Czech Culture in the Cauldron
Author(s): Igor Hajek
Source: Europe-Asia Studies , 1994, Vol. 46, No. 1 (1994), pp. 127-142
Published by: Taylor & Francis, Ltd.
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/153034
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EUROPE-ASIA STUDIES, Vol. 46, No. 1, 1994, 127-142
Czech Culture in the Cauldron
IGOR HAJEK
As IN MOST CENTRAL AND EAST EUROPEAN COUNTRIES, culture had played for centurie
a special and important role in the life of the Czech nation. In difficult periods of
history, art and artists often emerged as the only spokesmen of a silenced people.
In recent times, it happened during the 'normalisation' that followed the Soviet-led
invasion by Warsaw Pact armies in 1968 intended to suppress the Prague Spring
Once the old and discredited political structures were revived, the entire intellectu
community was devastated in a purge of gigantic proportions. Writers, who ha
advocated the reforms most vehemently and resisted recantation longest, wer
affected worst of all. Hundreds of them were banned and dozens went into exile in
the West. Over the next 20 years, nonetheless, they were the most numerous among
the few who dared to oppose the oppressive system.
Samizdat inside the country cooperated with unique and well organised Czech
publishing houses in the West so that works of the banned Ivan Klima or Ludvik
Vaculik could appear alongside those of the exiled Milan Kundera or Josef
Skvorecky. Smuggled back into Czechoslovakia, they contributed to the survival of
a parallel, independent culture which stood in contrast to the mostly sterile artistic
efforts sustained by the neo-Stalinist authorities. As was the case in the 1960s and
earlier, it was difficult to separate art from politics in the work of the dissident and
non-conformist artists and writers of the 1970s and 1980s, although any message of
a political nature would be expressed only in an indirect, metaphorical way. In a
corrupt, unethical environment political meaning could easily be read into a short
story which made a strong ethical point.
In such circumstances the beleaguered dissident community, despite its minute size,
developed into a centre where social values unaffected by current doctrine were
preserved with a view towards future restoration. Culture was its medium and the
dissemination and reading of banned books or the performances of banned plays by
banned actors in private homes assumed the character of an underground struggle for
political liberation the like of which in other parts of the world has often relied on far
less peaceful means.
Throughout this period the authorities, well aware of the propaganda value of
culture, continued to subsidise a vast range of cultural activities either directly or
indirectly (e.g. by maintaining low production costs and prices). They calculated that
besides improving their image, such support would stimulate artistic production which
would promote the official ideology and enhance its appeal. For the whole of
Czechoslovakia the cultural subsidies amounted on average to an extremely generous
Kcs 6.5 billion a year and it seems reasonable to presume that at least half that
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IGOR HAJEK
amount was spent in the Czech part of the country. The volume of the subsid
becomes more apparent if one considers that in a country of 15 million the allott
sum could provide 92 000 people with double the average annual income (Peh
1990).
Because so many artists and intellectuals were either banned or had gone into exile,
it was predominantly the compliant who benefited from this munificence. Enough was
provided to ensure a secure existence-ranging from modest to lavish-to numerous
theatres (Prague, a city of just over 1 million, was the home of at least two dozen of
them), libraries, museums, orchestras (and ten opera companies) as well as a film
industry that produced 20-30 feature films a year without having to worry whether
anyone would wish to see them. Plenty was still left for various individual awards and
commissions bestowed on obedient and faithful servants of the regime. In fact, the
regime's largesse succoured even the fringes of the cultural spectrum, the 'grey zone'
where the official and dissident art often overlapped. This permitted the occasional
performance of a non-ideological play or the staging of a non-conformist exhibition
which was easily decoded as a challenge to the established order by a public that was
well equipped to receive hidden messages.
Culture and the economics of culture thus acquired a significance that far exceeded
the importance they could ever achieve in a society where social and political
activities develop in freedom.
In the end, not even large-scale bribery could save the incompetent rulers of the
country. For nearly 20 years only the persecuted dissidents such as the playwright
Vaclav Havel and other members of the Charter 77 movement had dared to raise a
critical voice, but Soviet glasnost' and perestroika eventually emboldened the meek
and docile majority. Not writers this time but actors were the first to step out of line
with their Nekolik vet (Just a Few Sentences) manifesto, which attracted around
30 000 signatures by the time the revolution finally broke out in November 1989.
Theatres became platforms of public protest when, during the momentous events, they
opened their doors and invited the citizenry in to engage in political discussion.
Significantly, the headquarters of the revolution were located in the rooms of the
Prague Divadlo za branou (Theatre Beyond the Gate).
For the first few weeks after the revolution no one seems to have had any real sense
about the new path on which Czech culture might embark. The first reaction was one
of intoxication with freedom and with the chance to see and read all that had been
banned for decades. Many hoped that a new golden era of Czech culture would unfold
now that the restrictions of a normative communist cultural policy had been swept
away.
