodities, but also in producing new forms of societal metaphors. The rise of urbanity introduces in Europe an important shift in mental orientations. The European unification process has been conducted as a dialectics between an integration of markets and economic policies and the socio-cultural reproduction of national states. However, the economic space of flows of the single market coincides with the transnational urban network related with high speed mobility and transportation, thus creating a new geography transcending the “flat” map of juxtaposed countries into a transnational archipelago of connected cities. The traditional view of a vertically integrated world with continents, countries and cities of a different kind has to be changed into a decentred triangular relationship in which the world system, the system of national states and the networked cities relate in different ways to each other, sometimes excluding the third element. The global-local nexus tends to decentre the importance of the nation-state or at least add important players to the game. The city as a centre of innovation is not inward-turned. Innovation is the product of a creative confrontation of differences, of an experience of paradoxes with an
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unknown outcome. That is ultimately the most characteristic part of cities: living with difference, with strangers (Lofland 1973). The dense mix of functions, the proximity of difference and the spaces of flows all determine the dominance of distinction. In that sense, the city is an exception to the “normal” ways of building human societies. These have been founded on senses of commonality, and have been based on what people shared. Social bond has been derived from common characteristics. Cities were states of exception. They had “privileges” and introduced proper laws of exchange and hospitality. We are now going to a passage where that kind of living together with strangers shifts from the exception to the norm. Specifically in Europe, that process is caught between the two movers of the unification: the single market and the national states. The former deals with increased mobility of capital, goods, services and persons regulated through common law and common currency. The latter is still in charge of cultural reproduction and of social redistribution. The map of a Europe of national states covers up the real density of the core regions, setting the pace for their economic integration. The European integration process is not the building of a new nation. It is not based upon a project of imagining “Europeaness.” The mental map of Europe remains one of national countries, and represses the centre-periphery dynamics that really orient the economic integration. Both density of population and intensity of economic activities show the “Blue Banana”1 as the real core determining the pace and the scope of developments. Labour organisation and labour productivity in that area sets the standards in consumer culture in a dialectical relationship with the peripheries in spatial and social terms.
Towards the Urban Republic? The shift in the relationship between the world market/the European single market, the national state and the local urban government opens a new agenda for urban governance. The local government is not (only) the lower level of hierarchical state power. It has to position its project between its relation with the state and its position in a global/continental market. Urban growth dynamics are caught in an urban regime combining in a specific way (parts of) the population with (parts of) civil society and (fractions of) local politics. The binding of these forces necessitates a
1 ‘The Blue Banana (also known as the Hot Banana, European Megalopolis or European Backbone) is a discontinuous corridor of urbanisation in Western Europe. It stretches approximately from North West England in the north to Milan in the south. The curvature of this corridor (hence the “banana” in the name) takes in cities such as Brussels, Amsterdam, Cologne, Frankfurt, Leeds, London, Basel, Turin, Milan and Zurich, and covers one of the world’s highest concentrations of people, money and industry. The concept was developed in 1989 by RECLUS, a group of French geographers managed by Roger Brunet (RECLUS [1989]. Les villes europeénnes: Rapport pour la DATAR. RECLUS, Montpellier.) Around 90 million people live within the Blue Banana.’ (Wikipedia entry)
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new “imaginary constitution of society” (Castoriadis 1975), a vision, a project, a mission that can be co-produced by these different social institutions. As argued earlier (Boudry et al. 2003–2005), urban governance involves some radical changes in administration and project management. Vertical, mostly bureaucratic, thematic administrations have to be combined horizontally in project teams. These teams do not necessarily take the lead in project realisation, but function rather as facilitators, as intermediaries, as stage directors, optimising the output of stakeholders. The participation of civil society is important both for the quality of the project and for democratic legitimacy (Corijn 2006). Urban governance asks for the development of forms of participatory democracy, completing representative democracy with joint decision making of partners in action. Managing urban society goes beyond master planning and technocratic rule. It is like a construction site without total overview, with built elements and useless remnants, building blocks and partial plans, and a multitude of projects and actors. These social practices cannot be kept together in the framework of national political regimes. These societies are building on the basis of a common past, a discourse of national history. Such a reduction of complexity can be presented as a collective identity to be reproduced and such an identity can be represented through culture, the arts or parliaments. Urban culture is of a different kind. The city cannot be kept together on the basis of common roots. On the contrary, fragmentation, segmentation and diversity can only be bound together in a common destiny and can only be joined in a programme or an image of the future. It is doubtful that such a projected platform of common becoming can be clearly identified from the start. It is a process, and a hybrid product of crossbreeding. It thus depends more on the intensity and quality of participation than of representation. Taking urbanity as scope for cultural innovation and creation means a focus on the recovery of the polis, of the city as a political body based on citizenship. How does urban cultural dynamics fit into building an urban regulation model? What is the relation of cultural practices with public forum and public space? In general, the urban cultural regime is an intersection of the local cultural policies. It is derived from the position of the city in the national urban system and the role it plays in representing the nation and on the other hand, and globalisation processes that fix spaces of flows and contribute to a more cosmopolitan city, on the other. Taking urbanity as culture is integrating these forces into the urban project. Cultural policies then become central in urban strategies. However, urban culture is decentred in relation to the dominant national culture. In general, the cultural field in Europe has been part of the epochal shift opened by the economic crisis of the mid-1970s and the subsequent neoliberal turn in the 1980s. In the framework of the welfare state, culture and the arts were important elements of social reproduction in national policy making. As opposed to North America (Martel 2006), culture was closely regulated and financed by the state. Cultural policy was part of Fordist mass production, and oriented to diffusion and access policies with reference to a national canon. “High culture” was based on the repertoire of the selective tradition (Williams 1981) at the base of national identities. Europe is the continent of strong national identities. In different places, a strong cultural resistance to the
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first effects of commodification and the opening up of the markets was expressed under the umbrella of the “cultural exception” in the international trade agreements and supported by UNESCO (Poirrier 2006; Regourd 2004). Nation states were resisting (multi-) cultural intoxication. At the same time, however, cities had to manage the transition from industrial to post-industrial society and therefore needed to embrace consumer culture and diversity. Revitalisation of city centres, festivals and events, and urban attractors had to be developed with the private sector and according to market laws. Where supply and demand did not fully fit, production schemes were set in motion whereby the public was bound to the creation of so called socio-artistic projects. Whereas education remained the main tool for social integration in the nation, the arts were central in urban interventions. The cultural policies of European cities were often a place-specific combination of national and urban policies. Cities exist within the national urban structure. They host national institutions like opera houses, museums and cultural centres. Besides the national communities, they sometimes contribute to the documentation of lifestyles and traditions of immigrant communities. They occasionally host cultural industries of national importance like television. All these aim at offering reference systems for integration in the “community” and form an integrated public opinion. Urbanity is produced alongside the official cultural sector. It is the effect of intercultural bridging, creative encounter between differences, innovative adaptation to change and relations to a wider world. These forms of cultural production have their own sites at the margin, in subcultures, temporary coalitions and freezones. Local government sometimes supports these developments by organising these spaces like the “breeding grounds” in Amsterdam (see Chapter 14, Lehtovuori and Havik, this volume). These practices mostly occur in the interstitial spaces, in transition zones and around unsolved matters. It is a form of reclaiming urbanity (Groth and Corijn 2005).
