Category: Analysis

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Steve Nolan, Senior Lecturer in Economics, Liverpool John Moores University

It’s no secret that public finances are tight in the UK. This spells trouble for many sectors, not least culture. After all, this is an area that often relies on public funding – with many projects facing an uncertain future. But in an era of economic bad news, can it be justifiable to pump money into what some see as “frivolous” projects?

For some politicians, investment in cultural infrastructure is an investment in place and in people. This is the hope behind a £270 million fund that aims to boost the resilience of cultural institutions following an era of restricted public spending. There are limitations, and the culture-led approach – as with regeneration projects in general – remains only partially successful and deeply uneven.

From the role of large-scale cultural events like the European Capital of Culture to the so-called “Bilbao effect” (where a new cultural site is thought to spark revitalisation and economic growth), the same questions arise. Who is it for? What type of value is created – and is it shared in equitably?

But the question is also about how we might better understand and measure the value of a cultural site, collection or (re)development.

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Pinning down the meaning of “value” is a tricky philosophical question – one that has long plagued economists. The standard evaluation tool of cost-benefit analysis tries to collapse these debates into a number. That is, a price that can measure the multi-faceted benefits a project can provide.

But in the cultural sphere, value often comes without a price tag. Access to many of our museums and galleries is free and the values derived from them transcend the monetary.

Even though economists can estimate this non-monetary value (albeit not without criticism), a more wide-ranging benefit of cultural investment is harder to understand. This is the counter-intuitive notion of “non-use value”.

In other words, this is the benefit that flows to an individual from the existence of a cultural good such as a museum. It can be without that person ever setting foot inside the building or engaging with any of the collections.

Consider a current culture-led redevelopment in the UK: the Waterfront Transformation Project in Liverpool. This ambitious scheme takes in the redevelopment of the International Slavery Museum, Maritime Museum and associated outdoor spaces.

Within this collection of cultural goods, “use” could be a visitor stepping inside the museums. They may derive multiple benefits, from the aesthetics of the building, the creativity of the displays and the histories and stories represented in the collection.

But what about a history lover who either lacks the desire or the ability to visit the collection? Or someone whose memories or heritage intertwines with the history? Despite having no direct contact, they might still benefit from the sites’ continuing existence: the fact, for example, that a place exists where other citizens can visit, challenge and debate.

For some, there is value simply in knowing that there are spaces for this kind of engagement. In this way, public use by others can generate indirect benefits. These benefits cannot be captured by traditional metrics like footfall. But they constitute value to that individual and, in turn, the communities in which they live.

Assessing value

The inclusion of non-use value within the Treasury’s evaluation recommendations recognises this complex public relationship with cultural goods. Correctly capturing these benefits is crucial. If not, funders may misconstrue a project’s total economic value when they make their decisions. Some that could generate significant public value might be overlooked.

However, non-use value can be slippery both to define and measure. Understanding how engagement with publicly funded cultural goods varies across communities and regions is crucial. This current gap in our knowledge means that non-use value is not always fully considered in the design or evaluation of cultural programmes.

Our ongoing project, undertaken along with post-doctoral research fellow Laura Taggart, attempts to improve this understanding in the context of Liverpool’s Waterfront Development Project.

This process raises vital questions. What are the benefits and potential harms of the site? How do relationships with it change over time and across economic and ethnic groups? And how does the public’s historic relationship with the dockside change the nature of the non-use value generated?

Clearly, the answers to these questions cannot easily be calculated from the results of a cost-benefit analysis. Like most economic tools it is a model – a simplification of reality that aims to help policymakers make informed decisions. By engaging locally and regionally, it is easier to understand what drives non-use value – and capture it in a way that is relevant across other projects.

At heart, our project aims to capture the voices that are often excluded or overlooked in decisions about cultural funding. By developing a better understanding of the range of non-use value from these spaces, we hope to support more rounded approaches to cultural policy.

This means improving evaluation tools and funding frameworks. They must better reflect how people relate to cultural goods and how this differs across communities and regions. This will help in the quest for a richer concept of “value for money” — one that supports political choices that recognise the long-term civic, emotional and historical returns of cultural infrastructure.

Ultimately, in an era of tight budgets this allows for better and more targeted decision-making that recognises the often complex value and benefit flows that culture generates. But there is work to be done to help the public articulate the nature of benefits and costs. These are as vital and complex as the cultural goods that generate them.

