Introduction
When I was asked to write this paper, I tried to read between the lines,
as, naturally, all sociologists should. It seems to me right and proper
that a conference of this kind should recognise the diversity of national
and regional cultures in these islands, and I will seek to make a contribution
to the general debate about cultural capital in particular. To me, one
of the interesting developments in the sociology of and in these islands
is how rarely our trade tackles the central matters of nation, state
and society. Perhaps it is the fuzziness of British identity, a reluctance
to disaggregate between these concepts, to confront what we mean by 'society'
anyway which lies behind this gap in our knowledge. In passing, I should
say that I find attempts to have a 'sociology beyond societies' (Urry,
2000) as not only odd but dangerous to my discipline. John Urry (2000)
accepts that it has been too easy to elide state and society - certainly
in these islands, and comes, remarkably for a sociologist, to the aid
of Mrs Thatcher and her famous statement: 'there is no such thing as
society, only individuals and their families'. Well, Urry says, she may
have been oddly right, but not in way she meant. He argues that sociology
must abandon its original practice of studying society as a set of bounded
institutions - the study of structures, and instead focus on mobility,
on movements. At a time of global change, process and networks, sociology
seems to be cast adrift once it leaves the relatively safe boundaries
of functionally integrated and bounded societies bequeathed to it by
its founders, notably Durkheim. He commends: 'Þsociology may be able
to develop a new agenda, an agenda for a discipline that is losing its
central concept of human 'society'. It is a discipline organised around
networks, mobility and horizontal fluidities' (2000:3). In other words,
we must seek a sociology of mobilities which disrupts a 'sociology of
the social as societies' (p.4). This seems to me to resonate an old issue
of studying structure and change, and while I have no objection to focusing
on change, on mobility, it does seem to me to be throwing the baby out
not only with the bath water, even the bath, in a fairly spectacular
way. I'm also struck by the propensity, even the enthusiasm, for some
social scientists to wax eloquent about seemingly universal trends under
the guise that they are common to everywhere, give or take the odd touch
of local colour. I am not at all sure about that, and I am reminded of
Foucault's comment about discourse, that its effect is to reduce to a
'fact of nature' what is contentious and power-loaded. Such is the impact
of describing the UK as a nation-state.
Unless one really wants to hold on to the jigsaw puzzle model of free-standing
societies, then why not treat societies as semi-bounded, partial, overlapping
systems and networks? I wonder if the susceptibility of some sociologists
in these islands to be enamoured of globalisation is designed to let
them off the hook of studying the complex and layered societies, and
nations, which make up these islands, and indeed, this state. This, however,
anticipates my argument somewhat. What I want to do is try and use the
concept of 'cultural capital' to make sense of some of the political-cultural
developments in these islands, but focusing on Scotland (with due apologies
to Wales and Northern Ireland). I am not here to talk on behalf of the
so-called Celtic fringe, but I am happy in discussion to chance my arm.
I also want to chance by arm in making use of the term 'cultural capital' in
a somewhat different way than normal, but, pace Bourdieu, not, I would
suggest in a manner he would disapprove of. In short, I want to apply
the concept to an understanding of Scotland, as a collective - national
- resource rather than one confined to individuals and their families.
My argument is that Scotland presents an interesting case connecting
cultural capital and political change. In so doing, I also want to present
you with something of a conundrum, namely, that cultural matters are
caught between two apparently contradictory assumptions; that Scotland
is 'culture-lite' - that its cultural markers are fairly indistinguishable
from those of other parts of the state; and that it is 'culture-heavy'
- that dominant forms of cultural representation are hopelessly skewed
and, in Tom Nairn's word, 'deformative'.
Specifying Cultural Capital
To start at the beginning: let me first of all justify to you my reading
of Bourdieu in relation to Scotland. You will tell me that this is a
thoroughly attenuated reading, that Bourdieu did not mean the concept
to apply to the territorial level, but I beg to differ. In his discussion
of forms of capital, he observed in a note: 'national liberation movements
or nationalist ideologies cannot be accounted for solely by reference
to strictly economic profits Þ To these specifically economic anticipated
profits, which would only explain the nationalism of the privileged classes,
must be added the very real and very immediate profits derived from membership
(social capital) which are proportionately greater for those who are
lower down the social hierarchy ('poor whites') or, more precisely, more
threatened by economic and social decline.' (footnote 14, ch.2). You
may object that Bourdieu was still talking about the distribution of
class interests, but the fact that it linked these to 'nationalist ideologies'
seems to me revealing, and, anyway, grist to my particular mill.
