BIPARTISANSHIP AND THE ARTS

LIVINGSTON BIDDLE

Saved by a dash of humor and a few “libations”

A new administration brings new opportunities to pursue the twin goals of working together and encouraging bipartisanship. I submit that the arts—in all their manifold diversity at the very core of creative expression and of our cultural life—are suited for implementing these goals. It is my wish, too, to see added bipartisan effort devoted to arts education, surely one topic on which Democrats and Republicans alike can find agreement.

The story behind the genesis of the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) is a prime example of the give and take that lies behind congressional actions. Begun in an atmosphere of skepticism and suspicion on one hand, but with the highest of hopes on the other, the NEA has since been greatly praised and greatly vilified. In recent times, after a major struggle to survive, it has reached a period of toleration by its critics. Its considerable potentials can be much better realized.

To arts enthusiasts and supporters, the NEA has encouraged its share of outstanding leaders, unparalleled in excellence. To the opposition, the organization is guilty of unforgivable instances of encouraging—nay, fomenting— pornography and perversion of the values which should underscore our way of life. The issues of freedom of speech and definitions of obscenity have received national attention and adjudication all the way up to the United States Supreme Court.

Political leaders who, in the beginning, debated the results of artistic accomplishment often with scorn and ridicule, but hardly with a deep-rooted malice, have discovered that to criticize the Endowment is a remunerative endeavor. It brings in contributions often directly proportional to the level of vitriol in the critic’s arsenal. The genie of exaggeration and distortion has escaped from the bottle. It is time to return the genie and re-cork the bottle!

When the legislation to create the Endowment reached the floor of the US House of Representatives in September 1965, it was greeted by a well-planned ambush, engineered by two masters of the art of ridicule: Durward Hall (R-MO) and H.R. Gross (always so designated) (R-IA). Mr. Hall was a student of medicine. Mr. Gross was noted for a wide variety of legislative objection, with the newly presented arts a particular favorite. Together, the two representatives had devised an amendment to the pending bill, which inserted after the word “dance” in the opening arts definition section a precisely anatomical description of the gyrations and “jactitations” particular to a belly dancer in full performance.The clerk, reading the amendment verbatim, as was his duty, blushed, probably for the first time in his career.

The House responded with loud, unrestrained laughter. This was the acme of Gross-Hall, capable of expunging matters far larger in consequence than the upstart arts. To spectators in the gallery, the bill seemed to have found untimely doom, even before debate had commenced.

Mr. Gross was pursuing success with other stabs at legislative language. He hit upon the phrase “professional practitioner in the humanities.” He wouldn’t know the difference between one of those and a “bale of hay,” he declared; and the House accorded him the rich measure of the laughter he sought. Like Napoleon when his guards had just unhinged the enemy’s whole front line, Mr. Gross paused, surveying victory.

But then the wholly unexpected occurred. Frank Thompson (D-NJ), floor manager of the Arts and Humanities Act of 1965, immediately, and as if divinely guided, said that to him the most surprising development of the day thus far was that “the gentleman from a farm state doesn’t know the difference between a belly dancer and a bale of hay.”

If loud laughter had filled the chamber before, it now exploded. Frank’s was the perfect riposte. Of course it wasn’t exactly a “sequitur,” not quite in sequence, but it didn’t matter. Hurriedly, H.R. Gross sought correction, but he had lost his momentum. The laughter would not subside. It was inundating the proposer of the amendment. His grip on the proceedings lost strength, and then was lost altogether. The legislation, albeit by the narrowest of margins, passed. You could say that on this historic September day the Arts—and the Humanities, for in the bill they were joined as partners—were saved by laughter. The diminishing ranks of old-timers still talk of the belly dancer amendment that failed.

Here’s another illustrative moment, where humor saved the day, once more. In 1971, a literary anthology was supported by the Endowment, then under the chairmanship of Nancy Hanks, who succeeded Roger Stevens. I served Roger as his deputy and Nancy as congressional liaison. As the Endowment was gaining in praise, an unusual snag was perceived, just before the annual congressional hearings. Under the heading of poetry, the anthology contained this entry: “LIGHGHT.” Moreover, it was reported in the media to have cost the taxpayer $50,000!

It’s not difficult to understand that the headline, “Poet Receives $50,000 for Misspelled One-liner,” attracted attention. The late Sidney Yates (D-IL), one of the greatest defenders the arts ever had in Congress, was chairman of the subcommittee on appropriations involved, but how was he to defend this? Nancy Hanks pointed out that the sum reported by the press had been increased inadvertently by a multiple of ten, but Congress overlooked the detail. They advanced in phalanx deployment. The Endowment’s relative newness and, hence, its vulnerability, were plainly evident in the hearing room. Friends, as if observing a tidal wave in the near foreground, were leaving the ship. Irrelevant the poet’s possible intent; the headline hung in the air.

It was then that Clarence Long (D-MD) spoke. Often noted for his tartness of tongue, yet fundamental fairness and long years of experience, he said with a slight smile, “Mr. Chairman, I don’t pretend to know too much about poetry or poems. But this is the first one I’ve ever been able to memorize.” The burst of laughter that followed broke through the ice, the tensions, and the attitudes. The day for the arts was saved.