The Brussels Case A good example of that permanent in-between-ness is Brussels, the capital city of the European Union. Brussels is the capital city of Belgium, an unsuccessful national project, which is under constant reform. The historical attempt to build a Frenchspeaking nation-state was confronted with the national aspirations of Flanders and the Dutch-speaking majority of the population. The Brussels city-region is now part of the Belgian Federal State structure. It is one of the three regional territories, squeezed between Dutch-speaking Flanders and French-speaking Wallonia. As such, it represents 1 million inhabitants of the 1.7 million in the metropolis. For matters such as culture, welfare and care, education, sports, and so forth, Brussels is a bi-communitarian city where Flemish and French-speaking institutions operate independently and from a culturalist perspective. From the viewpoint of these state institutions, the city is but a territory on which to operate (there are 41 such political mandates for cultural matters in total!). Brussels has Belgian institutions to manage opera houses, museums
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and festival centres. It has Flemish and French-speaking theatre houses, museums, cultural centres, schools and arts centres. Each local government has its own cultural policy. All these institutions delimit territories and sectors, and thus contribute to segmenting and fragmenting the city into more or less identifiable groups. They represent the population in terms of linguistic “communities” imagined as culturally homogeneous groups. That kind of cultural policy serves to legitimate representation and representative delegation of power. It creates a political order. The socio-economic reality is quite the opposite. Brussels is the second richest region in Europe, but has an average income per inhabitant that is 15% below the Belgian average and the poorest neighbourhoods. Forty per cent of the population lives in derelict neighbourhoods. Sixteen per cent of the population lives below the poverty line. Unemployment is high. Thirty per cent of the youth lives in households without income from labour. These inequalities also express themselves in socio-geographical terms, creating a dual city. Institutionally, the city is thought to host 85% of French-speakers and 15% of Dutch-speakers. Cultural policies attempt to form “communities” on this basis. However, 56% of the population is of foreign origin and one third still has no Belgian passport. Brussels is a very multinational city. Its main characteristic however is cultural hybridity. 41% of the households are linguistically mixed. Many people are multilingual. English is the second most commonly spoken language. The institutional representation does not fit the multicultural sociology of the city. Despite everything, Brussels’ cultural field produces the greatest cultural wealth in the whole of Belgium. Small centres for visual and audiovisual arts like Roomade, CCNOA, Etablissements d’en Face, Argus, Brussels Biennal, Music sector and some film festivals have become a fixture. Classical music has some strong players (BOZAR, Flagey, Klarafestival, Ars Musica) and for popular music as well, there are renowned festivals (Couleur Café, Jazz Marathon) and concert halls (Ancienne Belgique, Botanique). The majority of the cultural offerings are in the performing arts. Brussels has many large and small theatres. A recent count came to 112 theatres and 334 organisations. There is a strong presence of contemporary theatre makers, choreographers and performance artists in some renowned arts centres (Las Halles, Kaaitheater, KVS, Théatre National). The artistic creativity bubbling from below feeds big arts centres such as La Monnaie and BOZAR. A good many artists grow in a number of smaller places which act as artistic laboratories and arts workplaces for the avant-garde (Nadine, Theatre de L’L, Bains::Connective). The strongest international visibility is achieved through the contemporary dance sector with PARTS dance school as an international training centre. Over the past decades, choreographers such as Anne Theresa De Keersmaeker, Wim Vandekeybus, Michèle Noiret and Meg Stuart have crowned Brussels as the world’s dance capital. Brussels is therefore undeniably a magnet for artists. The multicultural reality of the city seems to be a good breeding ground for the arts. However, as mentioned, the politics remains cut off from its artistic midfield. The political cast stays caught in its communitarian straitjacket and does not seem able to nestle itself fully in the reality of the multi-hued city. Nevertheless, it is precisely the intercultural experiments and celebrated ambivalence, which are the breath of life for the artists who work there.
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Some cultural projects specifically feature this hybridity. In 1994, an international KunstenFestivaldesArts was founded. Since 2000, when Brussels was the European cultural capital, a Zinnekeparade takes place every second year, where a rand procession of thousands of city dwellers show and celebrate the diversity of the city. In 2005, the professional arts field started up a bi-annual BXLBRAVO festival with more than 150 organisations. The arts sector in Brussels does have a pronounced urban dimension. Initiatives such as City Mine(d) and Recyclart interweave urban action and artistic production. Still, the cultural institutions are not a reflection of the broad multicultural diversity of Brussels and here as well, the governmental straitjacket is not helping.
A City Is Not a Country This paradoxical overview shows the useful analytical distinction between the city as a place in the country and the city as urbanity. In the first instance, cultural policy will be confronted by the centrality of the state and its functions. The cultural sector will be confronted by its role as a reference system in identity formation. Yet, urbanity focuses on intercultural production, bridging and networking, and creativity as a result of differences in proximity. Freezones and indeterminate spaces (Groth and Corijn 2005; Haydn et al. 2006; Oswalt et al. 2004) are of great importance in permitting informal actors to weigh on the urban agenda setting. Only in the presence of the full creative potential of urbanity can a metropolitan vision take up the complexity of the situation and search for development opportunities. Cultural creativity in a city is always more plural and diverse than any representation can render. Urban development is represented in a vision. City imaging has to be distinguished from the field of city marketing. Marketing presents the city as a commodity to an outside market and tries to attract purchasing power. Imaging serves the inner social bonding and offers an image as a meeting place of differences. Imagebuilding can be part of the public debate as it orients strategic choices. Creative cities contribute to innovative city imaging. It is not a form of master planning, but rather an ongoing debate about the making of the city. It is driven by a desire to solve problems and works best when adapted to the right scales. Urban projects are part of the vision. They produce a part of the city, make a strategic difference, and mobilise people and ideas in an urban coalition. It is in the projects that urbanity can be made visible and debatable. Projects and overall vision offer a platform for cultural debate. In that forum, the crisis of classic political representation (the end of great narratives) comes to the fore. There again, the need for creativity and innovation in agenda setting and problem solving are mobilising cultural and arts actors as co-producers of urbanity, especially when looking for the advantage of diversity (Wood and Landry 2008).
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Urban cultural policies in Europe are caught in a radical process of rescaling. The continental unification process, as a part of and reaction to globalisation, is confronted by the rooted European nation-states and their nationalist cultural perspectives. The more cities are positioning themselves in a broad space of flows, in relation with other (foreign) cities or regions and in competition with closer (domestic) cities or regions, the more their culture will be confronted with the national system. Studies in cultural policies are aware of that contradiction (Matarasso 2001; Bennet 2001; Bloomfield and Bianchini 2001). Urbanity, as a condition of globalisation, opens up a post-national space and becomes a political project. Urban society needs culture to mobilise the population and make it live together on the basis of differences and diversity. National cultural policies are meant to organise common identification. It took the century of enlightenment to think of religious freedom and the possibility of living together without sharing religion. It is a part of Europe’s heritage. State religion was abolished but the nation-state introduced state culture. It will take perhaps another century of enlightenment to experiment with the possibility of living together without sharing culture. As in the eighteenth century, we will have to think of the separation of state and culture, and invent a multicultural polis. That is exactly what urbanity offers and what makes the twenty-first century the century of the city.
References Arrighi, G. 1994. The long twentieth century: Money, power and the origins of our time. London: Verso. Bennett, T. 2001. Cultural policy and cultural diversity – mapping the policy domain. Strasbourg: Council of Europe. Bloomfield, J. and F. Bianchini. 2001. Cultural citizenship and urban governance in Western Europe. In Culture and citizenship, ed. N. Stevenson, 99–123. London: Sage. Boudry, L., P. Cabus, E. Corijn, F. De Rynck, C. Kesteloot, and A. Loeckx. 2003–2005. The century of the city. City republics and grid cities. White paper. Brussel: Project Stedenbeleid, Vlaamse Gemeenschap. Braudel, F. 1996. The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean world in the age of Philip II. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Brenner, R. 1977. The origins of capitalist development: A critique of neo-smithian marxism. New Left Review 104: 25–92. Brenner, N. 1998. Global cities, glocal states: Global city formation and state territorial restructuring in contemporary Europe. Review of International Political Economy 5: 1–37. Castells, M. 1983. The city and the grassroots: A cross-cultural theory of urban social movements. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Castells, M. 1989. The informational city: Information technology, economic restructuring, and the urban regional process. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Castells, M. 1996. The rise of the network society, the information age: Economy, society and culture. Vol. I. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Castells, M. 1997. The power of identity, the information age: Economy, society and culture. Vol. II. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell.
