When politics meets bureaucracy: Rules, norms, conformity and cheating 9781526136695

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When politics meets bureaucracy

POLITICAL ETHNOGRAPHY

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The Political Ethnography series is an outlet for ethnographic research into politics and administration and builds an interdisciplinary platform for a readership interested in qualitative research in this area. Such work cuts across traditional scholarly boundaries of political science, public administration, anthropology, social policy studies and development studies and facilitates a conversation across disciplines. It will provoke a re-thinking of how researchers can understand politics and administration.

Previously published titles The absurdity of bureaucracy: How implementation works  Nina Holm Vohnsen Politics of waiting: Workfare, post-Soviet austerity and the ethics of freedom Liene Ozoliņa Diplomacy and lobbying during Turkey’s Europeanisation: The private life of politics  Bilge Firat Dramas at Westminster: Select committees and the quest for accountability Marc Geddes

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When politics meets bureaucracy Rules, norms, conformity and cheating

Christian Lo

Manchester University Press

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Copyright © Christian Lo 2021 The right of Christian Lo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 5261 3668 8 hardback First published 2021 The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Cover image: Shutterstock Cover design: riverdesignbooks.com Typeset by New Best-set Typesetters Ltd

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Contents

Series editor’s preface vi Acknowledgements viii 1 Introduction 2 From government to governance? Re-examining the transformation thesis 3 Narratives of local government 4 An introduction to municipal policy development 5 Normative hierarchy: the rules of political struggle 6 Pragmatic egalitarianism: tales of municipal entrepreneurship 7 Conclusions: between government and governance

1 10 39 66 90 122 170

References 185 Index 193

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Series editor’s preface

Ethnography reaches the parts of politics that other methods cannot reach. It captures the lived experience of politics; the everyday life of political elites and street-level bureaucrats. It identifies what we fail to learn, and what we fail to understand, from other approaches. Specifically: 1. It is a source of data not available elsewhere. 2. It is often the only way to identify key individuals and core processes. 3. It identifies “voices” all too often ignored. 4. By disaggregating organizations, it leads to an understanding of “the black box” or the internal processes of groups and organizations. 5. It recovers the beliefs and practices of actors. 6. It gets below and behind the surface of official accounts by providing texture, depth and nuance, so our stories have richness as well as context. 7. It lets interviewees explain the meaning of their actions, providing an authenticity that can come only from the main characters involved in the story. 8. It allows us to frame (and reframe, and reframe) research questions in a way that recognizes our understandings about how things work around here evolve during the fieldwork. 9. It admits of surprises – of moments of epiphany, serendipity and happenstance – that can open new research agendas. 10. It helps us to see and analyze the symbolic, performative aspects of political action. Despite this distinct and distinctive contribution, ethnography’s potential is realized rarely in political science and related disciplines. It is considered an endangered species or at best a minority sport. This series seeks to promote the use of ethnography in political science, public administration and public policy. The series has two key aims: 1. To establish an outlet for ethnographic research into politics, public administration and public policy.

Series editor’s preface

vii

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2. To build an interdisciplinary platform for a readership interested in qualitative research into politics and administration. We expect such work to cut across the traditional scholarly boundaries of political science, public administration, anthropology, organization studies, social policy and development studies. Christian Lo’s book obeys a key injunction of this series that small facts should speak to big issues. The small facts are cases of policy-making in two Norwegian municipalities. The big issue is the transition from government to governance; from policies determined, top-down, by the state to policies that emerge from the interactions of networks of organizations drawn from the public, private and voluntary sectors. Lo’s ethnographic account of policy criticizes this distinction, arguing that “the hierarchal relations of government and the networked relations of governance are inextricably intertwined during policy processes.” Lo employs a multi-sited ethnographic fieldwork strategy involving two months of participant observation (one month in each municipality). He had his own office at each municipality and observed the elite administrative and political personnel in their everyday municipal lives. He conducted twenty lengthy interviews with key informants. He followed the elite to external meetings and events with other governments and private organizations and to public meetings. He collected many documents including the minutes of meetings, case proceedings and policy documents. He bases his stories on the three sources of observed practice, talk (both formal interviews and informal conversation) and considered writing. For this reader, the book has three great virtues, First, the author refuses to accept easy dichotomies. He uses the ethnographic fieldwork to unpack notions such as governance, or the distinction between bureaucrats and politicians, to show the complex interplay of people and events. He argues convincingly that “a mix of hierarchy and networks, as well as the interdependence between governmental and non-governmental actors, is axiomatic to any system of governing.” Second, his analysis is consistent with more recent decentred accounts of governance that stress there can be no “comprehensive account of the diversity of practices, actions and strategies making up the role of the state.” Finally, he revisits F. G. Bailey’s classic Stratagems and Spoils (1969) to demonstrate the continuing relevance of his analysis of politics as a game in which there are alternative rulebooks guiding the game. Rules and procedures are important, but they are not fixed. They are subject to “constant interpretation, negotiation and, occasionally, outright cheating.” As a good ethnographer, Lo unearths the several organizations in one by providing texture, depth and nuance. Professor R. A. W. Rhodes Southampton, March 2020

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Acknowledgements

Among the many people who have contributed to the study presented in this book, I first want to express my gratitude to all of my informants in the two municipal organizations that allowed me to conduct fieldwork at their place of work. In both organizations, I was met with enormous hospitality, openness and willingness to satisfy with detailed and time-consuming answers even the strangest questions from a tiresome researcher. I thank you for making this book possible. I am eternally grateful to my former supervisors Asbjørn Røiseland and Halvard Vike. Their always insightful and always inspirational advice has been essential in developing the perspectives presented in this book. At various stages, a great number of people have contributed to the writing of this book by reviewing various drafts and delivering critical feedback: Jonathan S. Davies, Torill Nyseth, Kjartan Koch Mikalsen, Ole Johan Andersen, Nils Aarsæther, Marte F. Giskeødegård, Johans T. Sandvin, Terje Olsen, Cecilie Høj Anvik, Ragnhild H. Waldahl, Esben S. B. Olesen, Vegard Pedersen, Eva Sørensen, Frode Bjørgo, Johanne H. Kobberstad, Janne P. Breimo, Linn-Marie L. Pedersen, Mikel D. Cainzos, Astri Dankertsen, Stian Bragtvedt and Jan Erling Klausen. Thank you for leaving your marks. I would like to thank the series editor, R. A. W. Rhodes, for encouraging the development of this book and for providing crucial feedback and guidance to this unexperienced author. I am also grateful to the entire team at Manchester University Press that have enabled this journey and provided excellent support along the way. Finally, this book would not have been possible without the endless patience and support I have had from my family throughout the long process that I am now, finally, concluding. Mona, Caroline and Frida, this book is a work of ours. Christian Lo Bodø, September 2020

1

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Introduction

Ambitions and perspective

Who makes policy? In this book I present an ethnographic approach to investigate this fundamental question posed within the multiple social sciences that concern themselves with the study of political and administrative practices. My research setting is local government in Norway. The accounts of policy development presented are from two neighboring municipalities where I carried out fieldwork among local politicians and administrative leaders in 2012 and 2013. Context is relevant in the holistic approach to the political that is inherent in political anthropology, and I will go on to emphasize the importance of interpreting political practices within their proper social, historical and cultural contexts. This, however, does not preclude an ambition to find the universal within the particular and letting my ethnographic account speak to bigger issues about governance. In my own biased opinion, there are at least three aspects of my Norwegian detail that might warrant some wider attention. First, Norwegian municipalities vary greatly in size. To preserve my informants’ anonymity, the two municipalities serving as a site for this study will remain unnamed. It is, however, worth noting that both municipalities are among the more than 50 percent of Norwegian municipalities inhabited by fewer than 5,000 people. This places both municipalities well below the average size of the Norwegian municipalities, which averaged about 11,000 inhabitants at the time of my fieldwork. In accordance with the Norwegian principle of “general municipalities,” all municipalities are nevertheless responsible for providing the same basic set of services and functions, regardless of size. Since Norwegian municipalities are core providers of public services within an ambitious welfare system, the latter principle entails that even the smallest of Norwegian municipalities are tasked with running a relatively large and complex municipal organization. As the cases of policy development in this book demonstrate, the enactment of a legal-rational bureaucracy within a relatively small and close-knit society tend to essentialize some central (and perhaps more universal) tensions and dilemmas regarding how actors in bureaucratic organizations interact with their surroundings

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When politics meets bureaucracy

through both formal and informal ties. The specific ways of resolving these tensions and dilemmas, and their consequences for political life, are key topics of this book. Second, the concept of equality has long been a recurring motif in descriptions of Scandinavian society and culture. Particularly in descriptions of political practices, past and present observers have found salience in the seemingly egalitarian codes of conduct promoting a consensual style of governance that (among other features) emphasizes wide participation as a source of political legitimacy (e.g., Barnes 1954, Park 1998, Christensen and Peters 1999). Within Scandinavian anthropology, there was for a long time a tendency to interpret this emphasis on equality as a cultural inherence from a recent historical past characterized by an apparent lack of diversity (e.g., Klausen 1984, Gullestad 1989b). There are, however, reasons to question this historical interpretation. As Halvard Vike (2018) has pointed out, equality, in the Scandinavian context, may rather be historically related to specific institutionalized mechanisms for protecting individual autonomy and dealing with political conflicts. As Vike notes, public institutions in Norway, the municipalities in particular, have been characterized by an “institutional vulnerability” where a lack of clear-cut boundaries and an accessibility to outside interests have made them difficult for elites to control from above. The intertwinement between governing bodies and volunteer organizations is one expression of these blurred boundaries. As others, too, have pointed out, the high degree of trust in public institutions, another salient feature of the Norwegian welfare society, may very well be understood as a product of this institutional vulnerability that allows political influence to be exercised through multiple (and often overlapping) networks (Wollebæk and Selle 2002, Vike 2018). Expanding on these perspectives, another central purpose of this book is to provide an analysis of the (egalitarian) social dynamics allowing such horizontal alignments to modify the hierarchical logic of bureaucratic organizations, while also avoiding the decline into personal dependencies and clientelism. Third, given the two points above, the Norwegian municipality would seem a remarkably fitting case for network governance theory, which has become a dominant framework within political science for understanding the role of formal and informal networks in the production of public policy (e.g., Rhodes 1997b, Osborne 2010, Torfing et al. 2012). Through the influence of this literature, the term “governance” itself has taken new meaning and has come to signify an objection against the state-centric views associated with its antithesis in perspectives that emphasize the role of government. However, upon closer examination, I have found the Norwegian case to be remarkably resistant to confinement within the common narratives and frameworks of contemporary governance theory. An underlying reason for this mismatch is the tendency within influential parts of the literature to overemphasize the distinction between hierarchical government

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Introduction 3

and networked governance by portraying them as, essentially, distinct types of governing processes. Particularly within the early strains of network governance theory, it seems to me that this distinction has been entrenched by the concern for providing a comprehensive account of a shift in governing practices toward network governance. By portraying network governance as an emergent phenomenon prompted by omnipresent societal changes, the distinction between the two concepts has become characterized by a normative and temporal dichotomy that serves to obfuscate their interrelation and portray hierarchal government as a dated approach to public steering. The ethnographic accounts of policy processes in this book confront these distinctions by demonstrating how, in practice, the hierarchal relations of government and the networked relations of governance are inextricably intertwined during policy processes. The latter critique does not preclude utilizing these two concepts for more productive analytical use. The concepts of government and governance are applied in this book as analytical metaphors for a coexisting set of institutional logics regulating relations in municipal policy processes. By centering the focus on their interconnectedness, these two concepts enable analysis of a central tension in the examples of political struggle and the policy processes investigated: that is, the tension between adherence to the hierarchical command chain of the municipal organization and alternative alliances found both within and beyond the formal municipal organization. Tales of municipal entrepreneurship, understood as political strategies at play among local politicians and municipal administrators in their efforts to develop and implement new policy initiatives, are the main vantage point from which to study the themes discussed above. In this effort, I employ analytical perspectives from political anthropology with F. G. Bailey’s classical division between normative rules and pragmatic rules of political struggle as a salient framework for analysis. This allows for an understanding of how formal and informal processes of social control interact and regulate political action and, perhaps more interesting, how the different set of rules can relate to different institutional logics that can offer alternative sources of political legitimacy. The result is a complex interplay between different rules where conforming and cheating become essential parts of the political game. Field, sites and cases

This study’s research design has been largely explorative. Empirically, the field of this study – municipal policy development – has been investigated through a multi-sited ethnographic fieldwork strategy. As indicated, two separate but geographically adjacent municipal organizations served as the main sites for the study. The data presented is based mainly on two separate one-month fieldwork experiences, one in each of the municipal organizations. This book, however,

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When politics meets bureaucracy

should not be read as an empirical investigation of a particular local community, municipal organization or region; rather, it attempts to explore the broader field of municipal policy development through these particular sites. In an effort to conceal the identity of the organizations and persons involved in the study, my descriptions do not differentiate or identify (neither by fictive nor actual name) the municipal organizations that participated in the study. The only exception is when particular analytical concerns call for comparison. Therefore the field, understood as a collection of sites, is treated in descriptions as singular, while cases of municipal policy development and associated social arenas are treated as the main unit of analysis in the study. All geographic references and names have also been changed. In some cases that either I or my informants deemed particularly sensitive, I have taken extra precautions to protect the anonymity of those involved by altering personal information and descriptive details of events. In both of the main municipalities, I was provided with office space within the municipal halls for the duration of the fieldwork. Within those municipal organizations, I conducted participant observation among administrative and political personnel working within the municipal hall, and also conducted lengthy interviews with about twenty key informants. During fieldwork, I also gathered a wide number of documents, including meeting summaries, case proceedings and policy documents, which have contributed to the reconstruction of policy processes presented in the empirical parts of this book. In addition to the participant observation conducted in various meetings and social arenas within the municipal halls, I also followed key informants to external meetings and events occurring away from the municipal hall and, in many cases, across municipal borders. Such meetings and events included collaborative stages, such as regional councils, meetings with private organizations and actors of other governmental bodies, meetings associated with intermunicipal collaboration, public meetings and so on. Therefore the empirical chapters also include data collected from organizations and informants not originating from the two main municipalities. As the fieldwork and interviews were conducted in Norwegian, all quotations from informants and interview excerpts have been translated into English and edited by me. In the cases of vernacular expressions, I have included the original Norwegian expressions in brackets. Structure of this book

While the main objective of investigating the relationship between hierarchies and networks has been constant, the practical operationalization of this theoretically derived objective has been in constant motion throughout the study. The structure of the book at hand echoes these analytical movements.