FINDING COMMON GROUND

In my work, I encountered many such moments. None, however, were more memorable personally than my first real solo into the big leagues.

Senator Claiborne Pell (D-RI), my lifelong friend, and for whom I drafted and developed the arts and humanities program—and here I mention primarily the arts for they are so central to my own efforts—instructed me to seek the help of Representative John Fogarty (D-RI). Though he also represented Rhode Island, he was greatly senior to Claiborne in service. Indeed, John Fogarty was among the most powerful members of the House, with a bearing and presence to give abundant emphasis to that fact. His background was quite different from Claiborne Pell’s—Newport and luxuries versus the hurly-burly of Providence ward politics. A then-neophyte staffer for a junior senator was being given both test and, possibly, opportunity.

John Fogarty’s secretary was strict and highly disciplined, but she took pity and scheduled a meeting. “He isn’t in the best of moods,” she warned me as I arrived at exactly the scheduled evening time. “No more than five minutes—now remember.”

I entered the large office with its equally large desk and greeted the barrel-chested gentleman in charge.

“Well,” he said, eyeing me, “what can I do for you?”

“I’m here to ask for your help, sir. On some legislation Senator Pell is sponsoring,”

“Oh yes,” he said, pushing a stack of papers on his desktop. “Grace told me. It’s here somewhere. It’s about the arts, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sounds like Pell,” John Fogarty said in a manner that betokened no trace of enthusiasm whatsoever. He paused. “It’s been a long day here. Tell you what. You go back to Mr. Pell and you say to him that if he gets his bill passed by the Senate, and if it comes over here, I won’t object to it. Now how’s that?”

There was an air of finality, far short of hopes. In fact, it seemed close to a rejection.

“We were thinking that perhaps you could support...”

He interrupted. “No, that’s all I can do for you today, young man. Give my regards to the Senator.” He rose. “I’ll take you to the door. Grace will see you out.” Desperately, I sought some means of delay. My glance fell on a framed photograph beside the exit route.

“Why, that’s the Rock of Cashel,” I exclaimed.

He stopped. “It is. You’ve been there?”

“Yes. Twice. In County Tipperary. The most wonderful site in all of Europe. And the most beautiful church. The ruins only make it more so.”

“It ought to be a beautiful church,” he said, looking at me more closely. “It was Saint Patty’s.”

“I talked to the curator there,” I explained. “He showed me all the original plans. I had such a fine time.”

“Is that a fact?” he asked.

“It’s part of the arts. A great achievement there on the top of that steep rocky hill. It’s part of what I’ve spent my life trying to learn more about, and to write about.”

We were no longer moving toward the door. “I wonder,” I ventured, “if you could tell me who has the greatest art collection in the world.”

“In all the world?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pondered. “I don’t know. Probably the Mellons, or somebody like that,”

“No, not the Mellons,” I said. “It’s the Pope.”

“The Holy Father, himself?”

“Himself.”

He was looking at me, and at the photograph.

“And that’s your family,” I said. “The wife and children.”

He glanced toward the desk. “Mr. Biddle,” he said. “I’m not really that pushed. For the next few minutes or so, I’d like to hear a little more. I don’t suppose you’d care to go for a small libation.”

That was at approximately six p.m. Grace brought in a tray on little wheels. It seemed to have a special niche beside the desk. I was offered an Irish whisky. The host poured generously. It was said that John Fogarty could down a bottle or more without showing the slightest sign of difficulty. This was a different era.

We explored the Vatican museums and the Sistine Chapel that evening. John Fogarty listened intently, then pressed the buzzer on his desk. He informed Grace that it was time for the boys “to come over.”

Suddenly, I found myself in the middle of a small group of the most influential members of the House, known as the “Irish mafia,” marvelously diverse in age and appearance. All were devoted to John Fogarty. He put the question to each, one by one. Tell me, Mike, or Peter, or Hugh, or Jim, who has the greatest art collection in the world?

“The greatest what?” They all seemed suspicious of a trick, or some bizarre prank. They were uncertain what to reply, and they were roundly called ignoramuses. Finally, John Fogarty announced with a flourish, “the Holy Father, himself.”

I was then introduced as an expert on these matters. “Mr. Biddle has come to tell us about a new bill...”

It was perhaps nine o’clock. I tried very hard to enunciate properly, to weave the necessary words into cogent meaning. John Fogarty looked as unaffected as when I first met him that night. Not quite his guest. Happily for me, Fogarty made his position abundantly clear. “Now, when it comes over to us, I want us all to support the bill. Is that understood?”

Feet shifted a bit. Nods were made. Voices were quiet as the information was digested.

John surveyed the room and told me the time for parting had arrived. “The boys and I have some other business to discuss, as usual.”

I was saying my goodbyes, and thanks. I finished, turned, and stepped—straight into the wall.

My glasses became detached. I reached for them on the floor.