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Castells, M. 1998. End of millennium, the information age: Economy, society and culture. Vol. III. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Castoriadis, C. 1975. L’institution imaginaire de la société. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Corijn, E. 2006. Deelnemen is belangrijker dan winnen. In Inzet/Opzet/.Voorzet. stadsprojecten in vlaanderen, eds. L. Boudry et al., 64–173. Garant: Antwerpen-Apeldoorn. Davis, M. 2006. Planet of slums. London: Verso. Featherstone, M. (Ed.). 1990. Global culture: Nationalism, globalisation and modernity. London: Sage. Garst, D. 1985. Wallerstein and his critics. Theory and Society 14: 469–495. Groth, J. and E. Corijn. 2005. Reclaiming urbanity: Indeterminate spaces, informal actors and urban agenda setting. A case study in Helsinki, Brussels and Berlin. Urban Studies 42(3): 511–534. Harvey, D. 1989. From managerialism to entrepreneurialism: The transformation in urban governance in late capitalism. Geografiska annaler 71: 3–17. Haydn, F. and R. Temel. 2006. Temporary urban spaces. Concepts for the use of city spaces. Boston, MA: Birkhauser. Holton, R. 1998. Globalization and the nation-state. London: Macmillan. Lash, S. 1994. Reflexivity and its doubles: Structures, aesthetics, community. In Reflexive modernisation, eds. U. Beck, A. Giddens, and S. Lash, 110–174. Cambridge, MA: Polity. Lash, S. and J. Urry. 1987. The end of organized capitalism. Cambridge, MA: Polity. Lash, S. and J. Urry. 1994. Economies of signs & space. London: Sage. Lofland, L. 1973. A world of strangers. Order and action in urban public space. New York: Basic Books. Martel, F. 2006. De la culture en Amérique. Paris: Gallimard. Matarasso, F. (ed.). 2001. Recognising culture: A series of briefing papers on culture and development. Canada: Department of Canadian Heritage. Oswalt, P., K. Overmeyer, and P. Misselwitz (eds.). 2004. Urban catalyst. Strategies for temporary use. Berlin: Studio Urban Catalyst. Poirrier, P. 2006. L’Etat et la culture en France au XXième Siècle. Paris: Livre de Poche. Regourd, S. 2004. L’exception culturelle. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Skocpol, T. 1977. Wallerstein’s world capitalist system: A theoretical and historical critique. The American Journal of Sociology 82(5): 1075–1090. Taylor, P. and C. Flint. 2000. Political geography. Harlow: Prentice Hall. Wallerstein, I. 1984. Historisch kapitalisme. Weesp: Heureka. Wallerstein, I. 1990. Culture as the ideological battleground of the modern world-system. Theory, Culture & Society 7: 31–55. Wallerstein, I. 1991a. Unthinking social science. The limits of nineteenth-century paradigms. Cambridge, MA: Polity. Wallerstein, I. 1991b. Geopolitics and geoculture. Essays on the changing world-system. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wallerstein, I. 1996. Open the social sciences, report of the Gulbenkian Commission on the restructuring of the social sciences. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Williams, R. 1981. The analysis of culture. In Culture, ideology and social process, eds. T. Bennett, G. Martin, C. Mercer, and J. Woollacott, 43–52. London: Batsford Academic and Educational Press/Open University Press. Wood, P. and C. Landry. 2008. The intercultural city: Planning for diversity advantage. London: Earthscan.
Chapter 14
Alternative Politics in Urban Innovation Panu Lehtovuori and Klaske Havik
Alternative Approaches to Planning Creative Spaces: Amsterdam and Helsinki This chapter discusses the planning of “creative spaces” in terms of an alternative politics and presents case studies of Amsterdam and Helsinki. Specifically, the approach to urban planning and urban politics in these cases is characterised by a strong presence of local actors embedded in local sub-cultural groups, willing to actively participate in the development of a new, site-specific cultural scene. Also, experiences from the squat culture have in these cases found their way to the planning authorities. The cases exemplify alternative approaches to urban planning policies such as temporary use, breeding places policy and urban curation. These are among the concepts that provide a cultural and social corrective to existing instrumental and more mainstream approaches. Site-specificity is a recurring theme in such alternative approaches. We discuss this interest in place as a starting point for the planning of creative spaces, and argue that the emergence of new, place-based approaches is linked to a shifting locational logic of urban planning in contemporary society. This argument will be elaborated within the theoretical context of urban space, creativity and innovation.
Urban Space, Creativity and Innovation Broadly, contemporary urban planning is influenced by two interpretations of the role of urban space in fostering creativity and innovation.1 The notion of “innovative milieu” addresses regional economic systems and well-defined innovation 1
The many-sidedness of the notion of innovation is reflected by the 33 entries involving the term in the OECD statistical glossary http://stats.oecd.org/glossary/. A baseline is that “an innovation is the
P. Lehtovuori () Centre for Urban and Regional Studies, Helsinki University of Technology PO Box 9300 FIN-02015 TKK, Finland e-mail:
[email protected] L. Kong and J. O’Connor (eds.), Creative Economies, Creative Cities: Asian-European Perspectives, GeoJournal Library 98, DOI: 10.1007/978-1-4020-9949-6_14, © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2009
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networks, while “creative city” can be seen to provide a basis for inventions in the “fuzzy” realm of human encounters and in the mixes of cultural flows that urban centrality (Lefebvre 1991) facilitates. A third, place-based and embedded approach is emerging.
Innovation in Cities – Centrality and Diversity Even though creative city theories are embraced by both politicians and planners as a “new” approach to urban development, these theories are strongly rooted in 1960s critical comments on mainstream, rationalised urban planning. Jane Jacobs, in The Economy of Cities (1969) claimed that historically, cities have been the origin and engine of innovation and economic growth. This still powerful argument explains how new ideas and new fields of economy are invented in cities, driving economic diversification and thereby growth. The evidence is strong: indeed, from prehistoric trade settlements through mediaeval urban networks to nineteenth century urban industrial capitalism, cities’ dense agglomeration of people and resources has been necessary for innovation. Jacobs holds that innovation is clearly linked to the spatial and social condition of the city – to the chaos, diversity and inefficiency of city life. It is in the dynamics of the city that small companies have the possibility of breaking out of the mainstream, and innovating by means of trial and error. Jacobs (1969: 97) predicted that “cities will be more intricate, comprehensive, diversified and larger than today’s, and will have even more complicated jumbles of old and new things. … The bureaucratized, simplified cities so dear to our present-day city planners and urban designers … run counter to the processes of city growth and economic development.” This statement rings true in contemporary globalised cities and urban regions. Peter Hall reiterated Jacobs’ argument in Cities in Civilisation (1998; also Hall 1999). He defined three types of innovation, all needing the city as a breeding ground: cultural/intellectual, technological/productive, and technological/ organisational or “urban innovation” (Hall 1999: 36). Cultural novelties often emerge in cities with excess wealth and conflictual social conditions, so that “creative cities are not likely to be stable or comfortable places (Hall 1999: 39)” while technological innovation seems to flourish on the edges of urban systems, in upstart places like late eighteenth century Manchester or early twentieth century Detroit. Hall’s notion of urban innovation has become important for the current “creative city” agenda in many places.
implementation of a new or significantly improved product (good or service), or process, a new marketing method, or a new organizational method in business practices, workplace organization or external relations (OECD). Because of the multiple and broad definitions of ‘innovation’, we have rather chosen to focus on ‘innovation activity’ and ‘creative space’, referring to the spatial, functional and organisational ‘environments’ of creative work which urban planning can support” (Ruoppila et al. 2007: 11).
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Innovation as Regional Process – Innovative Milieu In the contemporary informational economy (Castells 1989), innovation activity has a different locational logic. Large companies’ production processes have been globally distributed a long while, but also the “core” processes of management and R&D are not self-evidently bound to place (city) anymore. Flows of data and ideas underpin the distributed “network society” (Castells 1996). On the other hand, researchers have noted that in competitive environments, outsourcing and horizontal organisation of production create new regional agglomerations, which can be based for example in sectoral synergy, common value-chain or clustering around a shared science-base (e.g. Storper 1995; Porter 1991). A dual process of decentralisation and qualitatively new recentralisation can be observed (Gottdiener 1994/1985). “Innovative milieu,” as defined by the GREMI group in the 1980s, provides a socio-spatial notion of the regional condition of innovation activity (Groupe de Recherche Européen sur les Milieux Innovateurs). It is based on Philippe Aydalot’s insight, emphasising the interdependency of companies and their local milieu. The notion valorises cultural norms and social relationships into the type of infrastructure that could nurture innovation and creativity. A milieu is conceived as a coherent whole in which a territorial production system, a technical culture, and firms and institutions are linked (Maillat and Lecoq 1992; Maillat 1991). An effective innovative milieu is characterised by high levels of trust and norms of reciprocity among actors, and the development of a set of institutions that link these actors. In this way, the milieu provides positive externalities to actors within it by reducing uncertainty (Camagni 1991; Goldstein 2005). Silicon Valley in California is the paradigmatic example of an innovative milieu, combining university-based networks, hardworking culture, Asian immigrants, local venture capital, regional job market and “garage” as the iconic/practical locus of start-ups. Another standard example is the fashion and design networks of Emilia Romagna around Milan. Innovative milieus need both “hard” and “soft” elements, that is, good infrastructures and institutions, combined with favorable local culture. In urban planning, the idea has led to promoting technopoles and thematic economic corridors. To take an example, Helsinki region’s innovation strategy (Yhdessä huipulle 2005; Helsingin yleiskaava 2002) is based on science parks and hard infrastructures. The plan suggests a “campus network” and “know-how routes” as tools to foster innovation activity in regional scale. Within such large networks, however, “soft” elements like the presence of cultural or educational uses and site-specific qualities are important. In the case of Arabianranta, a new neighbourhood in Helsinki around the former Arabia factories, the regeneration process has been initiated by cultural and educational use. The University of Art and Design used the former factory premises as inspiring laboratories for art and design. The new housing area for 7,000 inhabitants and an equal number of jobs, is now designated as “living laboratory,” or everyday test-bed of new products and services. Apparently, the creative atmosphere that has come about in the former industrial buildings, in combination with the spacious waterside location, proves attractive.