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Introduction 5

This chapter serves as an introduction and general overview. Chapter 2 starts with an overview of how the relationship between (hierarchical) government and (networked) governance is treated in recent political science literature. In the second part of the chapter I discuss the methodological implications of applying ethnographic methods (as well as anthropological and sociological theory and analysis) to explore the political science-derived concepts of government and governance. Besides applying different methodological tools, I argue that such interdisciplinary efforts also entail an analytical reconstruction of the research object itself. I provide an overview of the research strategies and methods applied in this study in the final part of the chapter. Chapter 3 provides a contextual framing for understanding the Norwegian municipality and the practices of local government that are explored empirically in the later chapters. In this chapter, I present a selection of common narratives about local government in Norway. While these narratives inform my empirical analysis in the later chapters, their relevance will also be critically examined as their explanatory powers are tested. In the first part of the chapter, I introduce the Norwegian municipality through a brief historical overview and, thereafter, a discussion of the multiple roles and functions of the present-day Norwegian municipality. In the second part, I introduce three recurrent and interrelated narratives that dominate contemporary descriptions of recent developments within municipal leadership in Norway. These narratives are, first, the introduction of New Public Management (NPM); second, the narrative of a shift toward network governance; and third, a narrative of increased integration between state and local government under the state’s hierarchical control. In the final part, I discuss the historical pathways and political culture informing the practices of the present-day Norwegian municipality. A key topic is the nature of the egalitarian dynamics and the associated emphases on consensus and conformity that past ethnographic accounts have found salient in descriptions of political culture in Norway. Along with other notions from the wider literature on political culture, the discussion of the nature of egalitarian individualism introduced here provides a theoretical background for the analysis of policy processes presented in the subsequent chapters. Chapter 4 is the first of three empirically based chapters. Here I introduce the municipal organization and provide two illustrations of policy processes that will be further analyzed and discussed in the later chapters. I draw particular attention to the blurred borders of municipal organizations and to the complex intertwinement between the municipal organization and its surroundings during municipal policy processes. The chapter’s illustrations of how processes of government and governance are intertwined in municipal policy processes are essential to the analytical perspective of this book, adding complexity to the conceptual isolation of the two as essentially distinct modes of governing found in parts of the network governance literature.

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When politics meets bureaucracy

In Chapter 5 I apply an analytical framework largely inspired by F. G. Bailey’s (1969) classical conceptualization of political structures as games in order to analyze the normative rules at play in municipal policy processes. I develop an understanding of these normative rules through numerous accounts from both administrative and political informants discussing their roles during policy processes. These accounts demonstrate how policy development is enacted in a dialectic interplay between political and administrative roles both within and beyond the borders of the formal organization. The relationship between politics and administration, as understood by my informants, strongly echoed the classical Weberian notion of a hierarchal relation in which the bureaucratic occupational ethos is defined in opposition to the role of the politician. Moreover, the normative emphasis placed on acting in accordance with the political and administrative roles functions as a barrier protecting the political arenas of the municipal organization from the dreaded role of the personal social being, which is perceived as illegitimate because of its multiplex social relations and particular interests. In this way, understanding the normative emphasis that is put on the division between political and administrative rules and roles becomes essential to understanding the enactment of government and governance in policy processes. The normatively prescribed roles function as a tool for vesting policy processes in the municipal organization’s democratic and impartial legitimacy. However, the examples also demonstrate how the enforcement of rules can often seem arbitrary but are in some cases strategic. The latter observation is further explored in Chapter 6, where I give attention to the more pragmatic rules at play during municipal policy development. By analyzing the tactics and strategies applied by my informants who were engaged in municipal entrepreneurship, I display how the aforementioned normative rules were enacted in tension with the pragmatic rules of political struggle. A central point is the paradoxical normative status of administrative entrepreneurship: that while administrators are expected to propose new policy developments, they are expected to await political initiatives before doing so and to refrain from engaging in a political fight. However, the cases also show how the emphasis on consensus and conformity puts normative constraints on the politician’s ability to singlehandedly introduce political fights. Through a discussion of how different forms of relations within – and stretching beyond – the municipal organization were individualized, I argue that political struggle during municipal policy processes is characterized by the creation of pragmatic policy alliances that often operate within a sense of egalitarian-rooted pragmatism. These alliances, I further argue, create a system of cross-cutting loyalties and conflicts that exist in tension with the hierarchical command chain of the municipal organization. Toward the end of the chapter, I relate my findings to Chapter 3’s descriptions of political culture. The objective here is to advance the understanding this political culture, and also some of its functions and consequences.

Introduction 7

The latter discussion is carried into Chapter 7. Here I conclude my empirical analysis and summarize my main findings in a discussion of the wider implications for governance theory and the understanding of relations in municipal policy development.

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Limitations

Before embarking on my description of the municipal organization and its inner workings, I will address some of the limitations of the study presented in this book. The researcher can neither be everywhere nor speak with everyone, so the study’s choice of sites limits its scope. While I argue that municipal policy development is carried out through a dialectic relationship between politics and administration, thus recognizing the administrative organization as a political arena, I also want to emphasize that my perspective does not in any sense claim to provide an exhaustive view of municipal policy development encompassing all the actors and factors affecting policy process outcomes. Nor does my perspective conform to a top-down, linear understanding of policy, casting it in terms of “authoritative instrumentalism,” as criticized by Shore and Wright (1997, 2011:4–15). Rather, the present study seeks an understanding of policy processes based on the particular viewpoints of the administrative and political actors who occupy the municipal halls that served as my main field sites. While thus employing a sort of “practitioner perspective” (Shore and Wright 2011:4) in conceptualizing policy processes as the decision-making processes of the municipal organization, this book is written with an awareness that policy processes and outcomes do not remain objective entities outside the walls of the municipal hall. Furthermore, while this book should be read as a description of how policy processes and associated political struggles manifest themselves among the municipal organizations’ actors, it also pays particular attention to how external relations and resources affect political struggles. Despite the focus on the municipal organizations’ actors, the perspective here does not imply a closed-system model sealed off from its surroundings. Rather, it provides micro-level accounts of how the internal workings of municipal organizations connect to external (or “environmental”) surroundings, thereby attempting to gain an understanding of the wider system and its local manifestations. As such, the study does not reject assertions such as Stein Rokkan’s (1987) famous statement “votes count, but resources decide,” which emphasizes the role and impact of actors external to the formal (democratic) political institutions; rather, it elaborates on how such resources are understood and strategically applied by policy actors within the municipal organization and, thus, how they affect policy outcomes. Some commenters have suggested that my application of analytical concepts derived from classical anthropology about “traditional” societies to modern-day

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When politics meets bureaucracy

municipal policy development may seem irrelevant or even provocative. Surely, analytical frameworks such as Bailey’s (1969) non-mathematical game theory, which was inspired by such violent organizations as the criminals in the American Cosa Nostra and exotic political systems such as the Swat Pathans, can hardly be relevant to the institutions of the modern-day democratic Norwegian municipality? First, Bailey’s own response to such a critique is relevant here, as he reminds us that, while societies managed by bureaucratic legal-rational principles are certainly different from traditional societies, such terms stand for concepts and ideal types. Mixtures, rather than such pure types, characterize the real world (Bailey 1969). The empirical analysis of the present book supports the latter point, as my findings conclude that municipal policy development is enacted in tension between ideal-type universalistic principles (associated with the modern state) and more pragmatic logics regulated through a sense of egalitarianism (more often associated with the “traditional”). Second, as some observers have pointed out (see e.g. Torfing et al. 2012:49–55), the depoliticized view of collaborative arenas as pragmatic “problem solving” processes has caused a troubling neglect of power and politics in parts of the governance literature. The inclusion of anthropological perspectives that emphasize politics as the competition for power to implement political goals should, thus, be a welcome addition to the governance literature (see also the discussion in Chapter 2). Finally, I also want to stress that analyzing political systems as competitive games does not necessarily imply a cynical view, reducing the enactment of politics to fights over resources and positions. Rather, I would argue that employing such frameworks to different political systems enables a juxtaposition that displays their similarities and dissimilarities. Suggesting that political struggle can be analyzed as a game still implies that the nature of the game remains an empirical question. The American anthropologist George Park provides an example when he argues that properly understanding functional institutions often requires analyzing them as competitive games (1998:94). In his descriptions of Norwegian local politics, Park also finds metaphors from the realm of sports to be the best fit: Canadians, delighting as they do in the rough-and-tough game of professional hockey, may tolerate the same style in politics and even regret the absence of “aggressiveness” in a scrupulous leader. Norwegians make the most of their ice and snow in sports but go for racing or jumping not hockey. Neither is politics a contact sport for them. (1998:203)

All of the cases of policy development explored in this book entailed some degree of controversy and political struggle. However, I want to emphasize that my final impression is not one of municipal organizations riddled with conflict

Introduction 9

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and quarrels that overshadow the task of providing services and developments for the local communities’ benefit. In a context of limited resources, the realization of political goals – altruistically motivated or otherwise – will usually contain an element of political struggle over what goals should be prioritized, how best to implement them and in what order. Having political leaders and administrators willing to engage in such struggles for what they believe to be in their local communities’ best interests is, in my opinion, a sign of the vitality of Norwegian local government.

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From government to governance? Re-examining the transformation thesis

Some thoughts from today: it’s obvious that my interpretations of what’s going on are vastly different from those of, particularly, the leaders within the building. The terrain they are navigating within seems so intangible. During yesterday’s meeting, the issue of geographical cleavages within the municipality seemed to be the elephant in the room. Yet nobody made a real issue of it (while many certainly commented on it). […] Why is there no open debate on the matter? Regardless, the whole landscape seems interrelated and the municipality is engaged in some kind of “collaborative governance” all around. The debate on the sporting arena demonstrates that they are constantly navigating between different but interconnected issues. Questions of centrality, cooperation with other municipalities, municipal structure, sustainability of the municipalities’ primary schools, the county’s decisions on the structure of upper secondary education, state- and county-administrated founding schemes, the will (economic contributions) from trade and industry and local associations – it’s all connected in an endless complexity surrounding the decision on the sporting arena.

The excerpt above concluded the field notes from my third day of fieldwork. The previous evening, I had attended a municipal council meeting for the first time as an ethnographer on duty, and I had spent the following day attempting to make sense of the experience by observing its aftermath from within the municipal hall. In the clichéd, emotional mixture of excitement and confusion characterizing the early stages of fieldwork, I was summarizing my first encounters with my predefined objects of study, namely processes of municipal policy development, in the wild. These early notions of complex interrelations and layered motives guiding political action were to become vital to the perspectives on policy processes developed in this book. Nevertheless, when interpreted in retrospect by the author, there are also signs of despair in the excerpt. Prior to fieldwork, my initial sorting of the relationship between government and governance, based on (quite tenuous) readings of the network governance literature, was focused on the borders of the formal municipal organization. By differentiating between processes of decision-making that occurred within the borders of formal organization (government) and those occurring in collaborative

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From government to governance?

11

arenas with relations crossing the borders of formal organization (governance), I planned to analytically separate processes of government and governance. Thus, by tracing how one sort of process affected the other, I imagined, the relationship between government and governance could be made available for exploration. I was naïve. Reality, as I encountered it during the first days of fieldwork, did not seem to conform to such an orderly distinction between policy processes and decisions taking place within or outside the borders of formal organization. As Chapter 4 discusses, the multiplicity of connections intertwining both policy processes and the actors involved, as well as the “open system” (Scott and Davis 2007) characteristic of municipal organizations, made any attempts at such analytical limitations impossible. What I had “discovered” was obviously that such concepts, when applied as descriptive typologies of policy processes, are ideal types. There is no originality in stating that reality does not divide itself into such pure forms (see, particularly, Rhodes 1997a). However, the degree to which the mix of governing logics seemed to emulsify within each decision-making process still warranted further attention. With a network governance literature characterized by typologies and overarching theoretical arguments (see discussion in Rhodes 2017b), micro-level accounts describing of the interplay between hierarchies and networks are few and far between (see discussion in Kjær 2004). Moreover, as I go on to discuss further below, the tendency to embed the distinction between government and governance in a normative distinction between the traditional and the modern has also contributed to obscuring the understanding of how the two concepts relate to each other. One purpose of this book is to narrow this apparent gap between the conceptual pair of government and governance through exploring how the two concepts coexist in practices of local government. However, this mission statement could just as well be inverted. By applying the two concepts as metaphors for describing different institutional logics at play, I argue, they become useful tools for explaining the duplicity I found to characterize the political practices I encountered during fieldwork (Chapters 5 and 6): more than demonstrating how real-life practices exist on a continuum between ideal types, they enable an analysis of how such practices are informed by both a tension and an interplay between different (and often competing) institutional logics. In this chapter, I begin this effort by exploring how the relationship between hierarchal government and networked governance is intertwined with the claims of the so-called transformation thesis in the existing literature. As I will shortly go on to discuss, my own experiences are not the first to question the interpretation of the relationship between government and governance as a simplistic narrative of transformation. Other work, such as Jonathan Davies’s (2011) seminal critique of governance theory, has also demonstrated the problematic implications of such claims: through portraying hierarchical government as an obsolete form

