The world's cultural heritage is in trouble.
The bestsellers list is full of poorly researched books about fairytales purporting to be real – when they are less historically accurate than Blackadder and not nearly as well written.
Architecture no longer offers up impressive stone monuments to their fabled designers but, instead, punctures city skylines with glorified greenhouses or grey, rectangular eyesores prone to being hit by stray aeroplanes.
Save the wit and insight of Bertrand Russell, the vivacity of Hunter S. Thompson and the pop sensibilities of The Beatles, the last fifty years or so has been a forgettable cultural experience.
When people come to look back on the work of our generation, and those immediately preceding it, they will see enormous technological progress. They will see massive advancements in medicine and an unbridled spread of information via the Internet. They will see the communication revolution but they will spot very little of the timeless quality that was characteristic of the ancient world or the European Renaissance.
The innovative output of society has dwindled since television told us there was no need to stretch our minds when we could warp them simply by flicking a switch.
This is not to say that creative juices have dried up. Someone just needs to clean the pipes, or perhaps even change the barrel over. The best, perhaps the only, way to do this is, thankfully, well within our grasp.
The lost art of patronage is in desperate need of revival.
Just about everyone that has ever left an indelible mark on the history of humanity received support from a philanthropic patron, a person, with lots of money, who had a desire to make the world a more beautiful place. From Leonardo da Vinci to Galileo and Jonathan Swift, the historical richness of global culture owes a lot to a few benefactors.
And patronage is not without modern-day parallels. Freelance journalists and grant-maintained art-college students both know the joys – and the pains – of a life outside the clean-clothed and clean-shaven rat race.
These examples are, however, merely poor imitations of a long-lost force for societal enhancement. Mercifully, the opportunity to garner the gusto of globalisation, and channel it in order to fashion an eternal edge to 21st century society, is ever present.
The Bushes, for example, could take inspiration from the Medici family: history forgives greed and corruption when it creates cultural magnificence. So save some money on promoting Jeb for President number three and invest in a legacy. Who knows? The world's most boorish buffoon could become responsible for Renaissance II – now with extra fries.
Cynics may argue that those with the requisite talent will come through in time, saving our wealthy citizens from wasting money on slackers.
There may be something charming about the great artist that fails to achieve recognition in his own lifetime, instead spending his or her days slumming around in rags and looking more dishevelled than Pete Doherty.
But gloomy romanticism aside, such a image is not encouraging for aspirant artists and authors, who are increasingly likely to abandon their dreams in favour of a four-bedroom semi-detached in the heart of Oxfordshire.
Patronage does bring about a problem or two: from wanton sycophantism on behalf of the recipient to the far more serious possibility of encouraging idiots that, perhaps, they too could manufacture a masterpiece.
Ironically, that great bastion of the banality of modern insipidness – reality TV – could offer an apposite solution.
Rather than a conveyor belt of business brownnoses pitching their ideas to the likes of Donald Trump and Alan Sugar, the grand ideas of prospective members of the creative elite could be presented to a panel of willing millionaires looking to make more than just more money. The successful entrants would be granted a living with utter freedom of expression.
And, if it did not work, at least we could be proud that we tried.
The bestsellers list is full of poorly researched books about fairytales purporting to be real – when they are less historically accurate than Blackadder and not nearly as well written.
Architecture no longer offers up impressive stone monuments to their fabled designers but, instead, punctures city skylines with glorified greenhouses or grey, rectangular eyesores prone to being hit by stray aeroplanes.
Save the wit and insight of Bertrand Russell, the vivacity of Hunter S. Thompson and the pop sensibilities of The Beatles, the last fifty years or so has been a forgettable cultural experience.
When people come to look back on the work of our generation, and those immediately preceding it, they will see enormous technological progress. They will see massive advancements in medicine and an unbridled spread of information via the Internet. They will see the communication revolution but they will spot very little of the timeless quality that was characteristic of the ancient world or the European Renaissance.
The innovative output of society has dwindled since television told us there was no need to stretch our minds when we could warp them simply by flicking a switch.
This is not to say that creative juices have dried up. Someone just needs to clean the pipes, or perhaps even change the barrel over. The best, perhaps the only, way to do this is, thankfully, well within our grasp.
The lost art of patronage is in desperate need of revival.
Just about everyone that has ever left an indelible mark on the history of humanity received support from a philanthropic patron, a person, with lots of money, who had a desire to make the world a more beautiful place. From Leonardo da Vinci to Galileo and Jonathan Swift, the historical richness of global culture owes a lot to a few benefactors.
And patronage is not without modern-day parallels. Freelance journalists and grant-maintained art-college students both know the joys – and the pains – of a life outside the clean-clothed and clean-shaven rat race.
These examples are, however, merely poor imitations of a long-lost force for societal enhancement. Mercifully, the opportunity to garner the gusto of globalisation, and channel it in order to fashion an eternal edge to 21st century society, is ever present.
The Bushes, for example, could take inspiration from the Medici family: history forgives greed and corruption when it creates cultural magnificence. So save some money on promoting Jeb for President number three and invest in a legacy. Who knows? The world's most boorish buffoon could become responsible for Renaissance II – now with extra fries.
Cynics may argue that those with the requisite talent will come through in time, saving our wealthy citizens from wasting money on slackers.
There may be something charming about the great artist that fails to achieve recognition in his own lifetime, instead spending his or her days slumming around in rags and looking more dishevelled than Pete Doherty.
But gloomy romanticism aside, such a image is not encouraging for aspirant artists and authors, who are increasingly likely to abandon their dreams in favour of a four-bedroom semi-detached in the heart of Oxfordshire.
Patronage does bring about a problem or two: from wanton sycophantism on behalf of the recipient to the far more serious possibility of encouraging idiots that, perhaps, they too could manufacture a masterpiece.
Ironically, that great bastion of the banality of modern insipidness – reality TV – could offer an apposite solution.
Rather than a conveyor belt of business brownnoses pitching their ideas to the likes of Donald Trump and Alan Sugar, the grand ideas of prospective members of the creative elite could be presented to a panel of willing millionaires looking to make more than just more money. The successful entrants would be granted a living with utter freedom of expression.
And, if it did not work, at least we could be proud that we tried.
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