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Nestled between the sturdier pillars of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights—Education (Article 26) and Social Order (Article 28)—lies Article 27: the right to participate in cultural life and enjoy the arts. It can appear, at first glance, like an administrative afterthought, as if the UN slipped in “the arts” the way one might slip a scented candle onto a list of emergency supplies. It raises the question: is art a human need, or simply a desirable accessory to one’s actual needs?
History suggests the former, though many would be surprised to see art listed adjacent to food, shelter, and political stability. Yet the arts have long lived in this paradoxical space: seen as frivolous until removed, at which point society promptly collapses into dystopia. This tension sits at the heart of Article 27. To understand its significance, it is helpful (and admittedly amusing) to turn to economist John Maynard Keynes, a man known for rescuing governments from economic ruin by day and spending his evenings with the Bloomsbury Group discussing beauty, ethics, and the occasional scandal. Keynes believed the arts were not the garnish on civilisation but its destination. In 1930 he predicted a future in which technological progress would reduce the working week to 15 hours, leaving humanity with its “real, permanent problem”: how to use our leisure “to live wisely and agreeably and well.” For Keynes, the answer was the arts—an elevated state of consciousness that philosopher G.E. Moore called “the enjoyment of beautiful objects.”¹ That future has not, regrettably, arrived. The 35-hour global working average stands as mute evidence. But Keynes’ point remains: art is not merely decorative; it is aspirational. The tension grows sharper when art functions not as an end point but as a catalyst for social change. While Keynes imagined art as the outcome of a just society, artists such as Robert Motherwell used art to challenge injustice directly. Motherwell’s Elegies to the Spanish Republic - a series of more than 200 monumental, abstract black-and-white compositions - grew from the trauma of the Spanish Civil War into universal meditations on suffering and resilience.² Picasso’s Guernica, of course, stands as another towering reminder that art often performs the emotional labour that politics fails to. Ai Weiwei extends this lineage, merging activism with aesthetic force. His works, from breaking a Han dynasty urn to documenting state violence, illustrate how art questions authority in ways that are both disarmingly simple and deeply inconvenient for those in power. His insistence on free expression (despite arrests, surveillance, and the occasional emergency surgery) suggests he considers art not a luxury but a necessity.³ If dystopian literature is any guide, authoritarian regimes share this view. In Brave New World and Equilibrium, art is censored or destroyed precisely because it awakens emotion - an unhelpful side effect when the aim is total social control. Maslow’s hierarchy places self-actualisation at the summit of human need: the drive to become one’s fullest self. Art, whether encountered or created, is a primary route to that summit. To remove it is not merely to limit pleasure but to constrict human possibility. Article 27, then, is not an indulgence. It is a recognition that survival alone is insufficient, that to be fully human we must also think, feel, imagine and participate. As Motherwell said, “Art is much less important than life, but what a poor life without it.” (Adapted from lecture delivered at NLCS Singapore, 7 Dec 2023) LINK References
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