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of governing, incapable of managing the complexity of modern society, the transformation thesis simultaneously taints the axiomatic solution of governance with normative and deterministic flavors. This causes a number of inherited problematic biases in the literature and impels a reconfiguration of the relationship between the two concepts. In the second part of this chapter, I discuss the implications of exploring these political-science-derived concepts through the use of ethnographic methodology. Applying such an interdisciplinary perspective entails applying not only different methods to the same research object, but also performing an analytical reconstruction of the research object itself. This part of the chapter thus introduces perspectives derived from political anthropology that inform this study’s reconstruction of government and governance. Here I also introduce the basic components of F. G. Bailey’s (1969) game theory that have inspired and informed the analysis presented in the later chapters. Bailey’s framework has the particular advantage of acknowledging the importance of rules and procedures informing individual action within political institutions, while also avoiding an understanding of such rules and procedures as reified and fixed. Thus Bailey highlights the contested nature of political practices by emphasizing how rules and procedures are subject to constant interpretation, negotiation and, occasionally, outright cheating. Moreover, Bailey’s (1969) division between normative and pragmatic rules of political struggle allows attention to how alternative institutional logics can coexist and interplay during political processes. It is in respect to the latter that the perspectives on government and governance proposed in this book have been developed. Rather than the two concepts being understood as ideal types describing separate modes of governing, they are treated as concept-metaphors signifying alternative institutional logics that are intertwined and that, through tension and interplay, regulate political legitimacy in the cases of municipal policy processes that are explored. The third part of the chapter describes the process by which the study presented in this book came into existence and discusses the employment of a multi-sited fieldwork strategy, before finally moving from methodology to a discussion of methods. Network governance theory and transformation thesis

Over the two last decades, theories and ideas from the so-called network governance literature have become increasingly influential in the interpretation of collaborative efforts in the production of public policy (e.g., Kersbergen and Waarden 2004, Osborne 2010, Rhodes 1997b, Ansell and Torfing 2016). The network governance literature is founded on the acknowledgement that the formal institutions of the state are not omnipotent and that their scope for unilateral action is limited. Consequently, network governance theorists have tended to object to state-centric views on power and societal steering. Instead, the literature has posited perspectives

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emphasizing the production of public policy as the result of horizontal, networked, processes involving a plurality of public and non-public actors. An archetypical example is provided by Sørensen and Torfing, who argue that: In a nutshell, the argument prompting the rise of governance network research is that policy, defined as the attempt to achieve a desired outcome, is a result of governing processes that are no longer fully controlled by the government, but subject to negotiations between a wide range of public, semi-public and private actors, whose interactions give rise to a relatively stable pattern of policy making that constitutes a specific form of regulation, or mode of coordination […]. It is this pluricentric mode of coordination that in the literature is dubbed governance networks. (Sørensen and Torfing 2007:3–4)

According to most dictionary definitions, “governance” describes the act or manner of governing and has thus been used as synonymous to “government” (see Kjær 2004:3–4). Within the network governance literature there has, however, been a tendency to contrast the two terms. An influential example is the recurring notion of going from government to governance (Rhodes 1997b). In this context, the term “governance” is often equated to the concept of network governance, understood as a (pluricentric) mode of coordinating the production of public policy as distinct from both markets and the hierarchical formations of bureaucratic government (e.g., Kersbergen and Waarden 2004, Rhodes 1997a). Accordingly the term “governance” (or “network governance”) has come to be widely used to describe collaborative relations both between different public actors, and between public and private actors (e.g., Rhodes 1997b, Sørensen and Torfing 2007). This use of the term includes both same-level governance (e.g., intermunicipal cooperation) and multi-level governance (e.g., collaborative relations between state agencies and local government). More recently theorists have argued for reinstating “governance” as an umbrella term that also encompasses hierarchal forms of governing (e.g., Egeberg et al. 2016, Hughes 2010). Others have argued that the equation between governance and networks entails a too-narrow focus on inter-organizational networks, thus overlooking broader forms of interaction between public authorities and stakeholders (e.g., Torfing et al. 2012, Radnor et al. 2016). Regardless, both the emic and etic uses of the term “governance” seem to have changed with the rising influence of the network governance literature (Kjær 2004, Rhodes 2017b). Rather than being a synonym for “government,” the term has come to signify a decentered approach to public steering, characterized by horizontal interactions taking place within some degree of self-regulation. In the recent and comprehensive volume Handbook on Theories of Governance, for example, governance is defined by Ansell and Torfing as “the interactive process through which society and the economy are steered towards collectively negotiated objectives” (2016:4, original emphasis). According to the authors, this definition is informed by the notion that “no

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single actor has the knowledge, resources and capacities to govern alone in our complex and fragmented societies” (2016:4). The latter justification points toward another central question in governance theory: does the rise of the governance perspective reflect the rise of new governance practices?

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From traditional government to post-traditional governance?

From its onset, network governance theory has been concerned with understanding change. Through, particularly, the seminal work of R. A. W. Rhodes in the 1990s, much of the early literature on governance networks was developed in relation to changes in the British political context brought on by the neoliberal doctrines of Thatcherism, New Public Management, increased public–private cooperation in service delivery and, also, interstate relations within the European Union (for overview, see Rhodes 2017b). In this literature, the employment of network-based steering forms is understood as a response to this increased complexity in power relations and management systems, causing a shift within public management toward networked forms of governance. Since then, this alluring narrative of going from government to governance has, via the academic literature, traveled through multiple contexts. More than a renewed interest in the role of networks in policy-making, there has been an increasing tendency to interpret such collaborative arrangements as integral parts of an omnipresent turn toward (networked) governance in the “Western industrial democracies” (or some other vaguely defined scale). Research on local government in Norway is no exception to this tendency. Here, both the theoretical concepts of network governance and the notion of a transition have become increasingly fashionable in the interpretation of intermunicipal cooperation and the emergence of collaborative forums, such as regional councils (Jacobsen 2012, Røiseland and Vabo 2008, 2012). In sociological terms, the understanding of an omnipresent transformation from hierarchical government to non-hierarchical network governance within public management in the Western world can be related to Anthony Giddens’s and Ulrich Beck’s influential theories of post-traditional society and reflexive modernity (Davies 2011, Torfing et al. 2012). In particular, Giddens’s (1994) description of the diminishing role of the state and Beck’s (1992) account of the rise of the risk-based society can both be understood as preconditions for public decision-makers surrendering hierarchical government in favor of inclusive network governance as steering tools. Put simply, it can be argued that in a post-traditional society where individualization and common notions of risk have caused a breakdown of old traditions and cleavages, reflexive modes of steering have become not only possible but also necessary in order to steer a state that is undermined by individualization from below and globalization from above. Flexible modes of steering through trust-based networks and working “with the grain” of market forces have, therefore,

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become governments’ responses to steering a public sector that, further fragmented by the doctrines of New Public Management, is deemed ungovernable through traditional means. The emergence of network governance becomes, thus, an expression of a post-traditional and reflexive condition, free from the ossified hierarchical structures associated with traditional government (Davies 2011). In early governance theory, the ideas of the diminishing state and emergent network steering have been particularly echoed in the influential notions of the “hollow state” (e.g., Milward and Provan 2000) and the emergent condition of “governing without government” (Rhodes 1996). An ambiguous transformation?

Known as the transformation thesis, the empirical reality of a general transition from government to governance is, however, disputed, and has been subjected to substantial critique in recent literature (see, particularly, Davies 2011). Perhaps most noteworthy of all, R. A. W. Rhodes has contributed significantly to questioning the generalizability of his own influential narrative of going from government to governance (1997b) (see Bevir and Rhodes 2010, Rhodes 2017b). While maintaining that neoliberal reforms did cause a shift toward networks in British governance, Bevir and Rhodes emphasize that this shift “takes many diverse forms” (2010:94) and that “there is no single account or theory of contemporary governance” (2010:20). According to such “decentered” critiques, comprehensive accounts of an omnipresent shift to governance rely on a distortion of both the past and the present, as the monolithic (and omnipotent) state has always been a myth (Bevir and Rhodes 2010). For the keen observer, this growing unease regarding the question of transformation has been visible for some time in the literature, particularly in how the question of whether network governance represents a qualitatively new approach to public steering has been met with ambiguity among central proponents of network governance theory. For example, while Sørensen and Torfing explicitly state that “the construction of, or reliance upon, governance networks is by no means a new phenomenon” (2007:4) and further argue that what is new is rather a tendency toward legitimizing governance networks as steering tools, the same volume also contains numerous references implicating a qualitative transformation in public governance: As such, the idea of sovereign state governing society top-down through comprehensive planning, programmed action and detailed regulations is losing its grip, and is being replaced by new ideas about pluricentric governance based on interdependence, negotiation, and trust. (Sørensen and Torfing 2007:3)

Arguably, such ambiguous and suggestive stances toward the question of transformation have become a hallmark of large parts of the governance literature, where writers have frequently been referring to the transformation thesis through

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idiomatic phrases like “the advancement of new arrangements of governance” (Kersbergen and Warden 2004:143), “emergent phenomena” (Agranoff and McGuire 2001:296) and “suggested shift” (Røiseland 2011:879). While such phrases imply different stands toward the idea of transformation, with some acknowledging the contested empirical reality of the transformation thesis, the exact understanding of transformation and the relationship between government and governance is seldom elaborated. Most theorists do, however, seem to agree with Sørensen and Torfing (2007) that there has been a change in the ways networked forms of governance are perceived and understood. While the hand of private interests in public policy decisions has previously been viewed with great suspicion, it is frequently argued that networked modes of policy-making involving private and public actors are increasingly perceived as both legitimate and effective ways of governing that are endorsed by both central decision-makers and academics (see also Torfing et al. 2012:30). As I go on to discuss in Chapter 6, there is, though, reason to warn against misinterpreting the endorsement of networked practices as signs of a transition from government, as such an interpretation assumes the two to be separated modes of governing. Rather, through exploring the intertwinement between hierarchal and networked practices, the examples of policy processes explored later in this volume demonstrate how legitimacy in public decision-making can equally be a function of this very intertwinement. Thus, the legitimacy of governance practices may equally be understood as a function of government’s continued hand in such processes of policy-making (and vice versa). This intertwined perspective of government and governance is also present in the seminal critique of governance literature put forward by Jonathan Davies (2011). In his view, the interdependence of governmental and non-governmental actors is axiomatic to any governing system. Thus the governance institutions claimed as transformative by the transformation thesis represent nothing but “governance as usual,” and have been “woven into the fabric of state–citizen relations at least since the rise of universal suffrage” (Davies 2011:55). Drawing on Gramscian notions of cultural hegemony, Davies argues that what is new is, rather, the ideological celebration of networks that he interprets as an integral part of a neoliberal, hegemonic project. In Davies’s account, governance theorists are themselves given a significant role in the emerging emphasis on network governance, as he argues that the celebration of networks has become orthodoxy in an interplay between academic and political discourses. Arguably, the tendency in parts of the literature to put vague and suggestive references to the transformation thesis in the place of empirical investigation has, perhaps inadvertently, allowed the notion of transformation to remain a convenient myth. Applying a concept from the sociology of science, rather than the Gramscian concepts applied by Davies, it could similarly be argued that the transformation thesis has undergone a process of “blackboxing.” 1

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Consequently, what Davies (2011) labels as “orthodox” governance theory has become preoccupied with improving the performance of governance networks so that they can deliver the promised governing solution for the post-traditional society. Rather than scrutinizing what is actually going on, [t]he literature is “thoroughly functionalist,” concerned with finding “practical solutions to practical problems,” underpinned by the normative bias towards networks. Instead of asking whether “trust” really holds networks together and if so whether this is necessarily a good thing, orthodox governance theory proceeds from the question of how to cultivate trust-based networks. (Davies 2011:2–3)

In Davies’s view, the transformation thesis is essentially flawed because of its preconditions in theories of reflexive modernity and the post-traditional society – preconditions that he argues represent a “vague premonition of one possible post-capitalist condition mistaken for emergent reality” (Davies 2011: 152). The gist of his critique is that by accepting the post-traditional premises of the transformation thesis without exploring its empirical relevance, although perhaps implicitly, governance theorists have also conformed to a normative bias in how networked interactions are conceived and understood. Davies points in particular to how the general understanding of governance networks as egalitarian game-like interactions, rooted in trust and enacted by reflexive participants, seldom seems to comply with empirical realities. Rather, networks can function as vehicles of hegemonic power, reproducing and concealing the hierarchical structures they are presumed to replace. While networks may in many cases function as effective and useful governing tools, they are nothing new, and – perhaps more importantly – they do not operate in any context where traditional structures and conflicts have been superseded by any incipient post-traditional or reflexive modern condition, and thus do not have any special potential as advocated by the transformation thesis (Davies 2011). Metagovernance and the second wave of governance theory

While the notion of transition from government to governance has gradually become associated primarily with what is, in retrospect, often labeled as the first wave of governance theory, a second wave of theory is today commonly demarked by the attempt to formulate a changing nature, rather than a decline, of the state (Bevir and Rhodes 2010, Fawcett 2016). One influential example of this second generation of governance literature is the co-authored work by the prominent governance theorists Jacob Torfing, B. Guy Peters, Jon Pierre and Eva Sørensen, quite explicitly titled Interactive Governance: Advancing the Paradigm (2012). Their views will serve as the main example here. Understood as the “governance of governance,” metagovernance (Jessop 1997, Torfing et al. 2012, Kooiman 2003) is a central concept within this strain of

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theory. More accurately, metagovernance can be defined as the deliberate attempt to facilitate, manage and direct the more or less self-regulating processes of networked governance (Torfing 2016). The concept of metagovernance provides an alternative to the suggestion that governance is replacing government: through exercising metagovernance, government can still play a crucial role in governance. In turn, the exercise of network governance also affects government, but not by creating a hollow state. Rather, Torfing et al. (2012:4–5) argue, the exercise of governance is transforming the overall role and function of the state, which is taking upon itself the role of metagovernor in recognition of the limits of unilateral state action. Instead of a one-way movement from government to governance, the idea of transformation becomes, therefore, a dialectic process of coexistence and transformation between the two: the notion of metagovernance offers a way of balancing state-centered and societycentered views on how society and the economy are governed. It permits us to avoid erroneous ideas about the decline or death of the state and to appreciate the role of states and governments in influencing arenas of multilateral action, while insisting that traditional forms of control and command are rendered obsolete, or least reduced to “a shadow of hierarchy” […] in areas where decentered forms of policy interaction are expanding. (Torfing et al. 2012:132)

Rather than replacing hierarchical steering, metagovernance is, in this view, understood as a supplement representing a third layer of government alongside hierarchies and markets. However, Torfing et al. maintain that a transformation is taking place, as a result of ad hoc decisions on the part of public decision-makers who realize that the scope of unilateral action is shrinking and demanding private actors who want to take an active part in public decision-making […]. It is a daily experience among public decision-makers at various levels that the governing of society and the economy through top-down steering is becoming increasingly difficult because of growing complexity of policy problems, the functional differentiation of society, the increasing interdependence among social and political actors and the strategic uncertainties caused by globalization and conflicting rising public demands. (Torfing et al. 2012:31)

In essence, what Torfing et al. label as “interactive” governance is interpreted as public decision-makers’ response to steering a society deemed ungovernable by traditional, hierarchical, methods. Hence the attempt made by Torfing et al. to re-conceptualize the transformation thesis, and thus the relationship between government and governance, does not depart from the basic notion of a transition: While they still conform to the idea of a change in public management due to macro-societal changes, the authors’ main objection against the transformation thesis is the simplistic idea that governance is replacing government.