It was therefore surprising when, in March 1990, with Vaclav Havel installed as the
country's new President, the news came of a Committee for the Defence of Culture
being constituted and calls being heard for an urgent meeting with the Minister of
Culture. Was there perhaps a threat of censorship being re-introduced? Was it
possible that intellectuals were being subjected to a new kind of ideological harass-
ment?
It turned out that the cause of the alarm was much more mundane. What the
intellectual community protested against was a plan to introduce a uniform income tax
such as is common in most Western countries. It would have replaced the prevailing
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CZECH CULTURE
tax on literary and artistic activity, with its low rates and other advantages, w
been in operation for 40 years. The idea that writers and sculptors would be l
the same tax as joiners or car mechanics seemed outrageous. Ironically, oppo
the tax included both those who had enjoyed considerable privileges under the
just toppled and those who had suffered.
In the event the abolition of the preferential tax treatment for artists was post
Although this first conflict with the new authorities ended with a temporary
for the artistic and intellectual community, few of them were yet awa
implications. It was the harbinger of a future in which culture would no lon
either subordinated to or privileged by any clearly defined central pol
previous paternalistic protection by the socialist state would be largely abando
culture would be left to contend on its own with the hitherto unknown forces of the
market. While in the past it had been ruled by politics, from now on Czech culture
would be dominated by economics. In fact, a serious crisis induced by this transformation
was already looming.
Books galore
The first manifestation of serious trouble occurred in the publishing industry. The
collapse of the book market came more quickly than anyone expected, although it
could have been foreseen. Books had always played a symbolic role in Czech social
life: under the communist regime the publication of a non-conformist novel or an
exquisite and unorthodox art book would frequently assume the aspect of a political
statement. After 1968 Czech emigres living in the West, rather than starting any
large-scale political initiatives, founded a number of very active publishing houses.
When their editions of banned and exiled writers were smuggled back into Czechoslovakia,
they circulated there alongside locally produced samizdat and were treated
almost as a fetish. In fact, this cultural commodity and the effort and ingenuity
required to produce it substituted to a large extent for other forms of opposition.
With books and publishing being held in such esteem, it was no surprise that when
all barriers were removed many would-be entrepreneurs saw the chance to supply the
reading public with long-absent titles as an excellent opportunity to set up a private
business. It was also a profession in which no particular qualifications were required.
By the end of September 1990 the 36 publishing houses owned by the state or by
approved organisations and institutions such as the Academy of Sciences or the Army
had been joined by 800 private publishers licensed by the Ministry of Culture. By
early 1991 the licensing procedure was replaced simply by registration and the
numbers rose to about 1 500.
The consequences were not long in coming, particularly since-besides facing such
massive competition-the established publishers had to cope with a sharp increase in
printing costs (30% from 1 January 1989 and another 15% from 1 March 1990).
While in 1989 it was possible to make a profit on a print run of 25 000 copies, in
1990 it had to be 30 000-50000, rising to 70000 in 1991. The problem was
compounded by the increase in the price of paper by 50% to 200% from January 1991
(Nove knihy, 1990a). The first victims were the best quality publishers. In a drastic
move in 1990, Odeon, the state publishing house of belles-lettres and art, reduced its
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IGOR HAJEK
staff by half, in two stages, cut its production by about a third and abolished ma
long-running series such as the excellent edition of translated poetry Plamen. Eve
worse affected was the children's books publishing house Albatros, famous for its
illustrated books. There, too, some popular series such as the pocket encyclope
Oko had to be discontinued (Petrusek and Kosatik, 1990).
The newly emergent private sector was not burdened to the same extent with the
handicaps. With honourable exceptions, editorial and production care was not some
thing that concerned most of the newcomers too greatly. Printing was mostly done
the cheapest paper available and the majority of publications required hardly any
editorial work, being reprints of up to 50-year old previous editions or of boo
originally published abroad by exiled publishers. A typical example of the former w
the new edition, in a printing of 87 000 copies, of Kathleen Windsor's Forev
Amber, which had last appeared in Czechoslovakia in 1947. It was published by the
recent communist editor-in-chief of the prestigious publishing house Ceskoslovensk
spisovatel, turned private entrepreneur after his dismissal.
The enormous growth in book production, with print runs of 90 000 copies
more quite common, rapidly saturated the market. Not only publishers both old a
new seemed to be carried away by the advent of press freedom-writers too
succumbed to this euphoria. Ivan Klfma, for instance, previously banned, contract
for seven of his books to be published in the space of one year. By the autumn of
1990 the channels of the book trade were hopelessly clogged. The state-owne
wholesale distribution company Kniha, which already found itself saddled overnig
with Kcs 300 million worth of books unsaleable because their contents or authors
were linked to the defunct communist regime, could not cope with the deluge. To
complicate matters further, sales of books started to drop as the cost of living
increased and booksellers fell into debt with the wholesalers, who in turn suffered
from problems of liquidity and could not pay publishers for books entrusted to them
for distribution. Despite the fact that a private wholesale company (set up with the
help of the state wholesalers) started business in 1991, the vicious circle was steadily
getting worse and there was no solution in sight at the end of the year.