What, then, is my case? I do not, in this company, have to remind you
that 'capital is accumulated labour'. More discursively,
Capital, which in its objectified or embodied forms, takes time to
accumulate and which, as a potential capacity to produce profits and
to reproduce itself in identical or expanded form, contains a tendency
to persist in its being, is a force inscribed in the objectivity of
things so that everything is not equally possible or impossible.
Bourdieu goes on:
'Þ the structure of the distribution of the different types and subtypes
of capital at a given moment in time represents the immanent structure
of the social world, i.e. the set of constraints, inscribed in the
very reality of that world, which govern its functioning in a durable
way, determining the chances of success for practices'.
This 'immanent structure of the social world' has a specificity to Scotland,
as does Bourdieu's three forms of capital: economic, cultural and social.
The first of these needs no introduction but suffice it to say that the
governing structures around capital in Scotland are sufficiently distinct
to warrant separate treatment (see Bond et al., 2003). My own work on
industrial orders in the early 1990s suggested that Scotland had an economic
structure far more 'balanced' and less specialised than virtually any
part of the UK for over 150 years. There is also a literature on Scotland's
economy which shows both its nested nature in British imperial markets,
while relatively self-contained in terms of the ownership of capital
(see also Scott and Hughes, 1980). One is no longer as able to talk of
'Scottish capital' per se compared with the 19th and early 20th centuries,
but the relatively autonomous system of political economy has sufficient
credence to be the object of Scottish public policy making.
As for cultural capital, this audience does not need to be reminded
of Bourdieu's definition, but I will do so all the same.It is worth quoting
in full:
Cultural capital can exist in t hree forms: in the embodied state,
i.e., in the form of long-lasting dispositions of the mind and body;
in the objectified state, in the form of cultural goods (pictures,
books, dictionaries, instruments, machines etc.), which are the trace
or realisation of theories or critiques of these theories, problematics,
etc.; and in the institutionalised state, a form of objectification
which must be set apart because Þ it confers entirely original properties
on the cultural capital which it is presumed to guarantee.' (in Bourdieu,
1997:47)
(i) the embodied state
Let me take each of these in turn and apply it to my case. The first
form of cultural capital ¬ the 'embodied state' ¬ is the most personal,
'external wealth converted into an integral part of the person, into
a habitusÞ'(ibid:48). This takes place at the personal level, both individual
and family, which, of course, is the medium through which cultural capital
is transmitted, the hereditary transmission of capital, if you like.
This however is not simply about passing on cultural as well as economic
resources. It involves senses of self, of 'we-ness'. Why should that
have any 'national' significance at all, one might ask. The short answer
is that we now have a better understanding about the intimacy of self
and nation, how banal ¬ basic ¬ is the sense of national identity to
people's sense of self and identity (Billig, 1995; Cohen, 1996). Anthony
Cohen coined the term 'personal nationalism' to make the point that nation-ness
was not 'out there' so much as 'in here', that it had a multi-vocalic
character with an ability to mean different things to different people
in different contexts, and that people are active interpreters of nationalist
messages rather than passive recipients. The issue of Self and Nation
is the title of an important book by the social psychologists Steve Reicher
and Nick Hopkins. Alluding to the psycho-pathological trope in Scottish
writing, they comment:
It should be abundantly clear Þ that the division between 'heart'
and 'head' does not map onto a particular position. Rather, it provides
a resource through which any position can be advanced by the way in
which it is mapped onto reason as opposed to unreason. Thus,Scottish
unionists see Union as reason undermined by unreasoning nationalism,
while Scottish 'nationalists' see independence as reason undermined
by an unreasoned reluctance to break the Union. For each, their politics
serve as the mental hygiene of the nation.' (2001:210)
What is striking about constitutional debates in Scotland ¬ and they
have been going on for 300 years, never mind the last 30 ¬ is how connected