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This objection seems both relevant and important. Moreover, the suggestion that the increased emphasis on network governance has led to changes in governing practices seems reasonable. If we are to follow Davies’s assertion of an interplay between theory and public decision-makers, the question of transformation itself becomes a discussion of whether the dialectics between theory and practice dismisses the theory (see Davies 2011:31–32), a discussion prone to soon descend into one of the chicken and the egg. The questions of whether networks represent a new approach to governance, or whether such networks are proliferating, may therefore be “frankly, deeply uninteresting questions that miss the point,” as Rhodes puts it (2017b:211). However, the more important question imposed by Davies’s analysis is rather how the normative implications of the transformation thesis shape not only our understanding of such an alleged transformation, but also our understanding of the practices associated with it. Thus the critique put forward by Davies demonstrates the danger of a priori interpreting governance networks as axiomatic expressions of a macro-societal transformation. In this respect, the second wave of governance theory, arguably, tends to reproduce the troublesome normative priority accorded to networks by the first wave of theory. The troublesome implications of this normative priority given to networks becomes most apparent in relation to the shortcomings of networks as policy instruments. Torfing et al. acknowledge that network governance often fails to deliver the “competent and knowledge-based decision-making, innovative policy solutions, flexible and coordinated policy implementation and democratic ideals” (2012:9) promised by its most eager protagonists. In line with Davies’s analysis, they link the exaggerated celebration of network governance to the transformation thesis and note that “the promises ascribed to governance are a simple inversion of the problems associated with traditional forms of hierarchical government” (Torfing et al. 2012:9). However, while Davies (2011) argues that governance networks’ failure to fulfill their most optimistic promises is due to a case of the cure (networks) lacking a disease (the context of the post-traditional condition), Torfing et al. (2012) offer two main alternative explanations. First, network governance is not assessed in appropriate terms; second, networked governance is not managed in a manner that sufficiently enhances its potential. The basic arguments behind the need for new measuring and managing tools echo the post-traditional claim of the transformation thesis: traditional tools for assessing performance and traditional tools of management are no longer sufficient in the new “emerging reality” of interactive governance. Epitomizing Davies’s (2011) claim of a “thoroughly functionalist” literature, developing and improving these tools for metagovernance therefore becomes the main agenda for the second wave of governance theory (see, particularly, Sørensen and Torfing 2007:14–15). More than redefining the role of the state (into would-be metagovernors), this agenda also calls for redefining the criteria for democratic and efficient governance

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to fit the image of interactive governance (Torfing et al. 2012). Hence, while drawing a model of coexistence between government and governance, the dialectic model of transformation narrated by the second wave of governance theory does little but recast the normative distinction between the two concepts.

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The decentered alternative

According to Mark Bevir and R. A. W. Rhodes (2010), the first wave of governance theory “reduces the diversity of governance to a social logic of modernization, institutional norms, or a set of classification or correlations across networks.” The second wave, they continue, “compounds this mistake by reinventing the state’s capacity to control” (2010:92). In both cases the attempt to provide a comprehensive account of governance seems to suppress a more detailed understanding of how governance takes different forms and paths under different circumstances. This underlines the need to detach the conceptual apparatus of governance theory from the normative and deterministic notions of the transformation thesis. The problem becomes particularly acute in relation to the second wave of governance theory and the notion of metagovernance are considered. As Sørensen and Torfing (2016) have recently demonstrated, key scholarly works on metagovernance tend to present a depoliticized view of networked policy processes. In fact, Sørendsen and Torfing (2016) found that very few works refer to political conflicts at all. Instead, networks are treated as pragmatic problem-solving machines, with metagovernance as a managerial tool used by public managers for improving their efficient and effective performance. Of course, as the accounts of policy processes given later in this book testify, governance looks very different when examined at close quarters. With the particular influence of Bevir and Rhodes (2003, 2010, 2016), interpretive approaches have gained momentum over the last decade as a framework for opening up governance to new questions and alternative interpretations (see overview in Turnbull 2016, Rhodes 2017a). The decentered form of interpretivism championed by Bevir and Rhodes fundamentally challenges the reified notion of structures and institutional determinism that they see as characteristic for both the previous waves of governance theory. Bevir and Rhodes ascribe these characteristics to what they label as a broader tradition of modernist-empiricism (including new institutionalism and rational choice theory) dominating mainstream political science. This tradition, they argue, relies on reified concepts (e.g., institutions, state and networks) to offer explanations that transcend time and space, thereby treating policy networks as “discrete, atomized objects to be compared, measured and classified” (Bevir and Rhodes 2010:3). As they point out, a main problem with the first and second waves of governance theory is the tendency to explain networks and metagovernance by defining their essential properties

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(e.g., the proliferation of network governance), as this “implies that these properties are general and characterize all cases of governance” (Bevir and Rhodes 2010:90). Instead, the decentered approach offers and interpretivist alternative enabling an understanding of governance and the changing state based on how the actors themselves interpret the dilemmas they face and make sense of their actions (see Rhodes 2017a). Rather than treating networks and organizations as reified social structures in which one can read of peoples’ beliefs, interests and actions, Bevir and Rhodes advocate a bottom-up approach emphasizing social organization as the collective product of individuals’ beliefs, interests and actions. The decentered approach thus prescribes an analytical shift from reified institutions to historical contingencies and situated actors, and from exogenous forces to thick descriptions of the beliefs and dilemmas informing individual action. Consequently, both the state and networks are decentered, in the sense that the approach denies them any essentialist features. Political practices and institutions are understood as enacted by individuals whose varied beliefs and contingent practices construct the nature of organizations and networks (Bevir and Rhodes 2003:37–40). On these grounds, Bevir and Rhodes declare the arrival of the “stateless” state (2010), rejecting any monolithic notions of the state and emphasizing that “the state is constructed differently by many actors inspired by different ideas and values” (Bevir and Rhodes 2010:99). The decentered approach thereby rejects the attempts made by the first and the second waves of theory to provide comprehensive accounts of governance. Moreover, the decentered approach also challenges the mechanical view of networks that allows the earlier waves of theorists to provide policy advice based on law-like generalizations: As there can be no essentialist account of networks, nether can there be any single toolkit for managing them (Rhodes 2017b:107). While not confining the study of the state to any single methodological toolbox, Bevir and Rhodes frequently emphasize (and exercise) the use of ethnographic methods as a means to construct more diverse narratives of governance based on thick descriptions of individual beliefs and practices (e.g., Bevir and Rhodes 2003 and 2016). They are not alone in this call for more ethnographic research that can supply micro-level accounts of governance practices in actions (see e.g. Davies 2011:144–145). Government and governance as ethnographic research objects

While my own study as presented in this book was not originally designed within the framework of Bevir and Rhodes’s interpretive approach, it does share many of its ambitions. Not least, it shares the commitment to thick descriptions (Geertz 1973) and skepticism toward comprehensive theories of governance. Most importantly, my study was also founded on the notion that ethnographic accounts could add much-needed variety to the understanding of governance practices.

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However, more than recognizing the potential of ethnographic methods, my study was informed by a notion that analytical frameworks and theory from political anthropology also had a potential to contribute to this endeavor. Again, my perspective can claim no originality. As also acknowledged by Rhodes, “the origins of network analysis lie in social anthropology” (2017b:52). Interestingly, past ethnographic accounts such as John A. Barnes’s seminal description of “government by committee” in Bremnes (Barnes 1954) and in George Park’s (1998) account of Rana (both discussed in more detail in Chapter 3) find pluricentric systems of local governance salient in the description of Norwegian political culture. As a result, they both give good reason to question the novelty of networked governance practices and the relevance of the transformation thesis as narrated by mainstream governance theory. In Park’s (1998) longitudinal account, a historical development moving in the opposite direction to the claims of the transformation can be traced, as rule by dedicated amateurs was gradually replaced by a professionalized and hierarchical administrative machinery during his almost forty-year-long watch. While such individual accounts can neither nullify nor confirm the relevance of the transformation thesis elsewhere, they do provide an important reminder that whether governance practices are expressions of a wider transformation should remain a question for an empirical investigations within each context. The critical objections to mainstream governance theory presented in the analytical parts of this book were, however, primarily grounded in my own fieldwork experiences. Rather than seeing government and governance as distinct types of policy processes with separate essentialist features, my own analysis shares the view that the intertwinement of government and governance is axiomatic to any governing system (Davies 2011). As suggested in the introduction to this chapter, collaborative relations and the hierarchical command chain of the municipal organization both seemed integral to any policy process and political struggle that I encountered. Moreover, any attempts to deductively reason decision-making into the predefined categories of government or governance were immensely complicated by the numerous interconnections tying both policy processes and their actors together. From an ethnographic viewpoint, the municipal organization and the society encompassing it seemed far too intertwined to sustain any such analytical separation. From the emic viewpoint of my informants, I argue, the interdependence, negotiation and trust claimed as transformative by governance theory seemed to represent nothing but governing as usual. Likewise, the methods of steering offered in the conceptual toolbox of metagovernance seemed to offer few novel additions to the combination of hands-on and hands-off strategies and tactics integral to any political struggle (a similar point is made in Vabo and Røiseland 2012). However, as I will go on to demonstrate throughout this volume, my critical objections to governance theory and the narrative of transformation do not

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render the concepts of government and governance useless. Rather, as conceptual metaphors, they enable an analysis that illuminates how municipal policy development unfolds: not as either government or governance but in a continuous tension and interplay between the two. By drawing both on the conceptual framework of governance theory and political anthropology, this volume therefore highlights the coexistence of institutional logics as they are enacted in policy processes and how these logics, through tension and interplay, regulate political legitimacy. Reconstructing government and governance

While network analysis may have its roots in social anthropology, the conceptual framework of governance theory, including the concepts of government and governance, has been largely developed within the “modernist-empiricist” realm of mainstream political science (see discussion in Rhodes 2017b). Interpretive approaches go a long way toward making these concepts available for ethnographic research. However, for the anthropologist, the question remains of how to reconstruct the concept of governance networks (and, in this case, also the conceptual tension to government) into an anthropological research object that is approachable through both ethnographic methods and anthropological theory. In this endeavor, Bourdieu et al. provide crucial insight in their discussion of the construction of the scientific object. Drawing on Weber’s classical assertion that “[i]t is not the ‘actual’ interconnections of ‘things’ but the conceptual interconnections of problems which define the scope of the various sciences” (Weber 1949:68), Bourdieu et al. (1991:33–35) argue that a scientific division of labor is not organized around a real division of reality. Rather, “Scientific research is in fact organized around constructed objects that no longer have anything in common with the units divided up by naive perception” (Bourdieu et al. 1991:33). Creation of the scientific research object becomes, thus, the essential scientific act, and this act, along with the connections to conceptual problems, defines the scope of the different sciences. I argue that this acknowledgement carries important implications for interdisciplinary research, as it reminds us that crossing disciplinary borders involves more than applying new methods to objects within other scientific domains. Crucially, crossing disciplinary borders also involves an analytical translation – or reconstruction – of the scientific object in question. Investigating the political-science-derived objects of government and governance through ethnographic methods involves, therefore, a process of translating the two concepts into anthropological research objects accessible through ethnographic methods. The study of political institutions and their performance is at the roots of political science (see Peters 2012). It is therefore no surprise that political science

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has tended to interpret networks as a particular kind of political institution, to be compared with other political institutions and measured in terms of normative values such as efficiency and democracy. As noted earlier, this construction is particularly noticeable in the mainstream literature on governance networks, much of which is concerned mainly with the formal organization and managing of governance networks as policy instruments and with how these affect their democratic and efficient performance.2 Arguably, interpreting practices of network governance as particular types of institutions may also have led to a problematic relationship with the conceptualization of government, which is interpreted as a different (and, thus, analytically separated) sort of institution. Thus, investigating the relationship between the two within governance theory often implies comparing them in terms of performance, rather than investigating their interconnectedness. The latter also applies to the attempt made by the second wave of governance theory to combine the two by the enactment of metagovernance (e.g., Torfing et al. 2012). While constructing a dialectic relationship between them on a meta-level, such attempts still treat them as separate and distinct modes of governing. Within second-wave theory, this separation is, arguably, further enforced through the development of tailor-made assessment and management tools for networks that replace the “obsolete” tools of hierarchical government. Although the influence of new institutionalism within governance theory has led to an emphasis on informal relations within governance arrangements (see Torfing et al. 2012:104–121), both networks and other practices of government are usually constructed as institutions confined within a political system and separated from other subsystems in the social structure and culture of which they are parts. This tendency to isolate networks and political institutions seems paradoxical given the objections against state-centric views and the emphasis on wider processes of governance also informing the mainstream literature on governance networks. Arguably, to neglect localized meaning and to confine governance practice within isolated institutions also enables the problematic generalizations and instrumental view of networks that characterizes parts of the contemporary governance literature (see discussion in Rhodes 2017b). Although there have been attempts by political scientists to incorporate the concept of culture, Cerwonka (2007) notes that this is often done in an unfavorable interpretation of the Geertzian concept of culture, with political scientists tending to understand culture as a set of reified and fixed group traits guiding individual behavior. Accordingly, Cerwonka argues, “political scientists in the main have failed to attend to culture as a process shaped by historical contingency as well as by a dynamic interplay between individual agency and social structure” (2007:12). While the latter critique takes little account of the recent efforts made by interpretive political scientists, it does echo the objections made by Bevir and Rhodes against the reified notion of structure informing first- and second-generation governance theory.