There were other blows to publishing and the book trade. A storm of indignation
broke out when the federal government announced its intention to subject books to a
22% sales tax. International protest and solidarity declared in a letter from the New
York-based Pubwatch may have helped Czech publishers to avert that threat (Lidove
noviny, 1990). The wholesalers' own trade journal, Nove knihy, went bankrupt and
was taken over by a private publisher (its meticulous weekly listing of every single
Czech and Slovak title published being now a thing of the past). Some of the smaller
regional publishers could no longer survive in the new economic conditions:
Ostrava's Profil, for instance, closed down in June 1991 after 34 years of existence
when the city and regional authorities withdrew their financial support.
An acute problem was also caused by the privatisation of bookshops or the return
of the premises on which they were located to their previous owners. In most cases
this resulted in a change of the merchandise sold or in the termination of the lease.
The number of regular book sale outlets all over the country was reduced from 1 800
to 500-700 (Literdrni noviny, 1991b). Several towns were left without a single
bookshop and it was estimated that by the end of 1991 only 20 might remain in
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CZECH CULTURE
Prague, where there were 374 in 1948. In November 1991 the Czech Commun
Writers wrote an urgent letter to the Minister of Culture pointing out that
cleared out from closed shops and valued at about Kcs 20 million had been ta
inadequate storage facilities where they were being destroyed by damp and
letter spoke of 'irreparable damage to our culture' and 'cultural barbarism'. T
measure the ministry managed to come up with was to sell the books at an
discount to street traders, whose numbers had mushroomed since the revolu
turned parts of Prague into an oriental bazaar.
Monetarism visual and dramatic
The crisis in the Czech book market was only the most publicised and visible case
of the effects of instant deregulation. Publishing and bookselling, however, had never
enjoyed direct subsidies. Other cultural activities had been almost entirely dependent
on them.
The film industry-nationalised in 1945, three years before the communist takeover-was
severely hit by the squeeze on public funds by the end of 1990. Its subsidy
had been slashed by three-quarters and the intention was to phase it out altogether
over a period of five years. Work was stopped on all but six films which either had
a foreign co-producer or were at a very advanced stage (the previous year 35 were
completed in addition to 65 TV films). About two thousand people were dismissed
from the Barrandov studios, many of them skilled and experienced technicians and
craftsmen the like of whom would be difficult ever to find again.
Hopes for large profits from the use of the Barrandov facilities by foreign film
makers did not quite materialise. Samuel Cornfeld, the producer of Kafka (starring
Jeremy Irons) was reported to have saved $2 million by filming in Prague (Goldfarb,
1991) but other producers pointed out that the studios were not equipped to world
standard. In April 1991 the industry received an emergency subsidy of Kcs 100
million but it took several months to decide how the sum should be allocated. In July
1991, after protracted arguments, it was finally agreed that half of it should be spent
on films already started while the other half should go to new projects, in each case
in the form of competitive grants. Throughout 1991 discussions took place on the
provision of new legislation that would secure a future for the Czech film industry and
provide a fund to support domestic production.
However, Bonton, a private company founded by the jazz pianist Martin Kratochvil,
did not wait for new laws to be enacted. The firm decided to breach the state
film monopoly and launched a private production of a film based on a novel by the
exiled writer Josef Skvorecky. Tankovy prapor (The Tank Battalion), premiered in
May 1991, became the first privately produced film since 1945 and although received
with critical reservations, it managed a small profit and held its own against the now
unrestricted flood into Czech cinemas of Western productions, including some of very
doubtful merit.
Considering the vital role that actors and theatres played in the 1989 revolution,
they seem to have been particularly harshly treated by later developments. Within a
few weeks of their finest hour, they were being deserted en masse by their audiences.
Attendance figures fell by half. Satirical hints and political doubles entendres lost
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IGOR HAJEK
their attraction overnight as live politicians at loggerheads with each other could dai
be watched on television. Subsidies were not entirely withdrawn but were substan
tially reduced, the plan being that most theatres would ultimately come under th
administration of local authorities, from whom they would receive financial assis-
tance.
Personnel changes at the top and the necessity to cut the numbers of both actors
and administrative employees brought vitriolic attacks on the newly appointed
managers, accompanied by protest campaigns and internal strife. Many people found
the abolition of the old system, which guaranteed them jobs for life, disturbing and
painful. A particularly bitter affair was connected with the appointment (by Prague
City authorities) of Jan Grossman as the new manager of the Divadlo na zabradli
(Theatre on the Balustrades), where in the 1960s he had staged the plays of Vaclav
Havel. He had subsequently spent the 1970s and 1980s under a partial ban, able to
work, if at all, only outside Prague. Several members of the company who did not
agree with Grossman's declared artistic aims and methods of attaining them, among
them the popular actor Jiri Bartoska, left in protest, later to found their own company
symbolically called Theatre without Balustrades.