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Spatial and Temporal Niches of Creative Work – Emerging Urban Places Mark Gottdiener (1994/1985) has theorised further the contemporary, informational production of space, showing that the multi-centered metropolitan region is the appropriate frame for analysing spatial processes, for example, real-estate investment. However, central cities and especially old industrial areas next to historic cores are not insignificant for the discussion about links between urban space and innovation activity – on the contrary. Sassen’s global city thesis (1991) points to possible extreme centralisation of certain “command and control” functions of global networks in the informational economy. While the empirical evidence is somewhat contested, Manhattan in New York City, as well as certain parts of London, Paris and Tokyo, can be interesting examples of a wider re-valuation of city centres and an intensified culture and consumption-led gentrification of derelict industrial zones. Zukin (1992), for example, points to “fashion, finance and food” as the drivers of Manhattan’s change; Roppongi Hills in central Tokyo boasts an art museum on top of skyscrapers and an extensive programme of street furniture-cumart. Such environments do play a role in the inter-urban competition for business locations, tourists and upper-middle class residents, attracting members of the subcultural “creative class” (cf. Florida 2002; Florida and Tinagli 2004). For our discussion, spaces of cultural production are more important than those of consumption. In terms of the politics of the creative city, the contextual creation of creative places raises two complementary issues. First, cultural users are often pioneers of economic revalorisation of urban areas. Writers, performers and artists are often the first to reveal the strong potential of urban places – which is often the start of alternative bottom-up processes of urban regeneration. The process of change in SoHo in the 1970s (Zukin 1982) is a well-known example. Artists who used old lofts as cheap studios led a fight against complete reconstruction of the area. They were able to transform the aesthetics of vernacular industrial buildings to a wanted cultural commodity. While succeeding in the initial battle, they lost in the end because they could not afford the rents of the newly popular space (see also O’Connor 1999). This is one of the often discussed counterparts of gentrification (Glass 1964; Hamnett 1961). Whereas gentrification was originally a bottom-up, organically structured process, it is now deliberately used as political device in urban regeneration. In current gentrification processes, “creativity” is often used in a top-down manner. Municipalities offer cheap facilities for artists in order to give new life to rundown urban areas. The vibrant urban life caused by the presence of creative groups, is then used to attract other audiences. The question is, however, whether creativity could be used as a mere tool (Avidar et al. 2007). Second, while the contextual creation of creative places may foster project identities, valorise new cultural actors and enrich city’s cultural offer (Lehtovuori et al. 2003), the organic processes do not always fit to official agenda. This may lead to conflicts. The case of Makasiinit (the former railway warehouses) in Helsinki is illustrative in this respect.
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Versatile use of Makasiinit: snowboarding event in the courtyard. Photo: Kirmo Kivelä
“Intencities” project in Makasiinit in summer 2000. Photo: Laura Mänki
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During the 1990s, the buildings hosted a versatile array of events and some semipermanent uses, such as a big flea market. The varied programme and lowbrow character of the historic buildings made Makasiinit well known and frequented by many kinds of visitors. Even though the place changed from marginal to popular, the rough atmosphere and unique location at the doorstep of the Finnish Parliament underlined their role as an alternative and free space. However, the official city planning did not take the organically created cultural space in account. This led to Helsinki’s biggest planning conflict in decades. Different actors gathered together as the Pro Makasiinit movement, with a proactive agenda and project identity. In autumn 2000, about 8,000 people surrounded Makasiinit forming a ‘Human Wall’ to protect them. At that time, the conflict opened a momentary political space, allowing for wider discussion about Helsinki’s urban agenda and good city life (Lehtovuori 2005a: 217–220). The important observation is that without just that material place, the whole process of appropriation and conflict would have been different, or might not have happened at all. Makasiinit were demolished in the end, but the conflict left a mark in the city’s cultural policy. The city realised the strategic importance of events, and started to brand Helsinki as the “city of festivals”. The type of space and programme Makasiinit represented would have suited well in the new policy, characterised by a dual concern about the direct economic impact of events and the ‘vibrancy’ they can produce (Mäenpää 2007). Helsinki’s example reflects European trends. Currently, place-based groups and new, organically evolved creative spaces are seen as important elements of municipal cultural policy in many European cities. In the next section, we study alternative strategies to foster such spaces, laying the ground for the detailed cases in Amsterdam and Helsinki.
Place-Based Alternative Strategies The Discovery of Marginal Places Across Europe, former harbour areas, industrial zones and abandoned factories have become breeding grounds of cultural and creative economies. Hafen City in Hamburg, the waterfront of River Spree in Berlin, Northern Quarter in Manchester, Andrejsala in Riga, Luma factory in Stockholm, Cable Factory in Helsinki and NDSM wharf and Westergasfabriek in Amsterdam are just some examples of the European scene of postindustrial sites of urban cultural production. The specific spatial and atmospheric qualities of these places play a significant role in their development, partly defining which actors become interested and what kind of creative place they achieve. The appreciation of the undesigned and indeterminate coincides with the wish to develop something new and innovative – just there. Place, or the concrete situatedness, is the key. Adaptive reuse, new social forms and new business models lead to real innovations in such circumstances (Lehtovuori et al. 2003: 36–61; Pruijt 2004). This cultural/atmospheric/alternative interest is in itself not new, but the growing European trend to manage very large redevelopments in a fresh “cultural” manner might represent urban innovation in Peter Hall’s (1999) sense.
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In these projects – from small and alternative to big and commercial – the meaning of place shifts from mere “pragmatic” location, with a focus on availability of material, labour and infrastructure, to a focus on the experience and appropriation of place. In many of the above-mentioned examples, it is creative people in search of affordable workspace, inspiration or freedom, who discover and in a way also produce such “creative spaces.” They find potential in underused, often dilapidated former industrial areas. The rough aesthetics of such places, as well as the alternative uses by squatters or other groups, offer possibilities that are lacking in the mainstream urban places. Such “found” socio-spatial realities can play a major role in urban development. “Every crevice in the city had a hidden story or undiscovered potential that could be re-used for a positive urban purpose,” as Charles Landry (2000: 7) states. In recent years, we have seen cities deliberately “constructing” such circumstances, and developing techniques of branding to attract creative groups. Mainstream politicians and real-estate developers have also discovered the potential of “hidden” or marginal places and invested in their development into centres of urban creativity. Case by case, this calls for new kinds of connection and cooperation of cultural actors, businesses and planning authorities. Each stakeholder has to be ready to question old presuppositions and experiment – challenges that are not always easily met as the Makasiinit example showed.