This article is part of the wider project – Cultural Heritage, People and Place (CHerPP) : Understanding Value via a regional case study. It is funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) and the UK Government’s Department for Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS). Grant reference AH/Y000242/1

– ref. When public money is tight, how do governments put a price on culture? – https://theconversation.com/when-public-money-is-tight-how-do-governments-put-a-price-on-culture-259483

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Tim Lamont, Research Fellow, Marine Biology, Lancaster University

Why do people care about coral reefs? Why does their damage cause such concern and outrage? What drives people to go to great lengths to protect and restore them?

Of course, it’s partly because of their ecological importance and economic value – but it’s also because they are beautiful. Healthy coral reefs are among the most visually spectacular ecosystems on the planet – and this beauty is far from superficial. It underpins cultural heritage value, supports tourism industries, encourages ocean stewardship and deepens people’s emotional connections to the sea.

But how can such beauty be measured? And when it is destroyed, can it be rebuilt?

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Traditionally, many coral reef monitoring and restoration programmes overlook their beauty, considering it too subjective to measure. And as a team of scientists, that frustrated us. We knew that to most effectively draw on this key motivator for coral conservation, we had to be able to measure beauty.

In some ways, it’s an impossible task. But our new study grapples with this challenge, delivering a way of quantifying the aesthetic value of a coral reef, as well as measuring its recovery when previously damaged reefs are restored.

Our international team of marine scientists has been working at the Mars coral restoration programme (the largest project of its kind) in central Indonesia. Here, local communities and international businesses have collaborated for over a decade, rebuilding reefs that were once decimated by dynamite fishing. This illegal fishing method uses explosives to stun and kill fish for easy collection, while shattering coral reefs into rubble – wiping out entire reef communities in seconds.

This Indonesian project has already successfully regrown coral reefs. But we wanted to explore whether this programme had been able to recreate the visual appeal of a natural reef ecosystem.

We took standardised seabed photos using settings that automatically adjust white balance and colour to compensate for underwater light conditions. This enabled us to capture accurate colours under consistent shallow-water conditions across healthy, degraded and restored reef sites.

Then we conducted online surveys with more than 3,000 participants, asking them to compare pairs of photographs and choose which they found more beautiful – enabling us to derive a rating for each photograph. Our results showed that people from very different backgrounds consistently shared similar opinions on which reefs were beautiful.

Whether respondents were young or old, from countries with coral reefs or without, or had different levels of education and familiarity with the ocean, they tended to favour images with high coral cover, vibrant colours and complex coral structures. This suggests there is a shared human appreciation for the beauty of thriving reefs.

We also used these ratings to train a machine-learning algorithm based on AI to reliably predict people’s visual preferences for photographs of different coral habitats.

The results of people’s survey responses and the machine learning algorithm were the same. Images of restored reefs were consistently rated just as beautiful as those of healthy reefs, and far more aesthetically pleasing than degraded reefs. This is encouraging, and important. It shows that efforts to rebuild these charismatic ecosystems can recreate the beauty that makes them so highly valued.

Tracking recovery

We found that beauty was strongly linked to the number of colours present in the picture, the proportion of the image taken up by living coral, and the complexity of shapes exhibited by the corals. Meanwhile, images showing grey rubble fields of dead corals with little life were consistently rated lowest.

Our results suggest that promoting a range of different coral colours and shapes will not only help marine life, but also restore the visual, cultural and tourism value of thriving coral reefs. Reef restoration experts can achieve this by choosing donor corals – healthy corals transplanted to degraded sites to aid recovery – to add colour and variety to the reefs they plant.

This also means that coral reef recovery can be tracked using simple photo-based monitoring, like that used in our study.

Coral reefs need long-term care to help them survive, thrive and maintain their beauty and ecological function. To ensure that initial restoration gains are not quickly lost, such efforts need to be paired with ongoing monitoring and maintenance. Any tourism development around restored reefs also needs to be managed carefully and sustainably.

Restoration and sustainable tourism practices can help protect and sustain the ecological and social benefits of beautiful, healthy reefs. Ultimately, restoring beautiful reefs will be crucial for communities that rely on marine tourism, and for inspiring people to care for the ocean.

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Tim Lamont receives funding from the Royal Commission of 1851 and the Fisheries Society of the British Isles.

Gita Alisa receives funding from Friends of Lancaster University in America and Sheba Hope Advocate Program.

Tries Blandine Razak receives funding from the Pew Charitable Trust and the Fisheries Society of the British Isles.

– ref. The beauty of coral reefs is key to their survival – so we came up with a way to measure it – https://theconversation.com/the-beauty-of-coral-reefs-is-key-to-their-survival-so-we-came-up-with-a-way-to-measure-it-261013

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Robyn Klingler-Vidra, Vice Dean, Global Engagement | Associate Professor in Political Economy and Entrepreneurship, King’s College London

Governments around the world are hustling. European policymakers, for example, are eager to boost the region’s industrial relevance in a world where the US and China dominate cutting-edge technologies. They want to move beyond the adage that “the US innovates, China replicates and the EU regulates”.