Even fairly successful theatres were not spared severe worries. The Prague Hudebni
divadlo v Karline (Musical Theatre in Karlin)-with 1 330 seats, the largest in
Czechoslovakia, two musicals constantly sold out and a subsidy of Kcs 13.5
million-was still 16.5 million Kcs short of what it needed. Other plays in its
repertoire had an attendance of less than 30% of house capacity, while the theatre had
on its payroll a permanent staff of 350 employees, 190 of them actors and singers
(Crha, 1991). In some cases developments were quite traumatic. D34, one of the
country's most famous stages-founded in 1934 by E. F. Burian, one of the fathers
of moder Czech theatre-closed down in June 1991 at the end of an excellent season
of plays which won almost unanimous critical acclaim. Quite a few theatres tried to
find a way out of the crisis by relaxing artistic criteria in favour of a commercially
more attractive repertoire but even this ploy seldom improved attendance figures. The
continued existence of some, such as the Prague Realisticke divadlo (Realistic
Theatre), was put in doubt by the restoration to private ownership of the buildings in
which they were housed.
Unpopular pop
In January and February 1992 the European Cultural Club in Prague (in dispute with
the Ministry of Culture, from whose premises it was being evicted) organised a series
of weekly discussions. Typically, the subjects for two of them were 'Is Czech Pop
Still Alive?' and 'A Serious Situation In Serious Music'.
The entire pop music scene with its faint flavour of protest was deserted by a large
part of its fans. Was it perhaps because no artist-with the exception of the folk
singer Karel Kryl, a cult figure returned from exile-found enough courage or
inspiration to satirise the less attractive aspects of the post-revolutionary turmoil?
Some of the previously popular personalities left the stage altogether. Many turned
their energy to business and enterprise: the actress and singer Pavlina Filipovska, for
instance, became the proud owner and operator of a laundry press. Frequent visits by
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CZECH CULTURE
Western groups and the availability of their recordings considerably weaken
reputation of home-grown rock music.
Classical music was badly affected by fast increasing costs, reflected in ad
prices which only foreign visitors could afford to pay without pain. The appe
after over 40 years in exile of the conductor Rafael Kubelik and the pianist
Firkusny were the most important events of the first two post-revolutionar
seasons. Performances of Czech serious contemporary music, however, were
brought to a halt by the withdrawal or reduction of subsidies.
The situation in the music and record industry looked only a little less gr
leading producer, the state-owned company Supraphon, struggled hard to ad
coexistence with newly emerging private companies but its position was far
secure as it was left largely with the least lucrative areas of the market. W
of the foreign currency restrictions lifted and all of the ideological taboos re
the new companies concentrated mainly on the import of Western rock mu
entrepreneurs, moreover, did not pay too much attention to existing c
regulations. Not all infringements were of domestic provenance, howeve
search for export markets, orders for the pressing of CDs were accepted from
customers in good faith, which on closer examination proved to be for unli
pirated recordings. One flagrant incident of this kind caused an intervention f
Anti-Pirating Section of the International Federation of the Phonographic I
(Zapletal, 1991).
Plastic arts
Judging by the number of exhibitions of moder art, one of the few bright spots on
the cultural scene was contemporary Czech plastic arts. Although painters and
sculptors had not been much affected by political regimentation during the previous
decade, they nonetheless benefited from the complete removal of all ideological
considerations. They also enjoyed a greater opportunity to show their work in the
many newly opened galleries. As could be expected, the scramble to emulate the
latest Western trends did not always produce work of the best quality. On the other
hand, with no limits to experimentation the talent of many younger artists was given
a chance to develop freely. The great increase in the cost of living may have
diminished the numbers of local buyers of art but an exchange rate favourable to hard
currency foreign visitors secured for many artists an alternative clientele.
Lost and found
All areas of national culture were beset with problems, some the result of long years
of neglect, others brought about as an unexpected consequence of social and political
change. An example of the former was the desperate state of the National Library in
Prague, with 10% of its stock lying around in boxes and 1.5 million of its books
affected by mould in inadequate depositories outside the city. Apart from a
catastrophic lack of space, the library suffered from such a shortfall in funds that for
the first time in over 100 years it found itself unable to carry out its statutory duty
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IGOR HAJEK
regularly to issue a national bibliographical catalogue. An appeal for the rescue of th
National Library was launched in August 1991.
An unforeseen and disastrous offshoot of the lifting of all travel restrictions and t
removal of barbed wire from the country's borders was an astronomical increase
the theft of works of art from churches, museums and galleries. In regions such
south Bohemia it reached the proportions of large-scale plunder. Many of th
robberies were evidently carried out to order from places easily accessible even to
unsophisticated burglars as no advanced security systems had been installed. With t
German and Austrian frontiers only an hour's drive away, the police were virtual
helpless to prevent the disappearance of priceless art treasures.