Temporary Use A number of alternative approaches have been developed which search for a balance between top-down and bottom-up planning of creative places. The notion of temporary use opens one way to challenge the rigidities of architectural and planning thought. The hypothesis of the Urban Catalysts project – a research initiated by the Technische Universität Berlin and funded by the European Union focusing on the temporary uses of residual urban areas in five European cities, Naples, Vienna, Amsterdam, Berlin and Helsinki (Bengs et al. 2002; Lehtovuori et al. 2003) – was that temporary uses are a neglected resource of urban planning and development. Instead of the focus on the permanent and visible, the Urban Catalysts project foregrounded the ephemeral. It became clear that even though overlooked by the official stakeholders, temporary uses and users do have positive economic and social effects. In sustaining and renewing urban cultures, temporary uses have a key role. Temporary uses facilitate a multiple coding of a site. They may also provide an opportunity to preserve the existing values and interesting features of the site better than other development options. They are a research tool, which helps the planner in testing different uses and spatial patterns (Lehtovuori et al. 2003: 57–60). One example, also part of the Urban Catalyst research project, was the above discussed temporary use of Makasiinit and the adjacent temporary Flower Gardens in Helsinki. There the temporary appropriation did show an interesting spatial pattern and programme, confirming its attractiveness, but the planning and real-estate processes could not take advantage of the “findings”. In other cases a wide variety of temporal types has been found: temporary uses can be pioneers, they
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can displace or subvert other uses, they can co-exist or consolidate, or they can give momentary impulses towards something new (Lehtovuori et al. 2003: 31–33).
Urban Curation “Urban Curation”, developed by the Chora group of architects (Bunschoten et al. 2001), represents one of the most thorough recent attempts to create a new methodology of urban planning. If applied to planning of creative spaces, urban curation seems to offer interesting possibilities. Chora views the city as a field of opportunities waiting to be realised. The budding opportunity for a public space or other urban phenomenon is called a “proto-urban condition.” The planner’s (curator’s) task is not to introduce from somewhere outside a new order, to engender an artificial project or take command of the city with visual tools, but to support and refine the urban proto-phenomena and opportunities. “Architects are designers of spaces for emergent phenomena, for social, political, economic and cultural change” (Bunschoten et al. 2001: 27). In addition to the proto-urban condition, the notion of urban curation involves other concepts that help to see place-based processes in new light. To take some examples, “caretakers” support arising phenomena, “urban icon” is a social collector and point of assembly and “liminal body” is a self-organising new actor or participant in the process of change (Bunschoten et al. 2001; Lehtovuori 2005a). These concepts help to be sensitive and inventive in the sometimes surprising processes. Applying Chora’s ideas, a creative space in formation could be seen as a “metaspace”. The task of the planner/curator is to maintain the metaspaces, overseeing, organising and supporting their contents.
Breeding Places Policy In several cities in the Netherlands, including Amsterdam, The Hague and Nijmegen, city authorities have been actively investing in so-called “breeding grounds” or “incubators,” whereby the city provides affordable housing or work space for creative groups. Through the breeding places policy, city authorities try to form alliances with the local sub-cultural scene in order to create an attractive climate for creative groups. In a number of Dutch cities, “breeding places committees” were called to life, in which local politicians together with artists and other cultural entrepreneurs discussed possibilities for breeding places in former factories, warehouses and schools. Amsterdam founded the first breeding places committee in 1999, when politicians became sensitive to the positive effects of sub-cultural activities by squatters and other marginal groups. This concept may sound like an ideal political instrument. A key question is, however, whether this alliance between sub-culture and institutions is a fruitful one. Didn’t creative places exist despite, rather than thanks to the established politics? The main concern is that breeding places need self-regulation to some extent, and should be prevented from falling into the traps
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of the bureaucratic system. Therefore, a good understanding and clear agreements between city politics and creative groups are crucial. The development of the former NDSM ship wharf in Amsterdam North into a breeding place for a diversity of subcultural activities has been a test case for new alliances between sub-cultures and the authorities (Havik 2004, 2007). The project can be seen as an attempt to avoid the negative effects of gentrification. Here, the regeneration of the old industrial harbour site started by forming an alliance between ‘top-down’ and ‘bottom-up’ politics. A group of artists and other creative people with a background in the squat scene was given the chance to develop the NDSM wharf as a cultural breeding place.
Alternative Policies in Practice The above mentioned alternative approaches to the planning of creative spaces are by no means exclusive. Indeed, in many cases the development of creative spaces simultaneously takes place along different lines. For example, in Amsterdam’s NDSM, the breeding places policy was initially paired with ideas about temporary use. However, the process of concrete realisation of the cultural wharf took so many years that the temporariness (of 5 years, initially) has by now been extended to at least 20 years. Also the Cable Factory in Helsinki has proven to stand the test of time. In the beginning of the 1990s, this factory was converted into a ‘culture factory’, giving space to architectural workshops, a photo museum, dance studios and exhibition rooms. While the Cable factory initially was a sole entity in the industrial harbour area of Ruoholahti, it is now embedded in a new urban area, with residential and commercial uses. We choose to present the Helsinki Cable Factory and the Amsterdam NDSM wharf as case-studies for this chapter, precisely because the current stage of these initiatives allows us to study the social and economic forces that lie behind the urban and architectural results. Strategies or failures to be learned from these cases can be applied in future planning of creative spaces. The case studies will be discussed below by first giving an overview of the atmosphere at these sites. Second, we will introduce the programmatic impulses proposed to attract a cultural scene. Third, the institutional and cultural consequences of such strategies are discussed.
Case Study: Amsterdam NDSM Cultural Wharf Atmosphere of the IJ Banks On the northern side of the IJ waters, at the back of the central railway station, lies the other side of Amsterdam. The scale is different from the inner city. After the rhythm of canal houses, with three steps up to the entrance, of bricks, of trees, of wooden doors, here, everything is gigantic. The blue doors of the shipwharf can be seen from a kilometre’s distance. A crane towers above the outdoor concrete ramp. Wind and emptiness are omnipresent. The ramp slopes down to an enclosed pond,
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Former shipwarf NDSM in Amsterdam. View from the ramp towards main building, 2008. Photo: Klaske Havik
Skatepark NDSM, architecture studio de Ruimte. Photo: James Linders
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protected from the IJ by a rusted steel dam. The doors no longer open to let just constructed ships sail out. Now, the pond is a reflecting stage, and the ramp is a platform for the audience, surrounded by concrete blocks full of colourful graffiti. Low sun strengthens the colours of water, of paint, of the sky, lines disappear in the water, sounds of the surrounding site vaguely resonate. There is nobody here, and Amsterdam lies open before us. Amsterdam North has long remained out of sight, the railway station forming a protection wall between roughness of the open water and the historical city centre with its system of canals along which public life took place. Only in the past decades, the huge amount of space that Amsterdam North has to offer, so close to the city centre, has been recognised as an opportunity for urban development. The discovery of these former industrial sites in Amsterdam has long been the initiative of dwellers, artists and non-profit organisations. In the period between the departure of the harbour activities and the new urban development, the IJ banks with its empty warehouses and silos were taken over by squatters as affordable spaces to live and work. They then attracted the attention of the municipality and real estate developers to regenerate the sites. By the 1990s, the Eastern Docklands, made up of several different peninsulas, had become laboratories for new housing architecture. The outcome was that it attracted a socially rather homogenous group of well-paid young families. The artistic liveliness and challenging marginality that characterised the area in the earlier years is hard to be found now.
Approach: “City as a Hull” and Breeding Places Policy Following the large-scale top-down planning of the Eastern Harbour District, a subsequent shift towards a more footloose, more diverse urban development became observable. In the course of the 1990s, in Amsterdam’s political circles, there was more interest in the stimulating impulses that sub-cultural groups had provided to the areas around the IJ, and more room emerged for these groups to operate politically as well. In 1993, they joined forces in the “IJ Industrial Buildings Guild.” As a reaction to the prevailing uniform development geared to luxury residential districts, this guild called for the preservation and re-use of historically and architecturally significant buildings, in which non-commercial rental prices might be feasible. The premise was the existing potential of sites and users. In De Stad als Casco (“The City as a Hull”) the guild outlines a method of urban design that leaves room for local bottom-up initiatives and in which users take an active part in the development and maintenance of sites. At the same time, the guild acknowledged mutability as a factor in planning: a building, an area is never “finished.” This perspective offers possibilities for a more dynamic urban development, in which instead of homogeneous user groups supplanting one another, a blending takes place among old and new users (Havik 2005, 2007). The NDSM cultural wharf was one of the first mayor projects using the breeding places policy. In October 1999, the borough of Amsterdam North held a competition
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to develop the wharf into a fertile cultural site for temporary use. The work group Kinetisch Noord, which had its roots in the squat culture and the Industrial buildings guild, won the competition with a plan thoroughly elaborated both in spatial and organisational terms. The main goals were to (1) obtain the former NDSM wharf for low-profit art, culture and crafts production, (2) initiate a community that develops NDSM wharf towards an experimental, multi-disciplinary cultural environment and (3) create a cultural hotspot of (inter)national importance and organize public activities. Kinetisch Noord received financial support from the Amsterdam broedplaatsfonds (“incubator fund”), among others, as well as an IPSV (innovative projects in urban renewal) grant from the Dutch Ministry of Public Housing, Spatial Planning and the Environment. The architectural team for the master plan consisted of Kapriool Architecten, Architecture studio de Ruimte and Marc Labadie. Characteristic elements of the rough, industrial hangar, like its impressive steel construction and skylights, formed the guiding principle of the design, which was based on the “city as a hull” philosophy. The building was partitioned into four sections: an events zone in the northern and tallest part of the hangar, a series of theatre workshops in the east wing, a youth centre in the west wing, and in the centre the Kunststad (“art city”), a grid within which offices and studios are to be built. In a later stage, the design task was divided in ten different projects in the wharf and on the terrain. This division into smaller projects allowed parallel processing in terms of budget, planning and design.
