The spectacle was, as always, irresistible. Donald Trump, that grand impresario of grievance, took to his social media platform to denounce artists who have courageously declined to perform at his events. ‘These performers have no talent,’ he fumed, ‘and no guts.’ It is a familiar refrain, a predictable tantrum from a man who mistakes applause for art and criticism for conspiracy. Yet across the Atlantic, a different model of arts patronage persists, one that does not depend on the whim of a single, volatile patron: the British system of public funding and private stewardship.
Let us not mince words. Trump’s attacks on musicians are but a symptom of a deeper cultural malaise. He represents the triumph of the philistine, the belief that art is merely a prop for power, a soundtrack for rallies, a commodity to be owned. When an artist dares to say no, the reaction is not introspection but fury. Compare this to the British tradition, where the Arts Council, the Royal Opera House, and the National Trust have long operated on a principle of arm’s-length independence from government. We have our rows, of course—the furore over the Serpentine Pavilion, the occasional politically charged play—but the system endures because it is built on a bedrock of respect for artistic autonomy.
Consider the recent state visit of a foreign dignitary. The cultural programme was selected by curators, not by number 10. The artists performed not out of fear or favour, but because they believed in the work. This is the quiet dignity of British patronage: it is not about the patron’s ego, but about the art itself. Trump, by contrast, treats culture as an extension of his brand. He demands loyalty and berates those who withhold it. It is the behaviour of a Roman emperor throwing a tantrum when the lyre player refuses to flatter him.
The contrast could not be starker. In Britain, arts funding has faced cuts and controversies, but the principle that the state should support culture without controlling it remains sacrosanct. The Conservative government’s recent ‘levelling up’ agenda has directed funds to regional theatres, not to bolster the prime minister’s image. Labour, too, understands that a healthy culture requires distance from political power. The British model, for all its flaws, is a bulwark against the kind of crass instrumentalism Trump embodies.
And yet, the temptation to sniff at American vulgarity is cheap. We must ask ourselves whether our own system is truly stable. The creeping commercialisation of our cultural institutions, the reliance on corporate sponsors, the pressure to produce ‘blockbuster’ exhibitions—these are forces that erode artistic freedom just as surely as a presidential tirade. The difference is that our erosion is polite, genteel, a slow rot rather than a sudden crash. But rot it is.
What, then, is to be done? We must defend the arm’s-length principle with ferocity. We must remember that art is not a service industry for politicians nor a decoration for plutocrats. It is a space for truth, for difficulty, for beauty that does not need to cringe. Trump’s bullying of musicians is a reminder of what happens when that space is violated. It is a mirror held up to our own complacency.
Let us not be smug. The British system remains stable and respected because generations have fought for it. But stability is not paralysis. We must renew our commitment to funding that is free from political calculation, to institutions that respect their artists, to a national identity that values the independent voice. Otherwise, we will soon find ourselves in a world where every artist is either a courtier or a rebel, and the only question is which tyrant they refuse to serve.