The overall picture that emerges from this discussion is not too comforting: from
whatever angle it was examined, Czech post-revolutionary culture seemed to be in
turmoil. Ever more theatre companies were threatened with closure from lo
authorities, their new paymasters regarding expensive artistic activities as a luxury
community could at present ill afford. Some were more in favour of light entertain
ment that would cater to the tastes of less demanding foreign tourists. In this wa
they hoped, at least some money could be raised to save the theatre buildings, ma
of which were in desperate need of repair. Cinemas, with their antiquated equipmen
not much better in this respect, were suffering a 50% drop in attendance, almost
severe as that of the theatres. Publishers were losing the competition for readers to
myriad of newly launched periodicals, both serious and vulgar. In addition, they we
groaning under the cost of printing (50-70% of total production costs compared wit
the 10-20% common in the West) which could not be passed on to the buyer for fea
of pricing themselves out of the market altogether. New editions of classics could b
brought out only with the help of commercial sponsors, while the market was flood
with trash sold off stalls in the streets. All over the country libraries, galleri
historical buildings and landmarks were in a desolate state and falling to pieces whil
those still standing were being plundered for their contents. This in outline was t
undisputed view of the Czech cultural scene shared by all.
Policy? What policy?
Alongside these momentous developments, a polemic was conducted in the pages o
the Czech press about the position of culture in the aftermath of the revolution.
concerned itself largely with practical matters, but there were some ideologi
overtones. Sometimes it assumed the character of a campaign led by the advocates
a market economy, while their opponents trod very cautiously for fear of being
associated with the discredited old system. Most participants still seemed to dread t
use of terms such as 'planning', 'concept' or 'idea'. There was, however, a bro
consensus that if the whole country was undergoing a transformation, the economi
of culture could not escape it either. It was also recognised that culture would no
longer be generously rewarded by the state for its political support and that it w
facing serious problems in the changed circumstances.
Controversy broke out when it came to prescribing remedies. Some insisted that
degree of state support for culture was essential, others demanded that culture to
should be fully exposed to market forces. Differences of opinion often hindered t
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CZECH CULTURE
acceptance of practical measures. Discord and endless arguments preven
passing of legislation which would have made it possible to introduce new or
tional structures and to define responsibilities.
Not only the squabbling legislative bodies, both federal and republic, were t
for the absence of new regulatory procedures. The Czech Minister of Cultur
Uhde, a former dissident writer, had adopted a very liberal policy with
substantial part of the intellectual community was not in agreement. Those
not share his attitude expressed their doubts in a variety of ways. The poete
Stroblova, in an open letter, gently warned against the danger of 'losing the
a renewed onslaught of coarse materialism and the rule of the average, which
been the attributes of the previous system (Lidove noviny, 1990a). She, h
expressed a hope that regardless of the fact that once again some books were
unpublishable, albeit for different reasons, 'culture had the power of assertin
by its own devices, in spite of time and space, as recent years had shown'. A
her plea was addressed, apart from the government, directly to the President
Havel, in view of his constitutional position, did not on this or any other oc
involve himself in the discussion.
The cultural journalist Josef Chuchma acknowledged that, while nobody knew
exactly how much could be set aside for culture, it would certainly be little (Mlady
svet, 1990). 'It would then be necessary to devise a strategy. Everything second-rate
will have to be forsaken and we will have to depend only on ourselves ... The means
arrogated from our own poverty will have to be concentrated on the preservation of
the cultural heritage. If we do not show an appropriate degree of selflessness in this
respect, I doubt that future generations will be magnanimous enough to dismiss it
with a shrug and forgive us'.
The critic Vladimir Pistorius wondered about the complacency with which the
threats to Czech cultural life were being accepted and about the lack of respect for
national culture (Lidove noviny, 1991 a). 'Now and then we show a little disquiet when
we learn that for financial reasons all Czech medical journals are being closed down,
that no Czech films are being made, that there is no money to pay for the
subscriptions to foreign journals in academic libraries or that one half of all Prague
theatres are threatened with liquidation. In the end, however, society seems to be
ready to swallow all these bitter pills, even with some sort of satisfaction, because,
God knows why, we seem to be proud of the fact that our economic reform does not
handle anything in gloves, including culture'. Pistorius further took to task the author
of another article who had claimed that art would sell well unless it was 'unsaleable
noble boredom'. The success of Milos Forman's films in America was allegedly the
proof that commercialisation was just an empty scare. Pistorius pointed out that today
in Prague a young Forman would never find the money to make his first films.
In response to warnings of the dangers to culture left entirely to its own devices in
the market place, Uhde expressed his opinion that competition, however chaotic, was
preferable to any monopoly. He dismissed the charge that commercialisation was
corrupting Czech culture and spoke of the political 'commercialisation' of the
communist era. There was no other way but free competition, he asserted, that could
effectively replace 'the terrifying commercialisation which we had experienced for
forty years and which with the use of prodigious state subsidies made possible both
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IGOR HAJEK
fictional and non-fictional propaganda of crimes' (Nove knihy, 1990). There could
no greater danger to culture, he claimed, than its subjugation to the dead hand of
totalitarian ideology had been.
Uhde rejected calls for a comprehensive plan or guideline for the cultural spher
and pleaded for a system in which the involvement of the state would be minima
Direct subsidies would be replaced with competitive grants awarded or augmented b
newly established foundations and other sources of funding not controlled by the
state. He admitted, however, that the economy was as yet unable to generate t
wealth that would create conditions for adequate private funding (Literdrni novin
1991a). One of the first applications of the new grants practice was the entrusting
the emergency allocation of Kcs 100 million designed to save the Czech film industr
to an independent committee of critics and theorists who were not directly associat
with or involved in film making (Lidove noviny, 1992).
