Virginia Woolf, Why Art Today Follows Politics (1936)

I have been asked by the Artists International Association to explain as shortly as I can why it is that the artist at present is interested, actively and genuinely, in politics. For it seems that there are some people to whom this interest is suspect.

That the writer is interested in politics needs no saying. Every publisher’s list, almost every book that is now issued, brings proof of the fact.

The historian today is writing not about Greece and Rome in the past, but about Germany and Spain in the present; the biographer is writing lives of Hitler and Mussolini, not of Henry the Eighth and Charles Lamb; the poet introduces Communism and Fascism into his lyrics; the novelist turns from the private lives of his characters to their social surroundings and their political opinions.

Obviously the writer is in such close touch with human life that any agitation in it must change his angle of vision. Either he focuses his sight upon the immediate problem; or he brings his subject matter into relation with the present; or in some cases, so paralysed is he by the agitation of the moment that he remains silent.

But why should this agitation affect the painter and the sculpture sculptor, it may be asked? He is not concerned with the feelings of his model, but with its form.

The rose and the apple have no political views. Why should he not spend his time contemplating them, as he has always done, in the cold north light that still falls through his studio window?  

To answer this question is not easy, for to understand why the artist – the plastic artist – is affected by the state of society we must try to define the relations of the artist to society, and this is difficult, partly because no such definition has ever been made.

But that there is some sort of understanding between them, most people would agree; and in times of peace in may be said roughly to run as follows:

The artist on his side held that since the value of his work depended upon freedom of mind, security of person, and immunity from practical affairs – for to mix art with politics he held was to adulterate it – he was absolved from political duties; sacrificed many of the privileges that the active citizen enjoyed; and in return created what is called a work of art.

Society on its side bound itself to run the State in such a manner that it paid the artist a living wage; asked no active help from him; and considered itself repaid by those works of art which have always formed one of its chief claims to distinction.

With many lapses and breaches on both sides the contract has been kept; society has accepted the artist’s work in lieu of other services, and the artist, living for most part precariously on a pittance, has written or painted without regard for the political agitations of the moment.

Thus it would be impossible, when we read Keats, or look at the pictures of Titian and Velazquez, or listen to the music of Mozart or Bach to say what was the political condition of the age or the country in which these works were created.  

And if it were otherwise – if the ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ were inspired by hatred of Germany; if Bacchus and Ariadne symbolised the conquest of Abyssinia; if Figaro expounded the doctrine of Hitler we should feel cheated and imposed upon, as if, instead of bread made with flour, we were given bread made with plaster.

But if it is true that some such contract existed between the artist and society in times of peace it by no means follows that the artist is independent of society. Materially, of course, he depends upon it for his bread and butter.

Art is the first luxury to be discarded in times of stress; the artist is the first of the workers to suffer. But intellectually also he depends upon society.

Society is not only his paymaster, but his patron. If the patron becomes too busy or too distracted to exercise his critical faculty the artist will work in a vacuum and his art will suffer and perhaps perish from lack of understanding.

Again, if the patron is neither poor nor indifferent, but dictatorial – if he will only buy pictures that flatter his vanity or serve his politics – then again the artist is impeded and his work becomes worthless.  

And even if there are some artists who can afford to disregard the patron, either because they have private means, or have learned in the course of time to form their own style and to depend upon tradition, these are for the most part only the older artists, whose work is already done. Even they, however, are by no means immune.

Although it would be easy to stress the point absurdly, still it is a fact that the practise of art, far from making the artist out of touch with his kind, rather increases his sensibility.

It breeds in him a feeling for the passions and needs of mankind in the mass which the citizen whose duty it is to work for a particular country or for a particular party has no time and perhaps no need to cultivate.

Thus even if he be ineffective, he is by no means apathetic. Perhaps, indeed, he suffers more than the active citizen because he has no obvious duty to discharge.

For such reasons then it is clear that the artist is affected as powerfully as other citizens when society is in chaos, although the disturbance affects him in different ways. His studio now is far from being a cloistered spot where he could contemplate his model or his apple in peace. 

It is besieged by voices, all disturbing, some for one reason, some for another.

First there is the voice which cries: I cannot protect you; I cannot pay you. I am so tortured and distracted that I can no longer enjoy your works of art.

Then there is the voice which asks for help: Come down from your ivory tower, leave your studio, it cries, and use your gifts as doctor, as teacher, not as artist.  

Again there is the voice which warns the artist that unless he can show good cause why art benefits the state he will be made to help it actively – by making aeroplanes, by firing guns.

And finally, there is a voice which many artists in other countries have already heard and had to obey – the voice which proclaims that the artist is the servant of the politician.

You shall only practise your art, it says, at our bidding. Paint us pictures, carve us statues to glorify our gospels. Celebrate Fascism; celebrate Communism. Preach what we bid you preach. On no other terms shall you exist.

With all these voices crying and conflicting in his ears, how can the artist still remain at peace in his studio contemplating his model or his apple in the cold light that comes through the studio window?

He is forced to take part in politics: he must form himself into societies like the Artists International Association.

Two causes of supreme importance to him are in peril. The first is his own survival: the other is the survival of his art.

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First published in The Daily Worker newspaper (1936); rpt in Virginia Woolf, Selected Essays, ed. David Bradshaw (Oxford World Classics, 2008)

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