the debates are about self and nation. There is a strong stream of argument,
and one which I have disputed for 20 years ¬ that Scotland's constitutional
status is both a cause and effect of imputed senses of self. Thus, Tom
Nairn's Break-Up of Britain, first published in 1977, made a central
feature of what he took to be the deformities of Scottish culture, that
it was split, divided, deformed. He argued that Scotland suffered from
'sub-national deformation', 'neurosis' (and psychiatric disorders seem
to be a Scottish specialty: Jekyll and Hyde, after all), and 'cultural
sub-nationalism':
It was cultural because of course it could not be political; on the
other hand, this culture could not be straightforwardly nationalist
either - a direct substitute for political action, like, for example,
so much Polish literature of the 19th century. It could only be 'sub-nationalist'
in the sense of venting its national content in various crooked ways
- neurotically, so to speak, rather than directly. (1977:156)
While Scottish civil society survived in the bosom of the British state,
the Scottish 'heart' was split from the British 'head' (note that antinomy
again); the 'national' with its over-emphasis on the past, was separated
from the 'practical' with its emphasis on the present and future. This
came about because, by the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries,
the intelligentsia was 'deprived of its historic nationalist' role. Says
Nairn 'there was no call for its usual services' (1977:154) of leading
the nation to the threshold of political independence. Intellectuals
after the Union migrated, if not in body at least in spirit, to the bigger,
more rounded culture of Anglo-Britain, leaving, he thought, a stunted
residue of intellectual life in Scotland. In this context, then, it is
easy to explain the Scottish Enlightenment of the late eighteenth century,
an otherwise awkward phenomenon to arise in a 'deformed' culture. In
essence, says Nairn, it wasn't Scottish at all, or rather it represented
the belated intellectual fruits of the Union. Operating on a much bigger
stage before a larger and more sophisticated audience, it was 'strikingly
non-nationalist - so detached from the People, so intellectual and universalising
in its assumptions, so Olympian in its attitudes.' (Nairn 1977:140)
Despite (or perhaps because of) political developments
of the last 15 years, not much has changed, in Nairn's view. In a recent
edition of the Edinburgh Review (112, 2003), he observes: 'If there is
one thing that the Scots in particular do know all about, it is self-colonisation.
They lived it for three hundred years after the treaty of Union in 1707' (2003:25).
He describes it thus:
The sententious moralism of the marginalized; disregard of democratic
deficit for economic opportunity; cultural over-compensation and romantic
chest-beating, to efface or embellish powerlessness; over-effusive
loyalty to a distant cause and metropolis, welcomed and yet somehow
never welcome enough ¬ all these tropes of a supposedly post-national
world are, alas, tired old family skeletons in Edinburgh and Glasgow,' (ibid:26).
Nairn finds devolution a disappointment, and comments that 'it works
by a modulation of self-colonisation, rather than by suppression' (ibid:27).
The difficulty for any social scientist is that such a judgement may
be perfectly valid, but it is not amenable to the canons of proof and
evidence. The counter to such an argument is that there are perfectly
good upfront, rational arguments for Scotland's pre- and post-devolution
status in the British Union which do not require psycho-cultural explanations
of this sort. Many of us have developed these counter-arguments which
seem to us more 'economical'of reality, and which have to do with the
Union being something of a 'mariage de raison' which latterly requires
re-negotiation, notwithstanding that the political arrangement may ultimately
end up in divorce.
This pathology of Scotland, of which the latest in this genre is Carol
Craig's book 'Scots' Crisis of Confidence' (2003), is largely bereft
of evidence, and any serious consideration of comparative work, but it
does form a dominant discourse which is instantly recognizable as a common
trope in Scottish writing about politics and culture. It operates as
a catch-all explanation whether it is dealing with too much/too little
autonomy; too much/too little capitalism; too much/too little religion,
and so on. The problem with such writing is that there is not only a
lack of systematic evidence; it is difficult to see what would constitute
evidence in the first place. It is also baleful, and self-propagating.