Cultural and Institutional Consequences The NDSM site is a unique example, given that the sub-culture was deliberately employed from the start to provide an impulse to the area. The project has reached an advanced stage of completion: the shell of the Kunststad was completed in late 2006 and its new users are building their workshops and studios within the structure. The NDSM site can be considered an example of the application of the “city as a hull” philosophy at several scales. By opening up the entire site for cultural, public use, the site provides an open place in the midst of more regulated urban developments. Because a certain level of freedom has been guaranteed architecturally as well, various groups of users can make the site their own; this will facilitate changes in use over time. The open set-up of the NDSM wharf, with its diversity of users and low threshold, succeeds in creating mixing between artists from the Amsterdam city centre and young people from Amsterdam-Noord, which promises to be the opposite of unilateral gentrification. This might actually make it possible for the urban diversity Jacobs called for and the “creative city” philosophy of Florida and Landry to bear fruit. For the moment, it seems the “creatives” are able to maintain their position on the NDSM site and not fall prey entirely to commercialisation: the NDSM site and its occupants seem, for now, sufficiently resilient. Instead of seeing the
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Artist village Kunststad NDSM. The structure has been designed by Dynamo architects. Artists themselves build their studio spaces within this structure. Photo: Klaske Havik
Outdoor restaurant at NDSM. Photo: Klaske Havik
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use of so-called “creative” groups merely as a gateway to gentrification, this might actually generate a more sustainable dynamic, which will lend the newly developed areas a certain diversity – a diversity indispensable to the city. The success story of the project however cannot yet be written. Difficulties with local authorities caused endless delays of building and users permits. Right after the opening in February 2005, the skate park closed again, to be opened a few months later. Dutch building regulations seem not to be directly applicable for new programming of such large industrial buildings. Whereas teams of architects, fire safety experts, engineers and advisors of all kinds have been actively involved in developing the detailed plans, the law seems to lack enough space to allow such projects to come to life. Many of the users and developers of the NDSM culture wharf have become nostalgic for the squatting period, when things seemed to have been realised so much easier and faster. The enthusiasm of the initial users fades away due to political brawl. This lays bare the paradox of the breeding places policy. The dilemma with such initiatives is that cooperation with establishment implies a loss of freedom. Breeding places policies can only become successful when they offer enough flexibility and free interpretation. Only then may they truly offer possibilities of making cities livelier, more creative and more interesting. If the NDSM project overcomes the last barriers of legislation, it can become a symbol of the creative capacity of Amsterdam, a site which breathes artistic as well as spatial freedom- and which will eventually generate the economic development of Amsterdam North.
Case Study: Cable Factory in Helsinki Atmosphere of the Western Harbour – Landscape of Work Helsinki’s Western harbour is an industrial and logistics landscape, which consists of three land-filled peninsulas. In its roughly 2 km2, one finds a functioning dockyard for luxury cruise ships, big powerplants, a heliport and both a passenger and a goods harbour. The latter is situated in the central peninsula, with its colourful cranes and the “instant city” of containers. The area is close to the city centre, and it has always been to some extent accessible. The landfill is still going on, and new industrial buildings are erected, simultaneously with a piece-meal process of re-using some areas for housing estates and public parks since late 1980s. Western harbour is more a landscape in the making than an abandoned, rusty industrial belt. A big change will be caused by the relocation of the goods harbour in 2009. This opens the central peninsula, called Jätkäsaari, for a large scale residential and office project which will redefine the character of the whole area. Cable Factory is situated at the edge of Ruoholahti, the first phase of residential re-use of the harbour. In 1989, its owner Nokia Ltd. began to lease premises no longer required by the cable production. Artists, cultural businesses and sports organisations quickly filled about 20,000 m2. What attracted those first users?
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The courtyard of the Cable Factory in 2009. Photo: Panu Lehtovuori
New offices, Cable Factory and other reused industrial buildings viewed from the quay-side. Photo: Panu Lehtovuori
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First, the complete emptiness of the building and the surrounding wastelands and quays created a solemn atmosphere, radically differing from the well-organised and nice museums, galleries, theatres, neighbourhood centres and other welfare society’s places of culture. Second, the building was full of scars of time and signs of work, making it easy to imagine future changes. Third, the size of Cable Factory is exceptional: its total floor area is 55,000 m2, making it one of the biggest industrial buildings in Finland. Many spaces are truly monumental, culminating in the cathedral-like Marine Cable Hall. Fourth, the Cable Factory carries a certain symbolism as one of the key sites of the country’s post-war industrialisation and modernisation. Taken together, these atmospheric – or “auratic” – aspects and the robust spatial frame signified for the first users freedom, both actual and conceptual, combined with a feeling of being able to do something significant. The appropriating group of actors was formed in the process, but it shared an imaginative horizon of near endless future possibilities, enthusiasm and empowerment. They felt they had found a hidden gem, a future living monument for culture by the sea.
Approach: Cultural Planning Versus Town Planning The Ruoholahti town plan, a result of 1987–1988 architectural competition, did not understand the Cable Factory’s potential, but suggested demolishing most parts of the building. Therefore, the cultural users of the factory faced a direct threat from City’s side. They soon formed the Pro Kaapeli association, which drafted an alternative plan. After support from leading cultural figures and media, the City Planning Committee in 1990 approved keeping Cable Factory as a complete entity in the future town plan. The formative phase of the Cable Factory community, programme and “brand” can be seen as a fight between cultural and technical readings of the potential of urban space. Unlike in Makasiinit, the cultural approach won. The reasons are many, but economy certainly played a role. The first Ruoholahti master plan was made during a real-estate boom with an expected rapid realisation, but during the 1990s the economic recession was already looming in the air. Because of this, a solution that seemed feasible and quite affordable for the city won a majority. After this decision, an institutionalisation process started. In 1991, the City of Helsinki and Nokia Ltd. signed a contract on dividing the factory. The part now owned by the City was formed into a company, which signed new lease contracts with the users largely on former conditions. A new committee was set up: Pro Kaapeli architects Pia Ilonen and Jan Verwijnen compiled a new use plan. Their expertise allowed for quick decisions by the committee. At the same time, construction of the Ruoholahti residential district began. The years 1991–1993 witnessed several ground-breaking events that showed the enormous potential of the Marine Cable Hall and other unique spaces of the factory. Important cultural institutions, such as Avanti chamber music orchestra, moved to Cable Factory. Educational
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actors, including Helsinki University of Technology’s Department of Architecture, also leased space for specific purposes (Lehtovuori 1999). A third phase in the programmatic evolution started in 1993, when the Museum of Photography and two other state museums moved in. Cable Factory started to be an established, big cultural centre, with its balance gradually shifting from production to consumption. A new chic restaurant in the High Voltage Hall and the Drive or Die megashow (1994), or the establishment of the Centre for New Dance (1997) are some milestones of that phase. During the process, the empty “hull” had become a labyrinthine and partly sanitised cultural space. However, the main halls occupying the whole street level have been kept open as “lugns” of the factory. They allow big programmes but also preserve some of the original feeling.