As part of this, policymakers worldwide are striving to foster their own versions of Silicon Valley. They have invested to create ecosystems abundant with ambitious startups backed by venture capital investors. Their ultimate aim is to see these firms develop into what are known as scale-ups and compete in global markets.

But if governments – from Berlin and Brussels to Ho Chi Minh City – are to find their edge, I argue they should follow a model closer to Seoul or Tokyo’s playbook than that of Silicon Valley.

South Korean and Japanese policymakers have long understood that the proliferation of startup activity should not be an isolated aim. In our 2025 book, Startup Capitalism, my colleague Ramon Pacheco Pardo and I revealed that the approach of these countries sees national champion firms like Samsung and Toyota use startups as resources to help them compete internationally.

As the head of a government-backed startup centre in Seoul told me, a key aim of South Korean government policy for startups is to “inject innovative DNA” into the country’s large firms. Policies attempt to embed startups into the fabric of lead firms, and do not try to disrupt their competitive positions.

For this objective, the Silicon Valley playbook is sub-optimal. US government policy has enabled venture capital investment through regulatory changes and has ensured that talented people are free to challenge their former employers. Classic examples include the so-called “traitorous eight” who left Shockley Semiconductor Laboratory in 1957 to found Fairchild Semiconductor.

A more recent example is Anthony Levandowski, who left Google’s self-driving car project to start his own company, Otto, in 2016. The competition was so close that Google sued Uber – as it had acquired Otto – in 2019 over the trade secrets Levandowski allegedly used to develop his self-driving truck company. Uber eventually paid Google a “substantial portion” of the US$179 million (£134 million) it was awarded initially in arbitration.

Injecting innovative DNA

The Japanese and Korean formula is distinct. South Korea’s 17 Centres for the Creative Economy and Innovation, established about ten years ago to drive innovation and entrepreneurship, each have one of the country’s large firms (chaebol) as an anchor partner. The chaebol’s industrial focus – whether it’s shipbuilding, electronics or heavy machinery – is reflected in the focus of the startups engaging with that centre.

The startups work on issues “that keep the large firm up at night” and, in return, the startups have unparalleled access to distribution channels, marketing and proof-of-concept testing. While the centres have not produced volumes of globally competitive scale-ups, they have delivered on the aim of injecting innovative ideas and talent into large companies like Hyundai, LG Electronics and SK Group.

In Japan, tax incentives encourage big businesses to acquire startups. The “open innovation tax incentive” allows a 25% deduction from the price of the acquisition. The aim here is to encourage Japan’s national champion firms to integrate startups into their core businesses. In 2024, for example, Toyota integrated high-tech wheelchair startup, Whill, into its mobility services offering.

Various government initiatives also aim to provide coaching and mentoring for startups around raising venture capital funding and sharpening a pitch for demo day. In Japan and Korea, these initiatives embed big business throughout.

In J-Startup, an initiative aimed at creating a cohort of so-called unicorns (startups valued at over US$1 billion), the Japanese government involves industrial leaders as judges that help select applicants for the programme. These people then act as coaches and mentors to the startups. Japan’s lead firms are, in return, exposed to innovative technologies and startup culture.

In a similar way, Korea’s K-Startup Grand Challenge connects participating foreign startups with the country’s chaebol for proof-of-concept development. The Korean government cites partnership and licensing agreements between the parties as an important outcome of the programme. Through these connections, Korea’s big businesses have another mechanism for accessing innovative ideas and talent from abroad.

Governments that want to compete with China or the US cannot continue on their existing path. They need to do something different, and Japan and South Korea’s approach offers an alternative.

These approaches are not without downsides. There is, of course, the risk of well-resourced corporations operating “kill zones” around their business lines. This might involve early low-value mergers and acquisitions, or even copying their products in a bid to eliminate them.

The central position of large firms to the economy also means that the innovation agenda of startups is set by incumbent firms. This fosters complementary products, and not those that disrupt – and ultimately improve – domestic firms or technologies. There’s also the worry of perceived corruption.

But I argue that pursuing a half-committed strategy is riskier. If governments maintain a wall between big business and startups, believing this is essential to minimise corruption and that large firms will innovate just as startups will scale-up into larger firms, they risk underwhelming outcomes on all levels.

We may see flailing productivity in the sectors in which countries have excelled. And scale-ups will fail to materialise while populations of “zombie startups”, that simply stagnate while propped up on state largesse, increase.