In a society which had just emerged from the nightmare of centralisation and sta
control of virtually every aspect of public life, views such as those of the ministe
found a lot of supporters. Some claimed that 'commercialisation-or rather
thorough and complete transition to market conditions-... [did not] present a thre
to Czech culture and art, but on the contrary, [was] the best possible extern
guarantee of its development' (Kesner, 1991). The dramatist Karel Steigerw
(Pritomnost, 1991) went as far as to argue:
The current disability of state administration appears to be useful in the first round: it see
that theatres are dying spontaneously, of their own, of their own impulse and from lack
interest on the part of their audiences ... Perhaps even the second round will pass w
without a centralised state policy: the communities will know how to cope and whichev
of them decides to have a theatre, will find a specific purpose and then a mode of existenc
for it.
Besides running the danger of being branded as leftists, those who called for a
measure of subsidies and a central policy in cultural affairs were exposed to ridicule.
The philosopher Vaclav Belohradsky, a staunch promoter of a universal market
economy, pointed out (Mladd fronta dnes, 1991):
The waiting of post-communist intellectuals for the favours of a good master proves that
they find it easier to sell spiritual values to a political power than to the readers. This
preference for a dialogue with power over that with consumers is demonstrated in plaintive
calls for state subsidies in culture.
Despite the self-assurance of the exponents of laissezfaire, doubts remained whether
the ministry was quite aware of the consequences of what it was doing-or not doing.
Daniela Kolariova, actress and deputy in the Czech National Council (parliament),
described in an interview how she and a few colleagues spent long hours revising the
old Act on the Theatre only to find that the Ministry of Culture did not deem any legal
provisions in this field necessary (Scena, 1991). The ministry only added to the
confusion in the publishing industry when it abolished the system of payments to
authors which had been in operation for over forty years and left the question of
remuneration to be decided individually between author and publisher. With 90% of
the new publishers barely aware (or willing to accept) that it was their legal duty to
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CZECH CULTURE
reward authors for the use of their work, the removal of established stand
practice proved very risky. As if this was not enough, the Federal Assembly
revising the law on copyright in a way that would have brought Czecho
immediately in conflict with international agreements signed in the past. It
surprise that in this climate book piracy, previously a virtually unknown o
became a common occurrence.
The unclarified situation in Czech post-revolutionary culture was brought into focus
in 12 questions publicly addressed to the Ministry of Culture by Vladimir Novotny
(Literarni noviny, 1991c), the newly appointed managing director of the publishing
house Mlada fronta. Novotny asked, among other questions, whether the state would
continue to own any cultural institutions at all and if so, what was the procedure for
the appointment of their directors? What criteria would be applied in dispensing
subsidies? How would regional cultural activities be supported? How would the
discrimination in the access to culture of socially weak groups be mitigated-a topical
question at a time when theatre and concert ticket prices were rising fast while the
general standard of living was equally rapidly falling. Novotny also wondered how
international cultural exchange could prosper when the abolition of the printed matter
postal rate made the cost of mailing books abroad prohibitive. He also wanted to
know what immediate future the ministry envisaged for the existing cultural funds and
how their position would be affected by the introduction of a single tax system in
1993.
The last question touched a fairly raw nerve as it concerned often abused, disputed
and misrepresented institutions the mere mention of which would at any time provoke
a controversy. From all royalties and fees paid out in Czechoslovakia a tax of 2% was
deducted for cultural funds (literary, musical, etc.), which were comparatively
independent organisations supervised by the Ministry of Finance. The money had
been used, for instance, to help out aging writers and artists facing difficulties, to
provide interest-free loans or direct grants to individuals and to maintain recreational
facilities for members of the associations. The wealth of the Literary Fund in
particular had always been the cause of envy and accusations of assuring easy living
for a select few. However, an earlier ministry proposal to deal with the question of
the funds by simply abolishing them was rejected by the majority of Czech artists'
associations. Instead, the funds had been increasingly utilised to finance awards,
loss-making publishing ventures and other cultural projects deemed worthy of
support.
Guessing at the future
For 40 years Czech official culture was subsidised, politically exploited and corrupted
by the socialist state. Its manipulation was made easier by the fact that the foundations
for such misuse had been laid deep in the past. The central role of culture, in
particular literature, in helping to preserve national identity-indeed, the very survival
of the nation and its language-was universally recognised. Artists regarded themselves
and were viewed by the public as a natural elite who in difficult times were
expected to speak on behalf of the nation. Paradoxically, this applied also to the
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IGOR HAJEK
communist period during which, while enjoying the privileges granted them by t
system, they were at times its most vociferous critics.