Cultural and Institutional Consequences Despite some problems in sustaining a balanced, non-commercial mix of tenants, programming the big halls actively enough, and managing the technical reparations, Cable Factory has become a successful example nationally and to an extent internationally. The artist’s studios are in full use, and events and museums gather some 200,000 visitors annually. The factory is financially self-sustained, with a turn-over of 3.5 million euros (2005).2 The size of the building is again of importance: there simply are so many rented studios that they can subsidise the noncommercial programmes, while the rent-level is kept acceptable. The same factor explains the factory’s lively creative community. Due to its success, Cable Factory became an example to other projects. For example, the model of sharing responsibilities between City and private parties was used with modifications in the Lasipalatsi media centre, a Helsinki European City of Culture 2000 project. Cable Factory became a member of the Trans-Europe Halles (TEH) network and, in 2003, the TEH Communication and Administration Office was established there. Locally, Cable Factory’s cluster of cultural actors and programmes (cf. Mommaas 2004) started to influence the cultural profile of its neighbourhood. Increasingly after 2004, cultural businesses and design and furniture shops started to move to the neighbouring industrial buildings. The area seemed to become an “address” for creative industries, even though the change is still modest and tentative. Nevertheless, the emerging cluster has become a clear asset for the whole Western harbour development. Possibly the most important influence is taking off at the time of writing, in 2008. The company managing Cable Factory, Kiinteistö Oy Kaapelitalo, is entitled by the City of Helsinki to manage the re-use of Suvilahti, an industrial estate in the city’s Eastern harbour. The former gas factory, Suvilahti is seen as a key element of the
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http://www.kaapelitehdas.fi/index.html?menuid = 18 (accessed 8 September 2008).
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Sea Cable Hall of the Cable Factory in Helsinki. Photo: Heli Rekula
A cultural event in Cable Factory. Photo: Petri Eskelinen
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very big scale (1 million square metres) Eastern harbour development. The change of attitudes since late the 1980s is remarkable. Now, Suvilahti is seen to be the “Cable Factory 2”, and the already ongoing grassroots, participatory development towards a versatile cultural cluster is an accepted part of planning (cf. Bianchini 1996: 21). Suvilahti will have studios and space for cultural production, but there is more emphasis on events than in Cable Factory. This difference can be explained by the opportunities of the place, with large outdoor areas, but also by the city’s new cultural policy, focusing on festivals and events.
Discussion Despite their differences, the NDSM wharf and the Cable Factory share important elements, giving insight to the alternative politics in urban innovation. Very important is the appropriation process with all its place-based intricacies. The spatial configuration and atmosphere were main starting points for programming the creative space. In both cases, experiences from the squatting scene have been part of the development process. The alternative politics thus seem to have a fruitful connection to the squatting scene tactics – but in an institutionalised form. This notion foregrounds the difficulty and certain fragility of the alternative processes: despite the positive addition of creativity as a device in urban planning policy, there is only a thin borderline between the positive opportunities for urban innovation in a diverse and creative environment, and the loss of exactly the creativity that was aimed at in the beginning through too fixed economic and political aims. Both the NDSM wharf and the Cable Factory have so far been able to successfully balance between experiment and safe solutions, freedom and institutionalisation, thus becoming benchmark projects and influencing their neighbourhoods and wider municipal policies. This success confirms that place-based alternative practices can indeed be valuable assets in policies for urban innovation, providing a cultural and social corrective to mainstream approaches. If examined from inside the emerging creative space, three qualities come to the fore. At the core of a successful creative place is the site of cultural production, some kind of incubator. The atmosphere and spatial and programmatical openness of such sites and premises are important, and often they are managed by a new type of liminal actor, exemplified by Kinetisch Noord and Pro Kaapeli. Once such an incubator is working well, it creates a culturally attractive scene, a grey zone where outsiders and insiders, urban public and the creatives can mingle. Again, articulating the threshold needs delicate spatial and organisational balancing. Finally, a more formal stage is needed, which in turn can mean either public urban space or a form of traditional cultural forum such as museum or theatre (Lehtovuori 2005b). In the NDSM wharf, the outside ramps and dock-sides are the main stage, while in the Cable Factory the monumental sequence of street-level halls has that function. In managing the stage, the organising capacity of the users, and their ability to communicate between sub-culture and politics, is crucial.
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In this chapter, we hope to have shown that marginal sites can become creative spaces that gather people, radiate ideas and intensify urban experiences. These new urban cores can become important cultural resources for large-scale developments too. A set of alternative practices can be utilised in the processes, in which all actors, including planning authorities and businesses, need to change their presuppositions and practices.
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Index
A Abbas, A., 187 Adorno, T., 11 Adorno, T.W., 178 Amsterdam NDSM Cultural Wharf breeding places policy, 217–218 cultural and institutional consequences, 218–220 IJ banks atmosphere, 215–217 Andersen, K.V., 114, 116 Anderson, E.A., 79 Andersson, A.E., 79 Arrighi, G., 182 Asheim, B., 99, 116 Asia, 28 animation outsourcing, 29–30 characterising industries’ creativity, 31–33 creativity index, 140 development lifecycle, 29 employment, 142, 147–148 free market economy, 142 GDP growth, 144 Hong Kong and Macau case study, 140–144 ILO occupational classification and creative occupations, 145–148 international tourism, 143 Japanese animation and video game industry, 29 low-end service economy, 143 OECD high-tech innovation, 141 online gaming, new entrants, 30–31 B
B Barnes, K., 129, 130 Bassett, K., 155 Becker, H.S., 14 Beijing Centre for Creativity (BCC), 88
Beijing, creative clusters capital complex, 77 capital culture, 82–85 Capital Recreation District (CRD), 87 Chaoyang, 89–91 creative city, 78 creative excellence, 85 cultural creative industries, 78–79 cultural creative parks, 85 cultural infrastructure, 79 Dongcheng, 87–88 first 5 Year Development Plan (1954), 81 knowledge transfer processes, 80 urban transformation, 82 Zhongguancun Creative Industries Pioneer Base, 86 Zhongguancun Software Park, 86 Bell, D., 12 Bhidè, A., 138, 139 Bianchini, F., 48, 155 Boyle, M., 126 Braudel, R., 180, 181
C Chaoyang Gaobeidian, 90 media cluster, 90 multiple factories, 89 Songzhuang Creative Arts and Cartoon Cluster, 90–91 Cheng, Edmund, 69 Chen Guanzhong, 83 China animation outsourcing, 30 business strategy in creativity, 38 imitative trends, 32–33 national culture in creativity, 37 online games industry, 30–31 229
230 Content innovations, 35 Creative capital theory Asian economies creativity index, 140 employment, 142, 147–148 free market economy, 142 GDP growth, 144 Hong Kong and Macau case study, 140–144 ILO occupational classification and creative occupations, 145–148 international tourism, 143 low-end service economy, 143 OECD high-tech innovation, 141 high-tech industries and technology, 138 information technology diffusion, 139 International Labour Organization (ILO) database, 136–137 super creative core and creative professionals, 136 3T’s economic growth, 137 urban economy, 136 Creative clusters, 2–3 in Beijing capital complex, 77 capital culture, 82–85 Capital Recreation District (CRD), 87 Chaoyang, 89–91 creative city, 78 creative excellence, 85 cultural creative industries, 78–79 cultural creative parks, 85 cultural infrastructure, 79 Dongcheng, 87–88 knowledge transfer processes, 80 urban transformation, 82 5 Year Development Plan (1954), 81 Zhongguancun Creative Industries Pioneer Base, 86 Zhongguancun Software Park, 86 nature, 61 rethinking the theory, 73–74 in Singapore “Creative Community Singapore” programme, 67 creative industries, 65–66 Creative Services Development Plan, 63 Creative Towns, 64 Design Singapore, 64 Economic Development Board (EDB), 63 Media 21, 64 National Arts Council (NAC), 67–68 Renaissance City 2.0, 63–64 reputation, repose and rentals, 70–71