Startups should be considered as resources to boost nationwide industrial capabilities, not efforts aimed at seeding a country’s answer to Silicon Valley’s Google or OpenAI.

Robyn Klingler-Vidra does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Japan and South Korea can show governments how to compete with China and US – https://theconversation.com/japan-and-south-korea-can-show-governments-how-to-compete-with-china-and-us-260623

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Wanja Kimani, Associate Curator, The Fitzwilliam Museum, University of Cambridge

In Reframing Blackness, writer and curator Alayo Akinkugbe explores the way that art history is taught, and the impact this has had on what we see in national museums in western cities. This teaching has often led to the exclusion of blackness from mainstream art spaces. Akinkugbe challenges this by shifting our gaze – to see blackness first.

Her book interrogates the place of blackness in relation to art history in several ways. First, she observes that the lack of black curators within national museums in western cities means that blackness is subject to “reactive responses”.

For example, when there was a global outcry after the murder of George Floyd in 2020, institutions reacted by foregrounding their efforts to support black artists and pledging commitments for future initiatives.

But many of these initiatives remain on the surface level and temporary, rather than permanently embedded into the institutional fabric. In my experience, long-term change is unlikely to occur when progress is measured by individual projects, while the decision-making remains in the same hands.

Next, the book draws on Akinkugbe’s experience as a history of art student at the University of Cambridge, during which time there was a call to “decolonise” the curriculum.

She then explores the intersection of race, gender and class, highlighting the double-bind of racial and gender bias that black women may encounter. She suggests ways to shift the gaze by focusing on people of colour depicted in historic artworks, including Portrait d’une Femme Noire (Portrait of a Black Woman) (1800) by Marie-Guillemine Benoist.

Along the way, we are acquainted with figures that have always been present on museum and gallery walls – albeit often ignored or faded into obscurity. Akinkugbe speculates about who some of these unnamed figures were, and what worlds they inhabited.

In Jacques Amans’ painting, Bélizaire and the Frey Children (1837), for example, Bélizaire, a black enslaved child, was over time painted over and faded into the background.

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Akinkugbe provides an overview of exhibitions held between 2022 and 2024 at the Royal Academy in London and the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge. And she has conversations with curators at other museums, whose work contributes to the understanding of the complexity of black life experiences reflected in contemporary art.

These include Antwaun Sargent (curator of The New Black Vanguard: Photography Between Art and Fashion) and Ekow Eshun (curator, In the Black Fantastic and The Time is Always Now: Artists Reframe the Black Figure). Akinkugbe also discusses the late Koyo Kouoh’s When We See Us: A Century of Black Figuration exhibition. Kouoh, who died in May, was the first African woman to curate the Venice Biennale.

By engaging in dialogue with the curators of these pivotal exhibitions, Akinkugbe demonstrates a shared commitment to uncovering what has been overlooked – and a commitment to deepening the discourse around blackness.

Cautious optimism

Reframing Blackness draws attention to important considerations for museums, curators and higher education institutions. There’s also food for thought for students who are keen to understand some of the factors that have contributed to the historic exclusion of blackness within museum walls and art education.

The book raises key questions that black cultural producers have grappled with in the UK since the 1960s, at the height of the Caribbean artists movement, and during the British black arts movement of the early 1980s. These movements created vital opportunities for discussion around issues of racial justice, visibility and representation.

Following the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement in mainstream media in 2020, institutions reacted with pledges for self-reflective work that would lead to more black artists’ work being exhibited and collected. Numerous large exhibitions across national museums followed – some of which are discussed in the book, as are the departmental overhauls of art curricula within higher education.

I share in some of Akinkugbe’s optimism – but I do so cautiously.

Following the call to decolonise the curriculum, some art departments in UK higher education have expanded their geographic focus beyond the west. Others have stated their intention to address the legacies of enslavement and colonialism through a commitment to diversity and equality in their job advertisements. Some have done both.

But there are a few hurdles that may limit these efforts. First, newer courses that may not attract sufficient interest are often the first to be cut when budgets are constrained.

Second, if courses offer additional modules that attempt to cover vast areas in the global south, there is a risk of overgeneralising entire continents, marginalising them further. Such symbolic gestures fall short in an attempt to challenge art historical frameworks.

Finally, by adding works by black scholars to reading lists as supplementary instead of core reading, their contributions are treated as being on the margins rather than key producers of knowledge.

Museums have a responsibility to reflect the communities they serve, in a way that respects the individual and collective autonomy of that community. This may be counterintuitive to the museum’s original purpose, which may have been to serve the upper class, showcasing its founders’ interests.