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In political anthropology, however, the emphasis on studying political processes in relation to other social processes has blurred the distinction between political systems and other subsystems of society to such a degree that its very existence as a subdiscipline had been questioned, as it had so utterly failed to demark its object of study (Lewellen 1992:1). This blurred distinction, which has proven particularly useful in demonstrating the political importance of informal structures in modern governments, has a longstanding tradition originating from the early pioneers of political anthropology, who tended toward a structural-functionalist approach that mapped the interconnections of the political system to other societal subsystems from “above” (e.g., Radcliffe-Brown 1940). Later, as a reaction to the static image derived from structural-functionalist approaches, a processoriented approach emerged, particularly with the works of Marc Swartz, Victor Turner and Arthur Tuden. These process theorists defined the study of politics as “the study of the processes involved in determining and implementing public goals and in the differential achievement and use of power by the members of the group concerned with these goals” (Swartz et al. 1966:7). In addition to the emphasis on process, the process theorists emphasized how the study of politics had to include a focus on the goals of the actors involved as well as the power relations between them. Thus political anthropology became a study of the competition for power and the way in which those possessing power implement the goals of their group (Lewellen 1992). While the process approach allowed political anthropologists to widen their scope to include political studies in complex industrialized states, the variant of process approach known as action theory shifts the focus down to the political actions of individuals and smaller groups (see Vincent 1978). With the “Political Man” in focus, the political arena becomes a social drama in which the key terms are strategy, manipulation, decision-making, goals, games and rules. However, political life cannot be separated; rather, it is embedded in the wider culture, thereby emphasizing the informal mechanisms that underlie formal organization (Lewellen 1992). The normative and pragmatic rules of political struggle

Frederick G. Bailey’s (1969) conceptualization of political structures as games represents a particularly influential variant of such action theory, and provides an important framework which is applied later in this volume to analyze the relationship between the normative and pragmatic rules guiding policy development. As Bailey reveals in the introduction to his seminal book Stratagems and Spoils (1969), his approach grew out of a fascination he acquired while watching the televised interrogations of the former American Cosa Nostra member Joseph Valachi. Bailey was particularly struck by how behind the violent life-and-death

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struggles described there also seemed to exist an orderly set of rules structuring the political system of this criminal world: even when cosa nostra leaders fought and murdered one another to gain supremacy, they seemed to do so in predictable ways, even, one might say, according to the rules of their game. Certainly, leaving aside the question of how consciously the gangsters themselves thought in terms of right and wrong conduct within their own world, the manoeuvres in which they engaged were capable of being analysed. (Bailey 1969: viii)

Bailey noticed something familiar in the pattern of competitive interaction regulating succession of political leadership among the American Cosa Nostra: It was remarkably similar to the pattern described by the anthropologist Fredrik Barth in his work on the Swat Pathans of Pakistan. Indeed, “the people of Swat and the criminals of the American cosa nostra arranged their violent successions in broadly the same fashion” (Bailey 1969: viii). To Bailey, such similarities inspired the wider comparison between different political systems that led to the underlying assumption of his game theory: “Beneath the contextual variations and cultural differences, political behaviour reveals structural regularities” (Bailey 1969:ix), as cultures develop their own sets of rules regulating political struggle and comprising the political structure. Politics can therefore be analyzed as a competitive game with agreed-upon rules regulating prizes, the eligibility to compete, the composition of competing teams, how the competition takes place and the rules to be followed when basic rules have been broken (Bailey 1969:19–20). While Bailey’s approach acknowledges the importance of culturally defined rules as directives for political behavior – in other words, as institutions modeling behavior for particular contexts – his game theory acknowledges that outright cheating or playing one set of rules against another is an also essential part of the political struggle. Thus the comparison between political activity and rule-based games only lasts up to a certain point: games are bound to the rules that define them, and moving beyond these rules in an effort to win a competition essentially entails abandoning the game and attempting to reach one’s objective through other (more effective) means. At this point, Bailey asserts, “politics ceases to be a competition and becomes a fight, in which the objective […] is not to defeat the opposition in an orderly ‘sporting’ contest, but to destroy one ‘game’ and establish a different set of rules” (Bailey 1969:1). To capture this change in competitive logic, Bailey makes a distinction between the normative rules and the pragmatic rules regulating the political game. While normative rules regulate political action as normatively right or wrong, pragmatic rules are normatively neutral and are, rather, concerned with judging whether a line of conduct will be effective toward winning the game (i.e., achieving political goals).

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Bailey’s action-oriented framework allows an institutional approach to the study of political practices that, while acknowledging the importance of rules and cultural practices informing political action, avoids an understanding of such rules and practices as reified and fixed. Rather, Bailey’s game theory highlights the leeway for individual agency, and how rules and procedures are subject to constant interpretation, negotiation and contestation. Furthermore, the separation between normative and pragmatic rules allows a perspective encompassing the coexistence of and the tension and interplay between different institutional logics modeling political behavior. Embedding government and governance

As disclosed in the introduction to this chapter, my somewhat naïve attempt to distinguish between decision-making processes that occurred within and outside the borders of the formal municipal organization was challenged early during my fieldwork. Within the first few days, I found relations both within and beyond the formal borders of the municipal organization to be far too intertwined during policy processes to sustain such analytical divisions (see Chapter 4). Rather than being committed to such an analytical division, the study therefore adopted an approach of investigating how different relations and resources were tied together during policy processes, thereby allowing an analytical perspective to scrutinize the relationship between government and governance through the role they play in each process. Building on what emerged as a salient distinction among my informants, this led to a reconfiguration of my initial approach to the two concepts. From one that exclusively focused on formal borders, I gradually moved toward a more complex perspective that understands the relationship between government and governance as a tension between the hierarchical command chain of the municipal organization and alternative policy alliances found both within and outside the municipal organization. Inspired by Bailey’s depiction of alternative rulebooks guiding the political game, my approach paid particular attention to the normative perceptions of political legitimacy regulating both relations of government and relations of governance in policy processes. As will be demonstrated in the empirical parts of this book, this approach proved fruitful for exploring how hierarchal government and egalitarian governance coexist and interact as (often seemingly contradictory) institutional logics regulating political action. However, going beyond Bailey’s depiction of normative rules bending as pragmatic rules succeed in changing the playing field, I argue that the conceptual pair of government and governance must also be understood as intertwined logics that, through interplay, produce political legitimacy. Crucially, understanding how such seemingly contradictory institutional logics can interact and draw on

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different sources of political legitimacy requires a contextual understanding that includes the social environment and the political culture at play. Again, applying analytical frameworks from political anthropology is helpful, as reconstructing the concepts of government and governance into objects of ethnographic enquiry essentially entails not only constructing them as a social process but also emphasizing their relations to other subsystems within the society in which they occur. In practice, this means paying particular attention to the informal relations and mechanisms that underpin the formal organization. Furthermore, it also entails embedding the practices of government and governance into wider sets of culture. It is to these relations that I apply the term “political culture,” and not to the description of any specific “organizational” culture confined within the political institutions and organizations that are the subjects of this book. Rather, political culture is understood as a social process, one that is shaped by historical contingency and interplay between individual agency and social structure and forming the beliefs, values and meanings that inform interactions and settings where political action occurs. Rather than understanding political culture as existing within or outside the borders of formal political institutions, I instead emphasize an interplay between culture and the practices and formations of formal political institutions. In sum, such an interdisciplinary reconstruction enables an analysis that is well suited to providing an account of the embedded nature of government and governance, something which, I have argued, the network governance literature lacks. However, this book does not claim an all-encompassing view on either municipal policy development or the concepts of government and governance. Indeed, most contemporary anthropology rests on the truism that all perspectives, analytical models and voices are partial (Moore 2004). The goal here is not to develop yet another comprehensive theory of governance. Rather, the analytical perspective developed in this volume should be read as a tailored construction suited to giving an account of the particular intertwinement between government and governance that I found salient during my fieldwork. It is through such heuristic use, I would argue, that the conceptual apparatus of the network governance literature may best serve its purpose: not as predefined and ossified categories for generic deductive analysis, but rather as concept-metaphors (Moore 1997, 2004) defined in practice and in context (see also Bevir and Rhodes 2010:92–93). Research strategies

While this study draws inspiration from numerous perspectives within anthropology, sociology and political science, it does not confine itself to any particular methodological doctrine. However, the design of the study was influenced by an early notion that ethnographic fieldwork methodology could potentially add to the understanding of governance practices.

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Trained as a social anthropologist, I had previously conducted ethnographic fieldwork on the quite different subject of exploring transnational survival strategies among South Asian and West African migrants in Hong Kong. While I had no previous experience of studying local government or policy development, my interest in such subjects had developed in the years after I graduated in 2006, while working for several years as an administrator at the Norwegian Directorate of Integration and Diversity (IMDi). From that work I acquired an interest in both the inner workings of bureaucratic organizations and the relations between different levels of governing. In 2012 I had an opportunity to pursue these interests further through a research project specifically addressing the theoretical framework of governance theory and practices within local government. With my prior fieldwork experience, I knew participant observation to be a particularly suitable tool for providing the micro-level accounts that I felt were far too rare in the literature. Furthermore, I knew that participant observation was suitable for moving beyond formalized descriptions to analysis of the important relationship between how people describe their actions and how those actions are actually performed (see Holy and Stuchlik 1983). The latter point I deemed particularly important in analysis of political institutions, as I had, in my former work, experienced how the strong normative emphasis on rational and bureaucratic procedures would often lead to formalistic accounts of policy processes among practitioners. I incorporated a multi-sited research strategy early into the research design, as the project called for investigating networked governance practices – essentially collaborative practices, which by definition transcend the organizational and territorial boundaries that could serve to confine a single-sited approach. My understanding of multi-sited ethnography is derived from George Marcus (1995) and does not simply involve a physical movement between sites. While the approach does emphasize physical movements as a useful tool that allows the researcher to follow processes and informants to new places of investigation, the more important key component of the multi-sited approach is the analytical tracking and comparison between sites. Illustratively, Marcus (1995) argues that as a “foreshortened” version, a multisited ethnography may even be confined within a single location, as the main component of the approach lies in embedding the ethnography done in any single location in a multi-sited context. Such embedding in a multi-sited context is achieved by calibrating what goes on in one location through information about what goes on in another related location, thereby engaging in a cross-contextual analysis. Thus the multi-sited approach differs from conventional, single-sited approaches in tracing concrete connections between sites rather than primarily contextualizing its local subjects through macro-theoretical constructions. The more typical multi-sited approach does, however, involve the researcher establishing some sort of physical presence in several related sites. Tracking

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techniques to identify new sites of study can be planned in advance or opportunistic, but always involve identifying concrete relations between sites (Marcus 1995:105–112). Multi-sited research can further be understood as an inherently comparative approach, but it differs from the conventional controlled comparison, which is generated on homogeneously conceived conceptual units and is usually developed from distinctly bounded periods or separated projects of fieldwork. Rather, in multi-sited ethnographic research, de facto comparative dimensions develop through movement, translations and tracing of relations between sites, allowing known facts from one site to determine unknown facts in another. By juxtaposing the manifestation of the phenomenon of study across ethnographic locations, the comparative dimension becomes part of the multi-situated research object. Thus multi-sited ethnography cross-cuts dichotomies such as those between the local and the global and between lifeworld and system, with resulting studies being both in and of the larger system at play. In sum, my choice to deploy a multi-sited ethnographic research design was informed by several advantages depicted by Marcus (1995). Firstly, as mentioned above, it provided a technique for tracking policy processes beyond the geographical and organizational boundaries that could serve as confinements for a single-sited approach. Thus it allowed a study focused on a larger system, or field, of municipal policy development, rather than on the particular sites (e.g., the municipal organizations) of investigation. The latter point proved particularly important during fieldwork, as the cases of policy development that were studied transcended both organizational and geographical borders. Secondly, the crosscutting between the dichotomy of lifeworld and system also allowed a research design that could acknowledge macro-theoretical constructions without relying on them to contextualize the study. I considered this feature a particular advantage because of the interdisciplinary nature of the study, which required an empirical investigation of macro-theoretical constructions established by non-ethnographic theorists. Finally, applying a multi-sited research strategy strengthened the analysis within each location by allowing cross-context analysis of interrelated observations made within different locations. Thus the understanding of an event in one location could be calibrated by my understanding of events at another location, connected, for example, through persons, relations, collaborative efforts and policy processes. The latter point, I argue, also extends to my ability to interpret informants’ recollections of past events, gathered through informal conversations and interviews. Through establishing ethnographic presence and knowledge of current social processes, I was able to understand past processes better by contextualizing the accounts. Comparing past and present processes also allowed me to ask more critical questions about past events, which became particularly important during fieldwork because of the emphasis on normative rules of conduct that would

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often strongly color my informants’ (initial) descriptions of actions and strategies during policy development.

