Valletta reaches the halfway mark of its tenure as European Capital of Culture. And my, what a rollercoaster it’s been!

I’ve lost count of all the events the foundation has organised celebrating our unmistakable Malteseness – that Mediterranean mix of sloppiness, misplaced national pride, parochial bickering, and a healthy, ice cream-sponsored obsession for our national sport, beach volley.

Let's first frame the time and space in which Valletta (and indeed Malta) has become the Capital of Culture. Depending on how you see it, Malta sinks under the weight of the concrete Visigoths, or swans gracefully thanks to the economic boom. Not to mention other elephants in the room, but more of that later.

My reference to the economic situation isn't gratuitous; money’s tentacles run wide and deep, even deeper than the foundations of the city built by “gentlemen” for “gentlemen” (truth be told, it was PR-speak for “slaves” and “burghers” respectively, just like Zaha Hadid’s World Cup stadiums in Qatar).

Take for instance, the whole Suq debacle from a month ago.

The PA, the institution everyone hates on Facebook but is too scared to take on (save for the “auto-castrated fascists/decent communists” of Graffitti) approved the extension of an outdoor dining area, replacing what was meant to be an exhibition space.

The foundation didn’t object to Arkadia’s overarching “commercial sense” argument; the resulting characteristic ping-pong between the PR machines of both organisations only made it clear that the “exhibition space” was yet another horse from the stables of Troy. After all, the PA itself is as porous to business interests as Paul Gascoigne’s liver is to beer.

There’s a simple model. Business – usually some sort of catering venture – steps up, waves a wad of cash in front of the foundation’s nose, and gets its way. This is the result of Jason Micallef’s febrile Paceville/hub visions: from the noisy Strada Stretta to the chairs and tables hogging practically every open space in the city.

PA greenlights, foundation nods in approval

The PA greenlights everything while the foundation nods in complacent approval. Enforcement, as we know, is the equivalent of blasphemy in Riyadh.

What baffles me now is Jason Micallef’s Jesus-in-the-Temple moment from a couple of years ago, when he voiced his disgust at the proposed MIDI/Manoel Island horror show.

“This country seems to have become the territory of six powerful families,” he had said, adding that “this is the legacy that these prima donnas of Maltese commerce will leave behind them.”

Curious choice of the word “legacy” here. Across the sea from Manoel Island there should be a different, culture-based legacy being left behind by Valletta 2018’s primadonnas.

The foundation seems, however, to be just as malleable to the wishes of six, 12, 18, maybe two dozen families. None of these are residents of Valletta, can’t really tell the difference between their elbow and a violin, and their balance sheet isn’t troubled by the city’s cultural and social wellbeing.

I understand the Capital of Culture’s mission, besides that of providing us with cursory celebratory events delighting the crowds (for numbers, not substance, seem to be the benchmark), was that of leaving some sort of legacy behind it for our future generations.

"We've been left with an overpriced food court where estate agents and lawyers gather for lunch.""We've been left with an overpriced food court where estate agents and lawyers gather for lunch."

What legacy for Valletta 2018?

What legacy will Valletta 2018 leave in schools, in public administration and social policy, in broadcasting, in the way future generations will understand what constitutes a work of cultural relevance and the processes behind it? What legacy will Valletta 2018 leave among our taxi drivers, horse cabbies, tourist guides, information officers, police officers, local wardens, museum receptionists, local councillors and indeed politicians?

Instead, an overpriced food court where estate agents and lawyers gather for lunch, run by a rather expensive supermarket chain, is the most notable artefact the Valletta 2018 will leave behind it. Unlike the former Suq, if you’ve lived all your life in a housing block in Valletta, this is clearly not the place from where you’re welcome to buy your fish. And that’s what happened in Valletta – a slimy wave of gentrification is slowly but surely drowning out the local community.

Valletta 2018 will be remembered for the surge in rent and property prices, benefiting the same people who used to speak of Valletta like some extension of Srebrenica; the noise emanating from Strada Stretta; the Pageant of Disease, commemorating our colonisers’ victory against a Muslim imperialist force (but no commemoration of the staunch defence against Nazi Germany, which cost the lives and livelihoods of so many Maltese); and finally, the chairman’s ill-advised spats with everyone else.

Time for that elephant, now

I was no fan of Caruana Galizia’s writings and her classist punching down (Panama Papers aside). In the face of death by execution, my disagreements with her ways take a respectful back seat (without falling into, or jumping onto, a hypocritical bandwagon of deification). Surely, someone in the chairman’s seat ought to know better than gloat and mock a dead journalist, mother, and woman in that manner. Jason Micallef quoting Caruana Galizia to patronise drunken thousands (at an Irish religious feast, not a hint of irony eh mate?) was not only one of his dimmest moments, but also an act of provocation and keyboard bullying: the same thing Caruana Galizia had been accused of thousands of times.

Both Micallef and his “artistic director” Mario Philip Azzopardi seem to get their kicks from the keyboard; between them, they have mocked, insulted and alienated a huge sector of the artistic community. In my books, both are unfit for a role meant to unify this divided 316km2 that has become the Capital of Culture.

The artistic “community” was up in arms too. The quote marks, again, are intentional. Be it theatre, literature, music, film or other visual arts, the existence of egocentric cliques hampers any form of cooperation.

You'll find a handful of people with a genuine artistic interest who try to make things work, but their counterbalance can be found in a silent majority that’s too busy polishing the flimsy Valletta 2018 applecart, because that is where funds for projects come from.

Other artists seldom look beyond their backyard, preferring to shoegaze or masturbate furiously at their own work and that of their coterie.

“Such fine verse you write! Here, drool over my haiku while I clean the fruits of my ejaculation...” To the point that a letter asking for Micallef’s resignation wasn’t circulated to many potential signatories, and a score of “artists” signed it anonymously. Such fearless revolutionaries, our artists! History has already absolved them, for it ignores irrelevance.

I almost forgot to mention, of course, the couple of dozen bourgeois who have turned into part-time, white-socked Tupamaros. This merry band of snobs is trying to stage a coup d’etat not in the Valletta 2018 as such (beyond teatime scorn it doesn’t interest them anyway) but in the dysentery-ridden favela that the Opposition has become. In the meantime, an MEP hopeful or two seem grateful for the free ride.

Muddied waters, misplaced egos and lack of cooperation: all this plays squarely in Jason Micallef’s hands.

That Valletta 2018 has been using its cash to flex its muscle through sponsorship is something very few people have picked upon: the Valletta 2018 logo was present on promo material for left-of-centre events like Rock the South and Earth Garden.

Jason Micallef seemed eager to drive his point home with another useless Facebook spat with Brikkuni’s frontman Mario Vella, almost trying to take credit for both Brikkuni’s performance and the concept of Earth Garden itself.

This is one thing Micallef clearly doesn’t understand. Sponsoring an event doesn’t make it yours, and trying to fund people who want nothing to do with you assumes everyone is an intellectual prostitute with a price tag. While Vella may be loud and brusque, he is one of a handful to prefer indie DIY grit to the ease of being the red and blue establishments’ darling.

Capital of Culture? Valletta 2018 maybe just a representation of the rest of the country, swamped by the culture of capitalism, where individualism rules higher than the concept of communities.

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