Museums are better equipped to engage communities as partners in shaping their future when permanent staff reflect the diversity of these communities across the intersections of race, gender, class, sexuality and disability. Museum directors have a duty to serve these communities with a long-term commitment to care and accountability.

This book asks us to see blackness first. Akinkugbe guides us closer to a vision that does not require black people to reinsert ourselves, but insists on our resolute presence – both then and now.

This article features references to books that have been included for editorial reasons, and may contain links to bookshop.org. If you click on one of the links and go on to buy something from bookshop.org, The Conversation UK may earn a commission.

Wanja Kimani does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. In Reframing Blackness, Alayo Akinkugbe challenges museums to see blackness first – https://theconversation.com/in-reframing-blackness-alayo-akinkugbe-challenges-museums-to-see-blackness-first-260734

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Daniel James Jolly, PhD candidate, University of East Anglia

Have you felt disgust when taking a walk along the riverside or plunging into the sea to escape the summer heat, only to spy a used wet wipe floating along the surface? Or shock at finding out that animals have died choking on plastic products or that the seafood we eat may be contaminated with microfibres?

These pollutants are common in our waterways because of the mismanagement of sewage and inappropriate disposal that flush hygiene products and microfibres into rivers and oceans. In the UK alone, more than 11 billion wet wipes are thrown away annually. Wet wipe litter was found on 72% of UK beaches in 2023.

They persist because they’re made of plastic, a durable material that won’t easily degrade. Plastic can last for decades to hundreds of years. Therefore, governments and manufacturers are eagerly encouraging the use of non-plastics as more “sustainable” alternatives, with the UK banning plastic in wet wipes in 2024.

These textiles can be made from plant or animal fibres such as cotton and wool, or they may be chemically and physically modified, such as rayon or viscose. They are often labelled “biodegradable” on product packaging, suggesting they are environmentally friendly, break down quickly, and are a safe alternative to plastics. But is this really the case?

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My research focuses on investigating the environmental impact of these non-plastic textiles and their persistence in waterways. My colleagues and I have found that some non-plastic microfibres can be just as problematic or even more harmful than plastic.

While non-plastic textiles are not as long-lived as plastics, with many composting within weeks to months, they can last long enough to accumulate and cause damage to plants, animals and humans. Studies by scientists at the University of Stirling show that biodegradable wet wipes can last up to 15 weeks on beaches, where they can act as a reservoir for faecal bacteria and E.coli. Other studies have highlighted non-plastic textiles lasting for two months or more in rivers and oceans, where they break up into hundreds of thousands of microfibres.

These microfibres are so prevalent in waterways that they have contaminated animals across the food chain, from filter-feeding mussels and oysters to top predators such as sharks and the seafood we eat.

They are also found in remote locations as far away as the Arctic seafloor and deep sea, thousands of miles from civilisation. These discoveries highlight that non-plastics last longer than we think.

The dangers of non-plastics

Once exposed to aquatic life, non-plastic microfibres can be easily ingested or inhaled, where they can become trapped in the body and cause damage. During their manufacture, textile fibres can be modified with various chemical additives to improve their function, such as flame retardants, antibacterials, softeners, UV protection and dyes.

It is known that several toxic synthetic chemicals, including the plastic additive bisphenol A (BPA), are used for this purpose. These additives can be carcinogenic, cause neurotoxic effects or damage hormonal and reproductive health.

Researchers like me, have only just begun to explore the dangers of non-plastics. Some have shown that non-plastic microfibres and their additives can damage the digestive system, cause stress, hinder development and alter immune responses in animals such as shrimp, mussels, and oysters. However, other studies have shown little to no effect of non-plastic microfibres on animals exposed to them.

We do not yet know how much of a threat these materials are to the environment. Only the manufacturers know exactly what’s in the textiles we use. This makes it hard to understand what threats we are really facing. Nevertheless, assumptions that non-plastics are environmentally friendly and an easy alternative to plastic materials must be challenged and reconsidered.

To do this, we need to push for greater transparency in the contents of our everyday items and test them to make sure that they are truly sustainable and won’t harm the world around us. So next time you are browsing the supermarket aisles and come across a pack of “biodegradable” or “environmentally friendly” wet wipes, just question, are they really?

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Daniel James Jolly receives funding from the University of East Anglia, Centre for Environment, Fisheries and Aquaculture Science, and the NERC ARIES doctoral training pathway as part of his PhD studentship.
He is a student member of the UK Green Party.

– ref. Why some ‘biodegradable’ wet wipes can be terrible for the environment – https://theconversation.com/why-some-biodegradable-wet-wipes-can-be-terrible-for-the-environment-258836