There are plenty of examples from elsewhere. Ireland, for example, suffered
from a dominant trope of personal repression and backwardness (mother
Ireland), until it was replaced by its opposite ¬ success and self-confidence:
the Celtic tiger, and so on. This is often reinforced by a sub-genre
of writing by ÿmigrÿs who depict the homeland either as an idyllic tir-nan-og,
or (sometimes, and) a culturally barren, benighted landscape. Recent,
and younger, examples have included the novelist Andrew O'Hagan, and
the composer James MacMillan, who has taken to calling himself a 'lapsed
Scot'. Both Scotland and Ireland (England, Wales too) have their share
of this sort of thing.
One might say that this genre of writing should not be taken too seriously,
but it does operate as a powerful cultural formation in the sense which
Raymond Williams used it: 'effective movements and tendencies, in intellectual
and artistic life, which have significant and sometimes decisive influence
on the active development of a culture, and which have a variable and
often oblique relation to formal institutions' (1977:117). Such cultural
formations help to set the framework within which matters, political,
cultural and social, are discussed. In other words, they frame and set
the agendas across a whole range of issues, and are central to political
agendas even where they do not purport to be (interesting to ponder on
the mind-set which lies behind the present UK prime minister's agenda
for 'modernising' Britain). To say this is to make the point that political
agendas purporting to be about the current, economic malaise amenable
to reasoned intervention are all too frequently underpinned by cultural
analysis of dubious provenance.
(ii) the objectified state
It is an easy step from considerations of 'embodied capital' - linking
self and nation, the personal and the political - to what Bourdieu called
the 'objectified state' in the form of cultural goods: books, pictures,
dictionaries, instruments etc. He observes: 'Cultural capital in its
objectified state presents itself with all the appearances of an autonomous,
coherent universe which, although the product of historical action, has
its own laws, transcending individual willsÞ'. Thus, cultural products
objectify difference, both reflecting and reifying it in turn. One does
not require a state in order to have this level of objectification, although
it is most obvious where a language maps on to a national discourse.
One is Irish because the language is Irish (interestingly , once called
simply Gaelic) even though English is the lingua franca of everyday life.
One does not question that 'the Irish' are a distinct people because
they have a state to prove it. Scotland is another matter. There is debate
north of the border about language, not about Gaelic so much as whether
Scots (once, 'Inglis') is sufficiently distinctive from 'English', which,
of course, is no longer the property of the English (people).
Benedict Anderson once observed, in passing, that because Scotland
was English-speaking and Protestant, it was not sufficiently distinct
from England in cultural terms to resist the Unions of 1603 and 1707.
Presumably Anderson was thinking of Ireland as the exemplar of a society
sufficiently distinct in linguistic and cultural terms to generate a
'proper' nationalism and a successful 'liberation struggle'. I think
Anderson misses the point, which is best made by comparing Scotland and
Wales. There is little doubt that 'nationalism' in its variant forms
is stronger in the former than the latter-after all, Scotland has a law-making
parliament; Wales has an assembly dealing with secondary legislation
- even though Wales is in these terms more 'distinctive'. The point is
not that there are objective markers of nation-ness, but that context
is all. Compare, for example, the organisation of the print and broadcast
media in Scotland and Wales. The best one can say is that in Wales language
is an enabler but also something of a barrier to self-identification.
If you don't have it, then you are at best a different kind of Welsh
person, and possibly in some circles not one at all.
(iii) the institutionalised state
What lies behind these cultural goods and outputs is what Bourdieu
called the 'institutionalised state'. Although he is concerned with the
role and impact of educational qualifications, his point has wider implications.
Educational qualifications which matter are those sanctioned by legal
guarantee, formally independent of the person of the bearer. 'One sees
clearly', says Bourdieu, 'the performative magic of the power of instituting,
the power to show forth and secure belief, or, in a word, to impose recognition'
(1997:51). Educational qualifications are a good example for my purposes
insofar as the institutionalisation of difference has always been a Scottish
feature in this respect. The separateness of Scottish systems of education,
law, religion, in short, civil society, are what marks it out as a quasi-state,
a semi-state. In short, people think of themselves as Scots - and they
do, in increasing numbers, over being British - because they have been
educated, governed and embedded in a Scottish way. It is a matter of
governance, not of sentiment; or, if anything, the latter derives from
the former. This 'governance' is a social system, but, especially in
Scotland since 1999, a 'political' i.e. constitutional, one. A law-making
parliament both embodies as well as transforms and determines that social
will.