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Fieldwork

In accordance with the multi-sited research strategy, I preselected two separate but neighboring municipal organizations as main sites for the study. While the study was designed with an explorative approach to allow me to opportunistically follow people and processes to other sites when relevant during the fieldwork, the two main municipal organizations were selected before I engaged in fieldwork because of practical concerns. I considered it necessary to find two neighboring municipal organizations that would give me access to conduct participant observations, as their geographical proximity could ensure the existence of collaborative relations that could be traced between the two organizations. Preselecting two municipal organizations, therefore, allowed me to ensure that I would be allowed access to both municipalities before engaging in fieldwork, and that both sides would be favorable to letting me participate in and observe their collaborative meetings and arenas. While municipality size was not a primary concern, both municipalities serving as main sites numbered fewer than 5,000 inhabitants. I deemed the relatively small sizes of the municipalities, and thus their municipal organizations, as an advantage for the study. This was partly because the compact sizes of the municipal administrations, where the municipalities’ multiple tasks were spread over relatively few hands, enabled an overview of the municipal organization that was not possible in a larger organization given the relatively short time-frame for fieldwork. This overview provided me with easier access to a wide array of policy processes, spread across different municipal policy areas, as well as a general awareness of what was going on within the municipal hall and how events were interconnected. I also deemed the municipalities’ small size an advantage, given the initial focus on network governance and collaborative relations, as I assumed that a smaller municipality would possibly be more dependent on intermunicipal collaborations in the execution of municipal tasks than a larger municipality with resources to support more services independently. I contacted each of the two municipalities through both its political leader (mayor) and its administrative leader (chief municipal executive, CME), initially by telephone and immediately afterwards with an email describing the study in detail and enquiring about access to conduct a month of fieldwork in the organization. Each municipal organization responded positively to the project after having an internal discussion on the matter within the administrative leadership. Both municipalities greeted me with great hospitality and great openness. In both of the municipal halls I was granted office space for the duration of the fieldwork, free access to mingle with the staff during their daily work tasks and access to

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conduct interviews during work hours. Upon individual request, I was allowed to attend meetings within the municipal halls, and to accompany staff and politicians to external meetings. Such requests were never turned down during the fieldwork; particularly in one of the municipalities, where the mayor and CME also made elaborate efforts to allow me to accompany them on numerous distant trips and meetings. In each of the municipal halls, I conducted participant observations during work hours for the entire duration of the one-month period of fieldwork (except while traveling with informants). For me, participant observation entailed a great deal of “hanging around,” engaging in informal conversation with people in the municipal hall. Particularly during the initial stages of fieldwork, listening in on conversations and anecdotes and participating in informal meetings such as morning coffee gatherings and lunch proved important for gaining a sense of what was going on in the organization, thereby knowing who to talk with and in what arenas to participate. During the first days of fieldwork, I made sure to walk around the different areas of the municipal halls to introduce myself properly and gain insights into the daily routines and ongoing processes. Explaining my project (in simple terms) to people also had the added benefit of people soon starting to suggest what processes I could look into and what meetings to attend. Achieving the ethnographic immersion in the field that is necessary for conducting successful participation observation does require particular attention to the participant side of participant observation (see Emerson et al. 2011). While I had originally hoped to engage in some tasks in the municipal organization, finding suitable work proved difficult in such highly specialized organizations. In many of the meetings attended, however, I was able to find myself an appreciated role as a note-taker, writing minutes of the meeting. In retrospect, I found the task of minute writing particularly suitable for conducting participant observation in an organization. First, it was not particularly time-consuming and did not steal valuable time from my research, as it was highly compatible with the task of writing field notes. Thus I could write field notes as normal during meetings and later excerpt formal minutes from my notes. Second, it made my attendance at meetings feel far less intrusive as I was given a function, and the participants were used to having somebody at the table writing down what they were discussing (rather than having an additional character in a corner writing mysteriously into a notebook). Being a note-taker during meetings also allowed me to participate in the sense of asking clarifying questions, but less intrusively than doing so as a researcher. Third, and perhaps most important, having the function of note-taker allowed me to have my minutes checked for misunderstandings after the meetings, as the minutes would usually be read by some or all of the attendees before being approved and archived. This provided an important ground for discussing events that occurred during the meetings with the participants afterwards, allowing me to ask more clarifying questions and adding to my material.

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The fact that most informants were familiar with having researchers visit their workplace did ease my efforts to explain my own presence. Many of my informants had prior experiences of being interviewed by other researchers. Many also had some idea of what ethnographic research entailed, although (to my knowledge) they had not had prior experiences of being subjected to prolonged participant observation. Thus discussions regarding my presence would usually revolve around my motivation for doing fieldwork in a municipal hall rather than on “some tropical island” that might be considered more desirable by some of my informants (if given the choice). A challenging aspect of doing fieldwork in a (somewhat) familiar culture is the need to maintain the attitude of naïvety necessary to analyze and intellectualize social practices (Bernard 2006:366–367). Fearing that my own prior experiences with the occupational culture of bureaucratic organizations could lead to biased interpretations or missing central themes that seemed “natural” to me, I strove to remain a novice during fieldwork. In practice, this meant suspending judgments on observations until they were explained to me, asking questions that I thought I knew the answers to and asking my informants to elaborate and explain their answers while believing I had already understood them. The reward was discovering that naïvety was no act and that I was truly a novice to many of the themes discussed in this book. Time and again, I discovered how little I understood about the culture and practices at hand, realizing that many aspects of a culture that I initially deemed my own were intellectually as exotic to me as any tribe on “some tropical island.” The choices of what processes to follow, which meetings to attend and which people to speak to, and about what, were largely taken through Max Gluckman’s methodological credo, “follow your nose wherever it leads you” (quoted in Handelman 2005:61), which asserts that intuition is integral to ethnographic research. Partly, my own exploratory and shifting focus followed that of my informants, as I would pursue them through policy processes and themes that were currently the main topics of discussion, conflicts and ongoing work. As pinpointed by Silverman, however, “The idea of just ‘hanging out’ with the aim of ‘faithfully representing subjects’ worlds’ is a convenient myth” (2010:85), as all researchers arrive at the field with some ideas and conceptual orientation. This was, of course, also the case during my fieldwork, where the pre-field commitment to investigating concepts from governance literature, as well as those concepts derived from my training as a social anthropologist, shaped my scope of study. First, as my initial research question related to policy development and the municipalities’ ability to launch new initiatives, I sought out policy processes that entailed clear developments in the sense of creating something new, which were often projects of a certain magnitude. Second, my interest in understanding policy development also entailed an interest in policy developments involving a certain amount of struggle, as my reading of sociological and anthropological

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literature often highlighted analyzing political struggle as an essential part of analyzing political systems. I would also argue that my explorative angle and open-ended approach during fieldwork induced the attraction to policy developments involving a certain magnitude and degree of conflicts, as such processes would also be the frequent topics of general discussion within the municipal organization. The selection of themes and topics can be understood, therefore, as being jointly produced by my informants and me. Finally, my interest in the network governance literature also led to a particular attention to the relations at play during policy processes. As discussed earlier, I soon found it difficult to sustain an analytical division between internal and external policy processes. Rather, I thus started mapping the relations involved in each policy process, thereby letting these relations guide the explorative selection of informants and themes. As the two neighboring municipalities were involved in a wide range of collaborations with each other, such tracking allowed me pursue policy processes and themes in the movement between the two organizations – providing a continuous field between the two sites. Within the two municipalities, most informants were recruited among those working in the municipal halls. This means that the main bulk of informants were high- or mid-level administrators, their support staff and other personnel assigned offices in or frequently visiting the municipal halls. On the political end, only the mayors of the two municipalities had permanent offices in the municipal halls, thanks to their political positions. However, several other local politicians also had offices in the municipal halls because they also held administrative positions. Furthermore, I also participated in meetings in each municipal hall and arenas where politicians were present, such as committees, working groups and, of course, the meetings of the executive board and the municipal council. Many of the meetings and arenas at which I was present outside the municipal organization entailed a mix of political and administrative actors, but those at some sites consisted only of politicians. By recruiting informants and identifying policy processes within the municipal halls, I was further able to trace ongoing processes and collaborations to other sites of study. These included meetings in ongoing intermunicipal collaborations, meetings with volunteer associations, open citizens’ meetings and meetings arranged by other actors, such as the regional council or the Association of Local and Regional Authorities (KS). At all such meetings I attended, I would accompany informants whom I had initially recruited within one of the two municipal halls that served as main sites for the study. In many cases, this involved travelling with informants by car, which provided a good opportunity to gather both general information and specific information about the events unfolding. In addition to participating in the formal parts of such meetings, I often had the opportunity to conduct participant observation in the informal parts of such meetings, for example during breaks and lunches and, in one case, dinner and

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an overnight stay at a conference hotel. In addition to the data collected from the informants recruited in the two main municipalities of the study, I gathered data from participant observations among, and informal talks with, actors in other municipalities and organizations. During fieldwork, data from participant observations was recorded in field notes. Each evening during fieldwork, I wrote detailed field notes concerning the day’s events, based on jottings recorded during the day. In many places, the field notes also contain a preliminary analysis and my own reflections on what matters to pursue further during fieldwork. I also collected a wide range of documents during fieldwork, including meeting summaries, case proposals, budgets, strategies, and other documents related to cases of policy development and the municipal organizations of study. In comparison to the traditional ideal in ethnographic research of spending a year, or more, doing field research, my two months spent in the municipal organizations represent a relatively short period of fieldwork. The amount of time spent in the field can have a big impact on the researcher’s ability to gather information, particularly on sensitive issues such as political feuds (Bernard 2006:350). Familiarity with the culture and language does, however, shorten the duration necessary for establishing rapport and conducting successful participant observation, enabling highly focused fieldwork on specific research questions in short amounts of time. Partly in an effort to shorten the time-frame of fieldwork, I included semi-structured interviews in the research design to supplement the data collected from participant observations. While the boundaries between methodological terms such as participant observation, informal conversation, unstructured interviews and semi-structured interviews were in many cases unclear, my data includes longer interviews with about twenty key informants. These interviews ranged from approximately 60 to 120 minutes. Most were recorded on digital tape that was later transcribed. Some of my informants were also interviewed twice during fieldwork. I based the selection of informants for interviews on the data from the participant observations, with the main bulk being the informants I had followed most closely during fieldwork and/or those who I knew to have had key roles in particular policy developments of interest to my study. These interviews were semi-structured in that they were scheduled with my informants before they were conducted and that I prepared in advance a set of (broad) topics I wished to cover, mostly based on events and processes I had encountered during fieldwork. I also included questions about my informants’ backgrounds, their work tasks and their relations within and outside the municipal organization. However, the main parts of the interviews comprised recollections of past and current policy processes, where I would pursue detailed information about events and my informants’ reflections on their own roles in such processes. Through the latter topic, conversations during interviews would often stray into

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long discussions on the relationship between politics and administration. I also made sure to ask most of my informants whether there were any particular processes or projects, past or present, to which they had felt a strong commitment to realizing. This question proved particularly useful for exploring my informants’ actions in past and present policy processes, as well as their own senses of roles and relations during such processes. As other have argued (e.g., Bernard 2006), participant observation is a good tool for building initial rapport with informants before moving on to more formal interviewing. Furthermore, while data gathered through unstructured conversations certainly does stand on its own, it can also be used to identify topics and questions for more formal interviews (see discussion in Bernard 2006:213). Drawing on my own experiences from this study, I would agree that unstructured interviews are useful for preparing more formal interviewing. However, I would also emphasize a continuous interplay between participant observation and semi-structured interviewing, with the two methods equally supplementing each other. As discussed by Holy and Stuchlik (1983), ethnographic fieldwork produces two basic kinds of data. The first is formed by the notions and ideas people hold (i.e., their norms and representations of the world), obtainable through conversations and interviews during fieldwork. The second basic kind of data consists of the actions that people actually perform, obtainable through participant observation. As asserted by Holy and Stuchlik, notions, or informants’ descriptions of their actions, can never be taken as equivalent to whatever actions they actually perform (1983:11). Similarly, and importantly when organizations with a strong normative emphasis on bureaucratic procedures are studied, normative notions can never be treated as descriptions of actual social processes (Holy and Stuchlik 1983:81). Conversely, however, purely observational descriptions of actions without reference to non-observable elements (i.e., notions) are useless for further analyses, as such descriptions would provide no clue to what is actually being observed. In essence, therefore, studying actions necessarily entails studying a relationship between actions and norms. By conducting scheduled, semi-structured interviews, for which my informants had set aside time to speak with me, I was given time to discuss matters at more length than was often possible during day-to-day participant observation. This, I argue, was particularly important when I was doing fieldwork at a workplace, where prolonged conversations would often interfere with my informants’ work tasks. Therefore scheduled interviews provided an arena where I could discuss both observed actions and past events (not observed during fieldwork) in timeconsuming detail with my informants. When conducting semi-structured interviews, I was able to gradually narrow the thematic focus of participant observation, as well as to identify new relations and connections to trace and follow. The latter point proved important for studying an organization where

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much of the day-to-day communication was done through technology such as email and telephone, which was difficult to grasp through observation. Furthermore, conducting participant observations before conducting interviews enabled me to ask more relevant and critical questions based on previous observations. Given the tendency among my informants, previously described, toward formalized accounts of policy processes, often initially omitting details about their own roles as actors in policy processes, asking critical questions concerning their accounts proved vital for grasping the nature of policy development in the municipal organization, by critically exploring the relationship between normative notions and actions. Analysis

Emerson et al. (2011) depict a procedure for ethnographic analysis built on the ideas of what they label “contemporary grounded theory” approaches. Stressing “contemporary,” they suggest an approach that, while retaining a strong commitment to inductive procedures, no longer emphasizes the “discovery” of theory. Rather, Emerson et al. argue for an analytical process combining deductive and inductive approaches, emphasizing that the analyses pervade the stages of research throughout fieldwork, coding and writing theoretical propositions (2011:173). They describe the relationship between deductive and inductive reasoning in their approach as follows: The process is like someone who is simultaneously creating and solving a puzzle or like a carpenter alternately changing the shape of a door and then the shape of the door frame to obtain a better fit. (Emerson et al. 2011:173)

My own theoretical commitment to exploring research topics derived from network governance theory can hardly be accounted as a purely inductive approach such as that depicted by early theorists of grounded theory (e.g., Glaser and Strauss 1967). However, I find that the procedures depicted by Emerson et al. (2011) can be used to describe the analytical trajectory of this study. As discussed earlier, the analytical perspective of the study has been in constant motion and was profoundly shaped by empirical findings at the early stages of fieldwork. During fieldwork, many of the themes discussed in this book gradually emerged, both through expanding the view on policy development away from the sharp division depicted between governance and government in parts of the literature, and through focusing on new themes that were found to be relevant in my exploration of municipal policy development. During analysis and the writing of this text, these emerging themes were further analyzed, along with new themes and questions that emerged from an exploration of the material. In a constant motion between inductive and deductive reasoning, these themes have been compared with existing literature, frameworks and concepts – both from the

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network governance literature and from other sources – in an attempt to both create and solve the puzzle creating a fit between empirical data and theoretically derived concepts.