This position radically changed not long after the November 1989 revolution
Faced with the task of renewing the economy on the basis of private enterprise, th
tendency to push culture off its high pedestal prevailed both on the federal and t
republic levels. In the words of Vaclav Klaus, the Federal Finance Minister and chie
strategist of the economic reform, 'when the apartment is being redecorated, you
move the library out on to the balcony'. Politically it was not an unpopular thing
do: a good deal of the official culture had been compromised and discredited b
corruption over the previous twenty years while the dissidents, many of whom now
found themselves in positions of power, had been excluded from the enjoyment o
any material benefits distributed by the authorities. It therefore seemed only just a
logical that the old structures of support and regulation should be dismantled. The
process was accelerated with the appointment of Milan Uhde as Minister of Cultur
in mid-1990. He made it clear that he was hostile to the idea of governmen
intervention and in 1991 demonstrated his political stance by joining Vaclav Klaus'
right-wing Civic Democratic Party (ODS).
Opponents of Uhde's policy could argue, however, that in some instances, at leas
the transformation efforts were reminiscent of the attitudes of the Russian revolutionaries,
who in 1917 proposed to replace the old bourgeois railway engines with new
socialist ones. Changes were sometimes introduced without proper examination of
whether or not they were necessary or beneficial. Some of them set off unpredicted
chain reactions with which it was subsequently impossible to cope for lack of funds
or experience. An example of this was the abolition of a central wholesale book
organisation the like of which exists in most Western countries.
The idea of a culture dependent almost exclusively on subsidies from private
donations was apparently inspired by practice customary in the United States. It
seems, however, to have been rather prematurely promoted in a country where the
accumulation of private wealth required for the setting up of foundations could only
be expected in the very distant future. The insistence on introducing cuts in public
spending on culture, on the supposition that deficiencies would be made up with
funding from non-governmental sources, was reminiscent of the Thatcherite ideological
reasoning justifying the policy of the British government in the 1980s and it
might lead to similarly unwelcome consequences as those faced by cultural establishments
in Britain when private money was not forthcoming.
Perhaps the German model, which recognises the necessity, usefulness and longterm
profitability of state support, was one that would have been more suitable, albeit
on a much more modest scale. There can be no doubt that Czech culture had been
grossly overfunded under the communist regime, to the detriment of other areas of
social life, but after pruning the wasteful expenditure one would have expected a fair
amount to be saved for deserving causes. A closer look at the cuts may reveal that
not all of them have been made in the right places.
Questions may also be raised about the wisdom of an almost instant abolition of
controls. Institutions which had not been designed to face competition were exposed
to it without being given a chance to brace themselves while their position was at the
same time undermined by the withdrawal or reduction of support and by various
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CZECH CULTURE
arbitrarily introduced market measures. That in such circumstances they
difficulties did not necessarily prove their worthlessness. The state publish
for children's books, Albatros, for example, was an excellent and much
institution, yet it was left to founder when confronted with high printing c
market suddenly flooded with poorly produced, low-quality books from
private publishers.
It might have been advisable as well to retain for a time some limited de
influence over cultural life in general. Decades of communist puritanism did
the public at large the opportunity to develop the consumer resistance to
commercialised culture that can be commonly detected in most advanced cou
the West. Not having had any occasion to acquire the necessary degree of s
tion or develop the relevant antibodies, sizable groups of the population wer
to the mercy of unscrupulous marketers selling them large quantities of p
often imported from the West, which in their countries of origin would by
rejected as garbage. (A series of adventure novels translated from German car
original version a warning from the German Federal Ministry of Educatio
book must not be included in any school library. The notice is missing from
edition.) Perhaps some of the millions that the undiscerning and inex
consumers have been tempted to spend on trash could have been siphoned
manner that would have benefited if not culture then at least the endangere
heritage. Admittedly, this solution would probably have met with powerful
in a climate which is strongly ideological and where any attempt at regula
easily be stigmatised as a vestige of the old communist system.
The public were not the only ones who had to pay for their innocence of
of the world at large. Although the Ministry of Culture advocated devolutio
other hand it interfered in matters which would have been better dealt with
institutions concerned. This happened, for example, in the case of an appar
disadvantageous contract with a French musical and theatrical entrepreneur
Ministry signed in 1991 on behalf of the National Theatre, but without te
theatre's management about it. The affair was brought to light in a detailed
investigation by Radio Free Europe (Radio Free Europe, 1992).
The prevailing moderate opinion in Czechoslovakia seemed to be that the current
situation was one of transition and that things would in time settle down. The general
pattern that life in the country was expected eventually to adopt was modelled on the
vision of the first Czechoslovak Republic (1918-38), the last and virtually the only
liberal and democratic social formation based on private enterprise in national
memory. There was often insufficient awareness that it might prove impossible to
revive this pre-war ideal in current conditions and little comprehension that regress
may not stop at the point marked by the less prominent role culture is assigned in
most Western countries.
At a time of upheaval and uncertainty predictions are hard to make. Some
expectations and hopes, however, were not fulfilled, as indicated by the director of the
Bochum City Museum in a radio discussion (RFE, 1992):
After the opening of the borders, everybody expected new intellectual impulses to come
from Central and Eastern Europe, particularly in the field of culture. It was an enormous
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IGOR HAJEK
disappointment that no impulses have arrived and we further observe that official policy i
these countries, especially in Czechoslovakia, assumes the features of the consumer socie
which is hostile to culture and to ecology. Enormous disappointment is also caused by th
fact that intellectuals in Czechoslovakia are withdrawing from public life and the isolatio
in which they existed under the communist regime is now being renewed. I feel that this i
very ominous.