Set around these forms of cultural capital is social capital. In Bourdieu's
words, 'the aggregate of the actual or potential resources which are
linked to possession of a durable network of more or less institutionalised
relationships of mutual acquaintance and recognitionÞwhich provides each
of its members with the backing of the collectively-owned capital, a
'credential' which entitles them to credit, in the various senses of
the word' (ibid:51). This is set in a political-economic system which
need not - indeed, is not - completely separate and independent: it is
not a state, in the conventional sense of such. Scotland is, however,
as the title of my paper suggests, an understated nation, and it is the
cultural context, in the sociological sense of that term, which makes
it so. Indeed, if one broadens the perspective, all or most 'societies'
actually are that. In other words, the correspondence of state and society,
of political and social realms, do not precisely coincide, and possibly
never have done. Perhaps we have allowed ourselves to be (be)guiled into
a kind of parochial universalism which treats societies as essentially
the 'same', expect insofar as there are particular local colours to the
same landscape. One of the de-merits of 'globalisation' is that it universalises
and essentialises social and cultural change in an unwarranted manner
and degree. Those of us inhabiting small, peripheral societies do tend
to see the world differently than those who do, or consider themselves
to, inhabit the core.
The Scottish frame of reference
Let me then return to my discussion of Scotland and its culture to make
my point more clearly. 'Cultures', as Jonathan Hearn has pointed out,
'involve a certain density of institutions and interactions, but they
are never discrete, bounded systems.' (Hearn, 2000:10). What they provide
are systems for framing not only debate but also ways of seeing. Let
me give an example to make an important point. It is frequently claimed
that Scottish public opinion is much more left-of-centre than in England,
that the latter is 'naturally' more right-wing - witness the Thatcher
years, and that this accounts for the weakness of the Scottish Conservative
party in particular. Again, I have spent a lot of ink trying to show
that (a) there are more similarities than differences as regard political
attitudes and values in the attitudes and values north and south of the
border; (b) that Conservative weakness does not derive from either being
seen as an alien - English - party, nor is the result of social structural
differences such that Scotland is more working class than England (it
is, marginally, but all social classes in Scotland for that matter are
less thirled to the Tories) (McCrone, 2001).
The key point is that there is a Scottish 'frame of reference', a prism,
if you like, through which social, economic and political processes are
refracted. To be sure, many of these issues are common to all parts of
the British state, indeed, to any late capitalist society. Just as we
have little problem understanding that the French, the Germans, the Swedes
react to these shared processes differently because they have 'national'
frames of reference, most obviously expressed via political systems,
why should Scotland (and Wales, and even England for that matter) be
any different? In other words, to reiterate Hearn's comment, cultures
are never bounded, discrete systems, but they are distinctive. If one
considers that since the Union of 1707, Scotland has always been 'different' ¬ the
Scottish anomaly, as Neil MacCormick put it - a national entity within
a unitary state. The 'difference' did not always manifest itself in quite
the 'political' way it has done since the 1970s, but it was always there,
to be mobilised in a political way should the conditions arise. If Scotland
was 'unionist' and politically British in the 1950s (there was virtually
no difference in how Scotland and England voted in this decade, nor in
the 1960s), it was not because its people did not think of themselves
as Scots rather than Brits, but because these territorial identities
were sufficiently nested one in the other.
Since the 1970s, we have grown used to the apparent contradiction between
them because of the emergent political-cultural conditions of the period.
The point is not that suddenly Scots changed their values and attitudes,
but that the political prism through which they expressed these altered.
Put simply, what was construed as 'the national interest' was defined
differently. 'Scotland' rather than Britain was construed as the unit
of political and economic management from the 1970s, notably with the
discovery of north sea oil. During the 1980s and the Thatcher years,
the middle classes in Scotland found their power eroded by a centralising
state in London, and it was this, rather than some sudden switch to the
left, which swung bourgeois opinion behind home rule . To be sure, neither
in Scotland nor in England did the middle classes become 'Thatcherite'
in social values, as the series of British Social Attitudes surveys kept
telling us, but north of the border, what undoubtedly occurred was that
plainly social democratic values were in Scotland badged as 'Scottish',
just as they tended to be thought of as 'British' rather than 'English'
among the liberal left south of the border (Curtice and Heath, 2000).