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Notes 1 Latour (1999:304) defines “blackboxing” as “the way scientific and technical work is made invisible by its own success. When a machine runs efficiently, when a matter of fact is settled, one need focus only on its inputs and outputs and not on its internal complexity. Thus, paradoxically, the more science and technology succeed the more opaque and obscure they become.” 2 Examples include Sørensen and Torfing 2009, Torfing et al. 2012, Vinsand and Nilsen 2008, Røiseland and Vabo 2012, Pierre 2011.

3

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Narratives of local government

The previous chapter discussed how the relationship between government and governance is treated in recent political-science-derived literature. It also outlined the methodological perspective informing this book’s empirical investigation into the tension and interplay between government and governance in municipal policy development. As indicated, the anthropological and interpretive perspective that is applied emphasizes the need to embed the analysis of such practices in historical and cultural context. This chapter aims to provide such context through an overview of the dominating narratives describing the development of local government, the municipal organization and political culture in Norway. While these narratives inform the analysis of policy processes in the later chapters, their relevance will also be critically explored as their explanatory powers are put to the test. The chapter begins with a brief historical overview of the major institutional developments that have given the Norwegian municipality its present form and function. In order to convey the wide scope of municipal tasks that inform the goals of municipal policy development, I next provide an introduction to the multiple roles that the present-day municipal organization is working to fulfill. The third part introduces three interrelated narratives dominating the stories of recent developments within municipal leadership. These are the introduction of New Public Management (NPM) reforms, the aforementioned shift toward (network) governance, and finally, a narrative of the reduction of local government to mere implementers of national policy. Formal political institutions neither develop nor persist within a historical and cultural vacuum. Rather, their present-day form and practices are profoundly shaped by their historical pathways and the political culture informing them. In the final part of the chapter, I therefore introduce some key discussions from past ethnographic accounts about the enactment of local government and political culture in the Nordic context. A central issue is the nature of the particular configuration of “egalitarian individualism” that is claimed to characterize Scandinavian culture, which will form an important theoretical background for the analysis of municipal policy processes presented in the chapters that follow.

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The roots of the Norwegian municipality

The introduction of the Formannskaps Acts of 1837 is regularly considered to have been the founding framework of the Norwegian municipality. These were two separate Acts, one regulating cities and the other rural areas, which originally divided Norway into 355 rural municipalities and thirty-seven city municipalities. They were named after the main governing body of the 1837 municipality that they prescribed: the municipal executive boards (Formannskapet). Historical accounts argue, however, that the introduction of the 1837 Acts is often overstated as a defining moment in the development of local government in Norway, as the Acts were largely a legislative confirmation of existing practices (Pryser 1999, Næss 1987, Hovland 1987).1 In the cities in particular, the introduction of the Acts entailed few substantial changes to the existing practices of local government. Although names and exact organizational forms varied, the institution of “eligible men” resembling the formannskap of the 1837 Acts had existed in Norwegian cities and trading posts since the seventeenth century (Næss 1987). As representatives elected from among the formal citizens of the cities, the institution of eligible men also prospered under the absolutist rule of the Danish Crown, as the Crown’s officials were dependent on the cooperation of local citizens in managing day-to-day affairs in the Norwegian cities (Næss 1987). Besides the eligible men, local government also comprised ombudsmen elected in citizen meetings, and a number of specialpurpose committees that handled specialized tasks, such as poverty management and schooling, through their own budgets and boards (Næss 1987, Pryser 1999). Local government in the rural districts was less developed before the 1837 Acts. Without such institutions as the eligible men, the rural districts had been largely ruled by the Crown’s local officials during the times of absolute monarchy (Pryser 1999). Nevertheless, many of the rural communities organized specialpurpose committees for functions such as schools and poverty management, giving the Norwegians both experience and a conscious attitude toward local government before the 1837 Acts (Næss 1987). Local communities in rural areas also had a tradition of arranging common meetings to discuss important public matters, but (like the citizens’ meetings of the cities) these had no clear formal responsibilities before the Acts (Pryser 1999:250). The municipal organization designed in 1837

While the Formannskaps Acts may be considered a continuation of former practices, they nevertheless represent the judicial starting point of the modernday municipal organization. They created common structures, determined the governing bodies and rules of administrative procedures and, perhaps most importantly, defined the scope of municipal autonomy by regulating the

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municipalities’ relation to the state (Hovland 1987, NOU 1990, Næss 1987, Pryser 1999). Originally the 1837 Acts outlined a municipal organization with executive boards comprising four to twelve foremen in the cities and three to nine foremen (the name given to executive board members) in the rural municipalities (Hovland 1987:39). As a continuation of the former tradition of “common meetings/citizen meetings,” the foremen were also to form a municipal council together with a separately elected number of councilors comprising three times the number of foremen (Næss 1987, NOU 1990:33). The executive board would elect the mayor (Ordfører) and was assigned authority over taxation and appropriation of funds. The mayor held a central position in the organization as described by the Acts and was responsible for guiding negotiations within both the executive board and the municipal council. While the executive board was initially the supreme body of the municipal organization, the balance of power soon shifted, as the municipal councils gradually became the decision-making authorities of the municipal organizations. As a consequence of this gradual shift, the Formannskaps Acts were altered in 1879, delegating to the municipal councils the right to elect mayors, along with several other supervising functions over the executive boards. Some years later, in 1896, changes in the electoral law led to an adoption of the present-day arrangement, whereby councilors are directly elected, while executive board members are elected by, and among, the councilors themselves. Through an independent right of taxation and allocation, the 1837 Acts granted the municipalities a large degree of autonomy in economic matters. Most importantly, they stated that expenses could not be imposed on the municipalities and that no changes could be made to their public functions against the will of their executive boards, unless sanctioned by law (Steen 1968:10–11). Thus the municipalities were granted the rights to administer their internal economic affairs within the confinements of legislation. Higher authorities could, in some instances, limit the municipalities’ actions, but could impose new duties on the municipalities only through legislation. Accordingly, the Acts gave the higher authorities of state and county a control function rather than a governing function over the municipalities. Further, although the potential for exercising this control was extensive, the central government seemed to exercise a laissez-faire attitude toward both the municipalities and the county authorities after introducing the Acts and throughout most of the nineteenth century (Kjellberg 1991). Although the extent of municipal activity was unclear in the Acts, it was not infinite. The common understanding was that municipal competence was derived from the state, meaning that the state had delegated parts of its authority to the municipalities (Hovland 1987). Consequently, the municipalities could not form independent legislation for their inhabitants or, for example, devise their own foreign policies in competition with the state. The negatively delimited demarcation of municipal competence established in the 1837 Acts has been continued in

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today’s legislation, with the preliminary hearing for the current Local Government Act stating that:

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[The Local Government Act] §2 does not set any limitations to which tasks the municipalities/county authorities can impose on themselves. As previously, they will be able to take on any task as long as this does not conflict statute or nonstatutory principles. (Ot.prp. nr. 42.1991–92:264, my translation)

From welfare pioneers to state servants

Taken together, the Acts entailed a large potential for independent economic activity in the municipalities and, thereby, an expansion of municipal services (Hovland 1987, Steen 1968). This autonomy enabled the Norwegian municipalities to play a vital role in modernizing communications and infrastructure during the times of great transformation in the nineteenth century (Pryser 1999, Bukve 2012). From the 1860s onwards the larger cities also led a phase of municipal expansion through substantial growth within public health, sanitation and other infrastructures. At its height, the municipal expansion around the turn of the twentieth century has been labeled a period of “municipal socialism.” Following the introduction of party politics in local government, many of the foundations of the modern welfare state were laid in this period (Danielsen 1987, Hanssen et al. 2001). With a gradual expansion of voting rights, finally concluded in 1910 with universal suffrage in local elections, new interests entered the realm of local politics that broke the elites’ former political monopoly, making the municipalities an effective means of equalization by developing collective services. Because many of the new social policies were pioneered by the municipalities before being launched nationwide with the state as their platform, it is fair to claim that the municipalities took a leading role in developing these early foundations of the welfare state (Hovland 1987, Hanssen et al. 2001). With the economic downturn and the resulting debt crisis from the 1920s onwards, it did, however, become obvious that many municipalities had overstretched their finances in the previous years (Bukve 2012, Danielsen et al. 1987). While the debt crisis was the immediate concern in the 1920s, causing a political debate on municipal autonomy, the interwar crisis also brought more structural concerns into debate regarding the differences among the Norwegian municipalities in both their economic foundations and their expenditures (Danielsen 1987). The interwar period thus became an era when the state expanded its control measures over the municipalities. Most significantly, the state introduced the possibility of placing municipalities incapable of handling their debt obligations under “administration,” meaning that the concerned municipalities’ taxation and allocation rights would be handed over to the state. During the 1930s the

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Norwegian parliament (the Stortinget) also started granting funds for distribution to less well-off municipalities in an effort to equalize the tax burden between poorer and richer municipalities. Although introduced as a temporary measure, such equalization efforts were to become a permanent element in Norwegian local government administration and entailed an increased supervision of municipal budgets, as they had to be carefully administered to ensure fairness (Danielsen et al. 1987). Fueled by peacetime optimism and by a period of general economic growth with increasing tax revenues, the postwar years did, however, bring about a new period of radical municipal expansion and growth in the distribution of social benefits. Between 1946 and 1971 municipal expenditures in Norway rose from 1.9 billion to 21.7 billion Norwegian kroner; adjusted for inflation, this denotes an over threefold increase (Grønlie 1987:200). With a population growth during that period of around 20 percent, the increase in spending can largely be accounted for by the expansion of municipal activity. While the totality of public expenditures did rise in Norway during the period, the increase in municipal expenditures was more rapid than that in state expenditures. By the mid-1960s municipal expenditures surpassed the state’s expenditures (measured as percentages of gross domestic product), making the Norwegian municipalities administrators of a large share of the nation’s combined resources when compared internationally (Grønlie 1987). Because the expansions also necessitated permanent administrations in the smaller and rural municipalities, large and noticeable municipal halls housing the expanding administrations started to replace small rented office spaces. Alongside the municipal halls, there were also other physical manifestations of the “municipal renaissance,” such as the building of nursing homes, roads and schools. The municipal organization, therefore, became far more visible in the local community than in previous times, when a modest schoolhouse would be the most significant public building in many rural districts (Grønlie 1987). Specialized municipal departments and institutions were creating new career opportunities, particularly for educated personnel in rural districts, whereas teaching had previously been the only viable municipal career path. Therefore the municipality became an important employer in the local communities – even the largest in some – providing an important barrier against outward migration in the many rural districts threatened by urbanization in the larger cities. While the 1837 Acts had originally divided Norway into 392 municipalities, the number had grown to a peak of 747 municipalities in the early 1930s. As the large number of municipalities had been considered a problematic feature of the municipal structure since the interwar period, the Committee on Municipal Division (popularly named the “Schei Committee”) was established in 1946. The Schei Committee’s suggestions became highly influential and contributed

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to a reduction in the number of municipalities, from 744 in 1954 and to 454 by 1978. Simultaneously, functional reforms in the 1960s and early 1970s gradually transferred several important services and welfare functions to the county authorities, including healthcare institutions, hospitals, upper secondary education, and many of the roads previously maintained by the municipalities. In effect, the county authority was reshaped as an independent administrative level, rather than a supporting organ for the primary municipalities. By relieving the county governors of their role as administrative heads of the county authorities, the transformation also led to a separation between the county authorities and the state. Instead, the county governors were given their present-day role as an independent coordinating body over state affairs at the county level, which later developed into an additional role as a supervising authority over the municipalities’ affairs. While transferring tasks to the county authorities, the state was also relieving the municipalities of other important welfare tasks, such as social security schemes and tax assessments. The transfer of municipal tasks can partly be explained as an attempt to relieve municipal budgets, which had become highly strained in the 1960s, but it was also a result of the prevailing idea that centralized arrangements could generally be more cost-effective (Grønlie 1987). Most of all, however, the takeover of municipal welfare tasks must be understood in relation to the expanding welfare state. During the first two postwar decades, the Labor-dominated central government – with its broad ambitions for a comprehensive national welfare system – had continuously been involved in planning processes covering most of the important welfare sectors (Grønlie 1987). While the municipalities’ expansion of welfare services in the postwar decades of rebuilding had been applauded by the state, making the municipalities important pioneers of the welfare expansion, the 1960s were the decade when the state was both economically and practically ready to fulfill its ambitions. The processes of centralization and municipal restructuring completed in the 1970s can, thus, be understood in many ways as a complement to the welfare state, with the allocation of welfare functions to the county authorities (reorganized in a pattern dictated by the state) being one important element (Grønlie 1987). The other important element was an increased regulation of those welfare tasks remaining within the municipalities’ scope of responsibility. While municipal initiatives would continue, notably in new areas such as culture and sports, the processes of municipal restructuring marked the end of the municipal renaissance, understood as a period when the municipalities’ own initiatives dominated their budgets. Following this period, state regulations increasingly started intruding on municipal tasks, which – along with detailed grants and reimbursement schemes – led to a tighter interweaving between state and municipal services under the state’s control (Grønlie 1987). Despite the postwar renaissance, the

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long-term tendency during the twentieth century was an increased integration of the municipalities into the combined administrative machinery of the state (Danielson 1987).