Index rivalry in relationships, 71–73 Telok Kurau Studios, 68–69 tacit knowledge, 62 Creative industries, 25 in Asia, 28 animation outsourcing, 29–30 characterising industries’ creativity, 31–33 development lifecycle, 29 Japanese animation and video game industry, 29 online gaming, new entrants, 30–31 creativity influencing factors business strategy in managing creativity, 38–39 content innovations, 35 convergence of constituents, 36 individual creativity, 34 national culture, 36–38 State’s role, 39–40 technological innovations, 34–35 culture, 26 flash technology, 28 governance and economic development cultural districts, 155 culture’s utilities, multiplication of, 156 European Structural Funds, 155 flexibility, 163 globalisation, 160 institutional relationships, networks and embedded knowledge, 157–159 post-fordist flexible specialisation, 162 potential growth sectors identification, 160 re-territorialisation, 157 untraded inter-dependencies, 153, 158 urban politics, 161–162 Internet, 27 long tail phenomenon, 28 massively multiplayer online games (MMOG), 28 mode of production, 26–27 product’s innovativeness, 27 user-created content, 28 Creativity as selling point, 12–13 business strategy in managing creativity, 38–39 content innovations, 35 convergence of constituents, 36 creative class, drivers, 13 individual creativity, 34 national culture, 36–38 in socially innovative projects, 13
Index in social problem solving, 13–14 State’s role in, 39–40 technological innovations, 34–35 Cultural and creative industries (CCI) European experience cultural industries and clusters policies, 18 cultural quarters and cultural planning, 18 fragmented practice, 16 genealogy of CCI, 17 expectations, 2 policies, 2 policy making, 9–10 and policy transfer creativity, 12–14 cultural industries, 10–11 normative debates, 14–15 xerox policy making, 15 Cultural–creative clusters artistic districts to cultural industry quarters, 46 Creative Industries Development Service (CIDS), 49 cultural clustering strategies, 50–51 cultural–economic approach to cultural spaces, 48–49 cultural industries in economic regeneration, 49 cultural to creative clusters, 51–53 formulation of term, 46 innovations, 62 nature, 61 notions, 45 Sheffield public strategy, 49 three dimensional space levels of proximity, 54–56 political–economic landscape, 56–57 role of culture, 53–54 urban regeneration projects, 48 Currid, E., 54, 56
231 annual average employment growth rate, 109 annual average population growth rate, 108 creative class (Florida’s) approach high degree of heterogeneity, 102 larger city-regions, 103–104 regional development, 101–104 social and cultural amenities, 103 Super Creative Core and Creative Professionals, 101 technological and knowledge industries, 103 Tech-Pole Index, 103 theory and development of hypotheses, 100–101 dataset and methods Bohemian Variable, 106 coordinated market economies, 104–105 Creative Class Variable, 105–106 Cultural Opportunity Variable (COI), 107 Human Capital Variable, 106 Integration Index, 106 Openness Variable, 106–107 Public Provision Variable (PPI), 107 Variables, quantitative analyses, 105 New High-Tech Firm Formation Variable, 108 proxies variables, 108–109 statistical findings business climate, 113–115 people climate, 110–112 size correlation, 115 social and cultural amenities, 112 technology and knowledge-intensive industries, 113–114 tolerance variables, 110–111 Tech-pole Variable, 107–108 time–space compression, 99 total population variable and density variable, 108 unemployment rate, 109 EXPO 2010 Shanghai, 173
D De Muynck, B., 89 DeVol, R., 103, 107, 108 Dongcheng, 87–88 Duncan, S., 15
F Florida, R., 1, 13, 51, 102, 103, 105, 114–116, 123–126, 130, 135–138, 140, 141, 143, 145
E Esping-Andersen, G., 15, 18 European creative class and regional development
G Garnham, N., 11 Gehua Cultural Development Group, 88 Gertler, M., 105
232 Girard, A., 11 Glaeser, E., 99, 115, 138 Goodwin, M., 15 Gottdiener, Mark, 209 Grabher, G., 102 Granovetter, M., 102
H Hall, Peter, 208 Hannigan, J., 47 Hansen, H.K., 99, 106, 107, 114, 116 Harvey, D., 101 Havik, K., 207, 216, 219 Helsinki cable factory cultural and institutional consequences, 223–225 cultural planning vs. town planning, 222–223 Western harbour atmosphere, 220–222 Horkheimer, M., 11, 178 Hua Jian, 167 Hudson, J., 131 Hui, D., 79, 130 Hutton, W., 180–185, 187, 189, 191
I Imitation, 31–33 Inglehart, R., 178, 189 International Creative Industries Alliance (ICIA), 88
J Jacobs, J., 103, 208, 218 Japan animation and video game industry, 29 individual creativity, 34 Jin, Y., 81
K Keane, Michael, 3, 77 King, D., 124 Kong, L., 1, 61 Korea animation outsourcing, 30 imitation, 33 online games industry, 31
L Landry, C., 14, 48, 79, 213, 218 Lash, S., 156, 163
Index Lauridsen, J.V., 99 Lehtovuori, P., 207, 221 Lewis, J., 156 Li Wu Wei, 167 Lloyd, R., 123
M Mao, Q., 81 Markusen, A., 54, 56, 121, 123, 124, 130 Matsuura, M., 36 McGuigan, J., 156 Meeus, M.T.H., 55 Miège, B., 11 Mobile creative class city regeneration company, 129 labour mobility, 125 migration data analysis, 126–127 potential social consequences, 130 revitalisation strategy, 130–131 Sheffield case Cultural Industries Quarter (CIQ), 127–128 knowledge economy model, 128 talent, technology and tolerance, 124 urban policy, 122 Mommaas, H., 2, 45 Montgomery, J., 121, 125
N Nathan, M., 126, 128 North Rhein Westphalia (NRW), 17
O Oakley, K., 121 O’Connor, J., 1, 62, 175 Oerlemans, L.A.G, 55 Online gaming, 30–31
P Parkinson, M., 155 Peck, J., 10 Peterson, R.A., 14 Planning creative spaces alternative policies, 215 Amsterdam NDSM Cultural Wharf breeding places policy, 217–218 cultural and institutional consequences, 218–220 IJ banks atmosphere, 215–217
Index Helsinki cable factory cultural and institutional consequences, 223–225 cultural planning vs. town planning, 222–223 Western harbour atmosphere, 220–222 innovation in cities, 208 regional economic systems and well-defined networks, 207 as regional process, 208–209 urban places Amsterdam and Helsinki, 210–212 array of events, 210–212 breeding grounds, 214–215 gentrification processes, 210 marginal places, discovery of, 212–213 temporary uses, 213 Urban Curation, 214 Polanyi, K., 179–181 Pomeranz, K., 180 Porter, M., 80 Pratt, A.C., 2, 9 Propaganda Department of the Chinese Communist Party, 171 Putnam, R., 102
S Schapiro, D., 162, 163 Schuster, J.M.D., 15 Scott, A.J., 131 Shanghai century of humiliation, 184 economic strength, 189–190 enlightenment values and violence circulation of knowledge, 176 cultural and economic dynamism, 179 hard knowledge, 178 high-level equilibrium trap, 180 public company, capitalism, 182 social authority, 181 global creative economy challenges and opportunities, 173 Chinese GDP and production value, 168 conductive environmental factors, 167–168 creative industries, 169–171 institutional infrastructure, 171 intellectual property, roles of, 172 5-year plan, 168–169 modernity and cultural critique capitalism, 187–189 Fordist state, 188–189
233 non-market institutions, 177 self-strengthening movement, 185 Shanghai Economic Commission, 171 Shearmur, R., 125, 126 Singapore, creative clusters “Creative Community Singapore” programme, 67 creative industries, 65–66 Creative Services Development Plan, 63 Creative Towns, 64 Design Singapore, 64 Economic Development Board (EDB), 63 Govt’s role in creativity, 40 Media 21, 64 National Arts Council (NAC), 67–68 Renaissance City 2.0, 63–64 reputation, repose and rentals, 70–71 rivalry in relationships, 71–73 Telok Kurau Studios, 68–69 Songzhuang, 90–91 Soskice, D., 104
T Taylor, C., 4, 153, 155 Technological innovations, 34–35 Telok Kurau Studios, visual arts cluster rentals, 71 repose, 70–71 reputation, 70 rivalry in relationships, 71–73 Toepler, S., 15, 18 Tschang, T., 2, 25
U Urban Curation, 214 Urbanity, as European political project Brussels case bi-communitarian city, 202 multicultural reality, 203–204 multinational city, 203 socio-economic reality, 203 city cultural policies, 204–205 in different time-spaces, 197–198 imaging, 204 Europe of Nations, 198–200 towards urban republic, 200–202 Urry, J., 163
W Wang, J., 82–83, 190, 191 Wang Shuo, 84
234 Weizel, C., 178 Williams, C.C., 156 Wright, Will, 35, 36 Wu, W.P., 62
X ‘Xerox’ policy making, 15
Index Y Yeoh, B., 125 Yudice, G., 187
Z Zhongguangcun Haidian Park, 86 Zimmer, A., 15, 18 Zukin, S., 210