The same sort of people, in other words, retained similar values but
refracted them quite differently. The emerging Scottish frame of reference
fixed a new dimension to politics north of the Tweed, reflected in but
by no means coterminous with the rise of the Scottish National Party.
This, it seems to me, is how we should understand Scottish-English differences,
not as the result of some deep differences in social and economic structures
(because there aren't), nor because there are separate 'Scottish' and
'English' values (again, because there aren't), but because the cultural
prism for translating social change into political meaning and action
is different, always has been, and if anything, has become more so. That
is what we mean by cultural capital, and how it is different north and
south of the border. It is neither essentialised nor contingent, but
dependent upon 'habitus', if you prefer, which 'produces individual and
collective practices and hence, history, in accordance with the schemes
engendered by history' (Bourdieu, 1977:82). If one has a sufficiently
distinctive civil society evolving in the loose constitutional structures
of the British state (where, pace David Blunkett, nation-building strategies
are impossible), then the cultural prism through which politics, society,
economy is done is bound to generate difference.
Conclusion
Let me try to bring my argument together. My point is that self-styled
'nations' have a richer source of cultural resource in both institutional
and semiotic terms than 'regions'. This is not the point to get into
a debate about the distinction between the two, but suffice it to say
that the 'imagined community' quality of the nation is of a different
order. It generates a set of social and cultural norms and practices
set within an organisational and historical context. Historical continuity
is the essence of nationality (Miller, 1995), with its capacity to look
backwards into the past, and forward into the future ¬ janus-faced, as
Tom Nairn, once reminded us. More recently, I tried to capture that aspect
in a book on nationalism which I wanted to call 'Tomorrow's ancestors',
but the publishers thought it too esoteric, so we had to make do with
the Sociology of Nationalism (1996).
More recently, my colleagues and I have been trying to make sense of
national identity in the light of constitutional change, and one of those
projects has been looking at how economic agencies mobilise cultural
capital not for ostensibly 'nationalist' ends, but because it is a central
feature these days of the grammar and syntax of economic development.
We focused on four related processes: reiteration- this is
who we are, and this is what we can do; recapture - this is who we were,
and we can be that again; reinterpretation - this is what we used
to be, and we can apply it to the modern age; and repudiation
- we have given up being those people; they're history.
By focusing on 'economic' rather than 'political' issues we were able
to see how the cultural capital of nationhood is mobilised on a global
scale, and were able to conclude that Scotland's rich store of cultural
capital has high value added in the global marketplace.
None of this is to imply that there is a liner political
trajectory towards formal Independence. Indeed, my own argument would
be that zero-sum concepts like Independence (is 'dependence' the opposite?)
have diminishing force in the 21st century. Rather, the debate is about
degrees of self-government, shifts along a continuum, in a society which
has always had high levels of autonomy even when part of the three hundred
year old British state. In this context, substantial cultural capital
is both the product and the driver of political change. Having a parliament
is both the outcome of a sense of identity, as well as reinforcing it
in turn, while bearing in mind that, at least as far as Scotland is concerned,
there is no simple relationship between preferred constitutional option
and either party preference or self identity. In other words, those who
give primacy to 'being Scottish' (rather than British) are not identical
with those who vote nationalist or are in favour of Independence. Thus,
only about 1 person in 6 who say that they are Scottish and not British
(the extreme position) support both Independence and vote
SNP, and as many as half of them support neither. Further,
only 1 in 10 who say they are more Scottish than British
support both, and as many as two-thirds, neither (Bond and Rosie, 2003).
What this suggests to me is that far from cultural identity in Scotland
being weak and thin, it is actually strong and diverse, because it is
not captured either by constitutional preference, still less by party
identification. In short, the density of cultural capital is such that
it has no single political or social carrier. It is that fact which makes
Scotland worth studying, given that it is not reducible to 'straightforward'
cultural markers such as language, religion, ethnicity and so on. In
short, it is its apparently unusual character which makes it a strategically
interesting case for studying the relationship between social identity
and cultural capital, as well as having a direct bearing on the future
of the state in which we all currently live.
November 2003
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(Published Online: 19 February 2004)
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