Leaving aside the dreams of Western intellectuals and the aspirations they had for
their colleagues in the East, as well as the implied rejection of the consumer societ
it cannot be denied that since the November 1989 revolution Czech culture has not
produced any new book, film, play, music or other outstanding work of art capable
of attracting universal attention. In this respect it has not differed much from the
current position of culture in other countries of the former Eastern Bloc. The question
remains whether Czech artists and intellectuals have been temporarily overwhelmed
by the sheer impact of the transition from totalitarianism to liberty or whether their
relatively diminished role is a permanent mark of their new standing in society.
Postscript
This article described the situation in the economics of Czech culture as it existed
before the first free elections in June 1992. The victory of the right-wing coalition led
by the Civic Democratic Party (ODS) resulted in the acceleration of reforms and an
even faster transition to a market economy. The elections swept away most of the
former dissidents and replaced them with new men (and very few women) who, like
the majority of the population, had managed to survive the communist era by going
through the required motions and not making themselves too conspicuous. Of the
prominent dissidents, only two remained in high office: Milan Uhde became the
Chairman of the Czech National Council (republic parliament) and Vaclav Havel had
not yet completed his presidential term.
Problems of financing culture were soon overshadowed by the surprisingly quick
move to split the country agreed between the leaders of the two strongest Czech and
Slovak political parties. Other issues that competed for public interest were the first
stage of privatisation and the increasing indebtedness of many enterprises, particularly
those still in state ownership.
The latter predicament was one that continued to affect the book trade. Publishers
had to pay the printers in advance, but could never be sure that they in turn would
receive payment from the now mostly private booksellers. The distribution network
having seized up entirely, most publishers relied either on postal services or on their
own arrangements. A scandal broke out at the end of 1992 in connection with the
privatisation of the troubled wholesale distribution company. It was acquired by the
Deputy Prime Minister and chief ideologue of the Civic Democratic Party, Miroslav
Macek, in partnership with Jindrich Menzel, a former Communist Party official. There
were suspicions of inside information and influence being used in the acquisition and
evidence of irregularities and subsequent asset stripping, as a result of which Macek
resigned his government post. By mid-1993 the case had still not been fully resolved
and new allegations were emerging that Milan Uhde, the former Minister of Culture,
was involved in the affair (Lidove noviny, 1993a; Lidove noviny, 1993b).
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CZECH CULTURE
Meanwhile, an unexpectedly steep drop in book sales early in 1993 dr
remaining large quality publishing houses such as Odeon or Cesky spisov
renamed Ceskoslovensky spisovatel) to the wall. 'In publishing, the situa
really reached the point of no return: publishers of our kind have nowhere t
any more', the managing director of the latter declared in an interview (Lit
noviny, 1993a; Literdrni noviny, 1993b).
The grant system assisted the production of about half a dozen Czech
Although most of them were of some artistic merit, none attracted much a
abroad. The new managing director of the Barrandov film studios, Vaclav M
assumed a completely unsentimental attitude to film making. He regarded th
as merely a production facility and his task as that of finding customers for
Czech film makers who expected some support for indigetious productions fr
he said: 'they had been looking forward to a new kind of socialism and
capitalism arrived. The regime itself has changed, while they had wished on
change of conditions.... No one denies that culture used to lead European pro
but the age of enlightenment is simply over' (Lidove noviny, 1993c).
Theatres still suffered from the absence of legislation that would clearly de
responsibilities of central, regional and local authorities for their financing
some Prague theatres such as Divadlo na Vinohradech succeeded in retaining
audiences, thanks to an appealing repertoire, others teetered on the brink o
Realistick6 divadlo, re-named Labyrint, which had managed to find a much ac
new face for itself, encountered pressure at the end of the 1992/93 season
down its artistic principles from the owners of the building in which it wa
(VICek, 1993). One of the first victims of the indifference of local authoritie
theatre in Kolin, where the much praised company disbanded and the theat
down, the building to be used only occasionally for visiting productions.
In other areas there had been little change. Some public interest was aroused
embarrassing squabbles connected with the appointment of the director of th
section of the National Gallery. Months of misinformation, changed decisio
personal abuse delayed the opening of the reconstructed premises. The aboli
the 2% contribution to the Cultural Funds, which left them virtually witho
income, passed almost without notice, although it meant, for instance, that t
no longer afford to improve the meagre pensions of some aged writers and
On the whole, the pervading mood was one of resignation and, it se
acceptance of the greatly diminished importance of culture in the new circum
not least on the part of the Ministry of Culture itself. It may be typical of t
of frustration felt by many that, in various interviews, when asked how the
of Culture could help, most members of the cultural establishment answere
disappearing from the face of the earth'.
University of Glasgow
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