“The door is about another yard to the right,” John Fogarty said politely. “You may have misplaced it a bit.”

I was outside. I was laughing and full of joy. The stars glowed above. I decided to leave my car parked wherever it was and took the bus home.

The next morning, Claiborne buzzed me. “I don’t know what you said to John,” he told me, “but he just called to say he’d help.” It was vital to the process.

FORGING SOLUTIONS

The point of these reminiscences is that problems in the arts can be addressed in various ways. We can talk of commitment at the highest levels of government. We can look for commitment with idealistic diligence and fervor. We can say that the arts can help the economy to grow, that an art institution placed in the erstwhile slums of a Lincoln Center area in New York City, or on a street in Washington, DC, can transform the neighborhood, and be a special means of attracting and encouraging business, both large and small. We can talk about the arts and the “quality of life,” and open volumes of statistical verification. We can say that through the arts those in physical and mental distress can be assisted, even cured.

But when the arts are attacked in the halls of Congress, there is little point in trying to pour venom on the attackers. It simply doesn’t work. If the arts were organized like the National Rifle Association, this approach might work. In relative terms, the arts have never raised large amounts for lobbying. This is the choice of arts organizations, rightly or wrongly. A cosmic upheaval would be needed for change in this regard.

The not-for-profit arts, those our government helps, remain beleaguered. They cling so often to the edge of the precipice. This was true when the Endowment began in 1965, and continues to be true. Yet artistic endeavors in this country have grown mightily. Individually, the financial base may be fragile, but collectively the arts are manifest in numbers that would astound the early protagonists of government aid. Every dollar appropriated to the NEA can return up to five dollars in non-federal, mostly private, support. That’s the history.

How to increase that funding and its extraordinary catalyst effect seems to be a key question today. To me, the answer is in rediscovering the remedy that helped at the very start, when Claiborne Pell, young chairman of an arts subcommittee in a Democrat-organized Senate, joined forces with a powerful veteran senator, Jacob Javits (R-NY).

Early House leaders, including John Brademas (D-IN), set a similar tone. And when an annual budget of $200 million was proposed by Mr. Pell—in 1973!— it carried by a vote of 61 to 30, better than two to one, with valiant help from, believe it or not, John Tower (R-TX) and Barry Goldwater (R-AZ), two of the Senate’s staunchest conservatives at the time. It was a record of projected funding not since achieved.

THE VALUE OF BIPARTISANSHIP

Bipartisanship, and work. And research. And knowledge of individuals, their likes and dislikes. An especially wise Senate mentor, as I began to learn my way in enlisting support, would say, don’t talk to the legislative assistant there, talk to Joe, he’s close to the senator, and Joe’s girlfriend likes Mozart. As my station grew, I could talk to senators and representatives, and I would make sure I knew whose wife liked painting, or architecture, or perhaps the symphony. Seeking support on both sides of the aisle worked then, and can work now. The arts transcend politics; their excellence abides beyond all political wars and times of crisis, no matter how difficult, and from one millennium to the next. Please remember that in the darkest days of World War II, the British government began supporting the arts, seeing this as vital to the nation’s morale.

So here is my thought for the new George W. Bush administration. We need a bipartisan program for the arts in education. The arts are superb educators. I have witnessed how they can bring young people into the educational process, enhance traditional subjects of learning, and excite young creative minds to grow. A body of knowledge has developed in this regard. Programs have evolved. They need more recognition, for the creative experience is crucial to understanding and the desire to broaden horizons. For the young, in particular, for youngsters of all backgrounds, the arts should be a significant part of the education process. My own deep love of the arts grew with the study of history at Princeton. I was joined by a fellow classmate, Claiborne Pell.

Education is on today’s agenda for Republicans and Democrats alike. The Endowment legislation provided for each state to develop its own art agency, to be aided by the national program. The agencies have grown in funding, in expertise, in experience. Let each state create its own special program, demonstrating the values and potentials of the arts in the educational process. I believe these programs could best be started on a pilot basis, one per state, with an emphasis on creating models to be used in the future. Matching funds would be provided by the National Endowment.

Beginnings would be modest, and continuance based on verifiable success. Perhaps one winning model for all to follow would emerge over time. More likely, there would be a variety with elements to be shared. Modest starts are appealing to Congress, but the sky is the limit here. At the core are the creative experience, and the teaching of an intelligent and enlightened individuality— which, after all, is at the foundation of democracy.

This vision of the arts is hardly the gloom and doom cast by debates over Robert Mapplethorpe. It’s not about controversies that seem beyond cure. It’s not bitter arguments, or ineffective excuses. This, quite simply, is utilizing the best of the arts for the best of purposes.

To achieve this, bipartisanship is essential, along with vigor and a generosity of spirit that a good cause can inspire. And don’t forget, please—when appropriate—to add a dash of humor.

Livingston Biddle (CC ’92) has devoted much of his life to helping the arts. He drafted the Arts and Humanities Act of 1965, and later was appointed chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA). The author of four novels and a history of the NEA, he continues to be active in cultural affairs nationally, and serves on the Cosmos Club’s Art Committee.

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