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The multiple roles of the present-day municipal organization

According to the principle of the “general municipality,” all Norwegian municipalities are tasked with providing the same basic set of services and functions, regardless of their size. In an effort to contextualize the empirical investigation into municipal policy development in the following chapters, here I will briefly introduce this general set of tasks by discussing the multiple roles that the municipal organizations are expected to fulfill, essentially guiding the efforts of both local politicians and municipal administrators. My introduction here is based on Bukve’s presentation of four roles that the municipalities are working to fulfill (2012:14–15). These are the role of service provider, the role of being part of the combined administrative machinery, the role of a democratic body and the role of local community developer. Additionally, a fifth role important to understanding policy processes in the municipal organization can also be added, the role of employer. As service providers the municipalities are expected to provide a range of services to their inhabitants. These include services within areas such as primary and lower secondary schools, childcare, healthcare, care for the elderly and disabled, social services, water supply and sewage, garbage collection, libraries, road maintenance and so on. The range of municipal service delivery is defined both by the current municipal Act and in special-purpose laws. The principle of negative delimitation described earlier, however, entails that the municipalities are free to undertake any task or function not assigned to another level of government or forbidden by law. As the examples of policy processes later in this book demonstrate, the development and implementation of such voluntary municipal activities is not only the result of local political or administrative initiatives, but must also be understood in relation to external pressures, particularly in the form of carrot incentives and grant schemes from other levels of government. As service providers to their inhabitants, municipalities resemble private enterprises in some respects in that they need to uphold a certain degree of quality and efficiency in their delivery of services to their customers (Bukve 2012:14). One important difference, however, is that of the municipalities’ historical function as a social equalizer through the delivery of collective services. Rather than maximizing profits, as in a private enterprise, the municipalities’ responsibility is to prioritize their resources in a manner that meets the collective needs of their inhabitants. Thus a good municipal budget can be understood as a budget of zero profit and maximum service delivery. Another important difference is that the role of service provider is mixed with the role of public authority administrators. In many of the services that

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the municipality renders, such as building approvals and property surveying, it will resemble a public authority rather than a service provider (Bukve 2012:14). The historical overview given previously in this chapter suggests that the second role in this list, the municipality as a part of the combined national administrative machinery, has gained increased emphasis during the past century. Being both subject to governing from state bodies and administrators of state policy, the municipalities (and county authorities) can be considered a local and regional part of the fragmented state, despite their relative autonomy (Bukve 2012:15). Being integral to the national administrative machinery, municipal administrators and politicians are, however, both implementers and active influencers of state policy. In the historical overview I have, for example, discussed how municipal initiatives have pioneered development of the welfare state, thereby influencing their own role as state policy implementers. In many cases, the municipalities also engage in active lobbying on state affairs and influence state policy through their daily contact with state agencies. Third, the municipalities perform a role as democratic bodies. This entails that every municipality constitutes an arena for political participation and local governing. The highest authority of the municipal organization is the elected municipal council, with politicians answerable to the voters. The hierarchical position of the democratic bodies within the municipalities’ structure is formally clear and carries strong regulatory implications for how both politicians and administrators conduct their affairs. However, formal structures are subject to interpretation and constant negotiation and, as I will empirically argue in Chapters 5 and 6, the normative rules guiding individual behavior within the municipal organization are seldom as clear cut. A municipality’s administration is both a facilitator of political participation and a subject of its policy outcomes. As professionals, municipal administrators give expert opinions and suggestions that form the basis of political debate and decisions. The result is that most municipal policies are created in a dialectic interplay between politicians and administrators. The tension caused by this dialectic relationship and the dual role of administrators, as both implementers and creators of public policy, forms a central discussion in the later chapters of this book. Fourth, the municipalities also perform a role as local community developers. Administering large parts of the communities’ resources for the common good of their inhabitants also entails facilitating and supporting developments outside the municipal organization. Facilitating community, industry and commercial developments through area planning is one of the core elements in the municipalities’ role as local community developers. However, the municipalities may also deploy many other measures to secure positive developments in areas such as trade and industry, sports, culture, housing and so on. As each local community encompasses different, often complex, challenges and opportunities, the role of

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community developers is perhaps one in which creativity and use of the municipalities’ leeway for developing new initiatives becomes most prominent. The role of local community developer is carried out in collaboration with a wide array of other stakeholders, including private enterprises and civil society, as well as other public institutions at various levels. Fulfilling the roles thus requires close collaboration with other institutions of the local community, where balancing different societal interests can often prove challenging. The fifth role that I would add is that of employer. In totality, the municipal sector (including both municipalities and county authorities) currently employs close to 20 percent of the nation’s employed workforce, with a large majority in the municipalities. This makes the municipal organization one of the largest employers in most municipalities, and the largest employer in many. As mentioned earlier, the importance of the municipalities as an employer became prominent in most local communities during the latter part of the twentieth century with the growing size and specialization of the municipal workforce, which has only increased since then. Employing and securing satisfactory conditions for their workforce thus becomes a consideration for municipal decision-makers in many policy processes. Three common narratives of municipal leadership

As previously discussed, the latter part of the twentieth century was largely characterized by a rapid growth in the size of the municipal organization. The growth and increased complexity of the municipal organizations led to a period from the 1980s onwards when the development of the municipal sector was characterized by discussions on organizational forms and management strategies. I will now briefly introduce three frequently held narratives of municipal leadership that have dominated the descriptions of developments in the municipal organizations since the 1980s (see Bukve 2012:28–30). The relevance of these three interrelated narratives will also be discussed in relation to my own empirical findings in the concluding part of this book. New Public Management

The first narrative is about the rise, and perhaps fall, of NPM. As a global, neoliberal reform movement, NPM influenced reforms which spread rapidly during the 1980s and 1990s, pioneered by the Anglo-Saxon countries, while the Scandinavian and Continental European countries followed suit more reluctantly (Christensen and Lægreid 2011a:391–392). NPM is not a clear set of reforms; rather, it can be understood as a “shopping basket” of different reforms based on neoliberal economic theory and public-choice models of administration (Pierre and Rothstein 2011:405–407). A basic assumption in NPM reforms is the belief

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that differences between the private and public sectors are not generally significant from the standpoint of management, and that the operational logics of market agents (in the private sector) and public servants do not differ in terms of how they are motivated and calculate their interests. The same basis of management thus can be applied in both the private and public sectors in the pursuit of optimal performance, which, according to NPM, should be based on economic incentives and emulation of competitive markets in the public sector (Pierre and Rothstein 2011:405–407). A primary characteristic of NPM reforms in public organizations is, therefore, the adoption of management and organizational forms from private companies, particularly in regard to giving public sector managers some leeway for exercising discretion in pursuit of efficiency (Christensen and Lægreid 2011b:1–13). Typical traits of such reforms include market orientation, structural devolution and managerialism. Particularly in its early form, the Norwegian version of NPM was characterized by an eagerness to adopt the two latter traits, devolution and managerialism, while there was long a more reluctant attitude toward marketization strategies (Klausen and Ståhlberg 1998, Hansen 2011). For the Norwegian municipalities, NPM took its early form through an emphasis on goal-oriented steering from the state, rather than detailed regulation (Bukve 2012:25–27). One step in this direction was the implanted revenue system of 1986, which emphasized block grants rather than earmarked grants (Bukve 2012:25). Meanwhile, the new Municipal Act launched in 1992 can be considered a culmination of NPM-inspired devolution reforms. At the time, sectorial municipal organizations that mirrored the central government’s organization were considered problematic, as they made municipalities easily controllable by state bodies, thus fostering the development of local government into mere implementers of state policy (Tranvik and Fimreite 2006). The 1992 Act, therefore, entailed a deregulation of the internal organization of the municipalities, with the intention of encouraging local government discretion by adopting non-sectorial structures on the municipal level (Tranvik and Fimreite 2006, Hansen 2011). This led to a large proportion of the municipalities restructuring their organization, with tendencies toward greater numbers of units with separate tasks and goal-oriented steering (Bukve 2012). By 2004 only 12 of the then 434 municipalities were organized in accordance with the pre-1992 principle of the municipal organization mirroring the sectorial organization of the state (Fimreite and Tranvik 2010). Another central aim of the abandonment of sectionalized structures was to revive the traditional Weberian distinction between politics and administration or service production (Tranvik and Fimreite 2006). By ridding the municipal organization of sectorial departments (with attached middle management), the hope was that power would migrate downwards to the actual service-producing units that could develop the individualization of service delivery (through such

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things as “user participation”). With a flattened structure cleared of the powerasserting middle management, the intention was that politicians would be allowed (through goal-oriented steering of the service-producing units) to assert more comprehensive, strategic, political prioritization and determination of the political agenda (Tranvik and Fimreite 2006:94). Changes in the law during the 1990s also permitted increased marketization and use of company-like organizations in both the state and the municipal sectors. The relationship between political steering and service production came to be increasingly based on contracting, with larger portions of the municipalities’ tasks exposed to market competition and outsourcing (Bukve 2012, Hansen 2011:120–122). However, the efficiency gains of NPM reforms in the municipal sector of Norway are disputed, while their clearest result seems to be the increased fragmentation of public administration (Bukve 2012). Tranvik and Fimreite (2006) argue that the NPM-inspired devolution reforms of the 1990s failed to achieve their goals of more municipal autonomy and that the result was actually less municipal autonomy, more regulation, more earmarked funding and the employment of new state control measures through individual rights legislation. The paradoxical result, Tranvik and Fimreite argue, can partly be attributed to the central government’s issuing compensating control measures that counteracted the devolution reforms when its actors’ ability to impact welfare prioritization became threatened (2006). Internally, case studies suggest that more comprehensive steering of the municipal organization was not a clear result of the reforms, despite a shift toward a sharper separation between politics and administration and fewer sectorial organizations (Tranvik and Fimreite 2006:94). Network governance

Partly informed by the general ideas of the transformation thesis, a second grand narrative is the claim of a transition from government to networked forms of governance in the local level of government in Norway. In contrast to the welldocumented introduction of NPM reforms during the 1980s and 1990s (see Christensen and Lægreid 2011b), the empirical reality of a general shift toward network governance in public management is disputed (Bukve 2012). However, most researchers agree that an increased normative emphasis on collaborative arrangements is also traceable in the Norwegian context. One example is the emphasis on intermunicipal cooperation that was previously urged by the central government as an alternative to the politically troublesome issue of municipal restructuring (ECON Analyse 2006, Bukve 2012). This increased emphasis has caused a growing concern among both researchers and municipal leaders about the challenges to democratic governing and control posed by intermunicipal cooperation (Røiseland and Vabo 2012). For example, it can be argued that

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intermunicipal cooperation poses a democratic challenge due to the increased distances between the constituents and the decision-making authorities in the local democracy. Furthermore, intermunicipal cooperation may entail giving decision-making authority to a collaborative body that is not obligated to follow the same legal procedures and levels of transparency to which municipal administrations are subjected. Research shows that municipal leaders themselves also view this potential lack of control as a major concern and that both administrative and political leaders in Norwegian municipalities are experiencing a conflict between democratic leadership and intermunicipal cooperation (ECON Analyse 2006, Vinsand and Nilsen 2008). Terms derived from the literature on network governance that emphasize horizontal or egalitarian modes of steering have also been increasingly applied to the descriptions of relations between the different levels of government in Norway. Here terms like “partnership,” “dialog” and “network steering” have gained increased usage both in political debate as normative standards of steering and in academic descriptions of multi-level steering (Reitan et al. 2012:20–21). In a study of relations between different levels of government in Norway, Reitan et al. (2012) find a complex and ambiguous picture concerning the hierarchical content in Norwegian state–municipal relations. However, they generally conclude that new dialog-based governing forms are additions to, rather than replacements of, hierarchical structures, and that while state–municipal relations may be described as mutually dependent bargaining, the two levels are not equal partners (Reitan et al. 2012:349). Despite an increased normative emphasis on network governance in state–municipal relations, such means may thus be understood as existing in the “shadow of the hierarchy” (Scharpf 1997). State servants

The third of the interrelated narratives can be understood as an extension into the twenty-first century of the long-term development toward increased state control and decreased municipal autonomy previously discussed, arguably turning municipalities into mere implementers of central government policies (Danielsen 1987). In this respect, some researchers have interpreted Norway as somewhat diverging from the supposed general pattern of transition from government to governance as previously outlined, with the relationship between the Norwegian state and local government turning toward increased state dominance through hierarchical control (Bukve 2012:29–30). Following their claim that the central government has counteracted the effects of its own devolution reforms, Fimreite and Tranvik (2010) argue that municipal discretion has been limited by a series of steering and control measures, such as more earmarked grants, standards detailing the quality of service, individual rights legislation and a range of new supervisory agencies. In a claim contradicting

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a transformation toward network governance in Norway, they argue that the breakup of municipal organizations that mirrored that of the central government caused a change in the patterns of communication between the two. But rather than giving leeway for increased municipal discretion, it meant that informal guidelines, recommendations and advice were replaced by more formal and bureaucratic means of steering from the central bureaucracy (Fimreite and Tranvik 2010). Conclusions from the Norwegian Power and Democracy Project, published in 2003, also support the view that local self-government in Norway has lost much of its content. Along with individual rights legislation and central government directives, the conclusions also point to municipal budget shortages as an important factor in the municipalities’ sovereignty being reduced to purely local tasks and an administrative responsibility for implementing state policy (NOU 2003:28–29, 58). Accounts of political culture in Norway

In The Marke of Power: Helgeland and the Politics of Omnipotence (1998), the American social anthropologist George Park summarizes probably the most prolonged ethnographic account of local democracy and political culture in Norway ever pursued. Park’s study encompasses a forty-year observation of local democracy developments in the Rana area of northern Norway, with lengthy periods of fieldwork conducted in the 1950s and 1970s and a shorter follow-up conducted in 1991. While documenting a local democracy through its changing environments, Park’s account draws particular attention to the well-entrenched local democracy he experienced during the 1970s. According to Park, the 1970s brought a conclusion to a hundred years of development during which the Norwegian municipalities had moved, by “collective intention,” from being situationally autonomous (geographically cut off) to becoming politically so (1998:184). In this respect, Park argues, the period not only constitutes the height of local democracy in Norway, but also an example of success where many other countries have failed. When a remote municipality becomes politically autonomous, its life is no longer an extension of its past, he asserts, but an extension of the current national trends. A strong testament to the vitality of an autonomous local government lies in the periphery’s ability to balance out threats from the central state. Park’s prime testimony to the local government’s “tail” wagging the state “dog” in such a manner is the 1972 referendum on joining the European Community (Park 1998:63–93). With a majority of “no” votes from rural districts, the referendum ended with a win for the “no” side, resulting in the incumbent prime minister resigning because of the defeat. According to Park, the main proponents working to secure the relative success of the modern-day Norwegian welfare state are to be found in local politics and

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were embedded in the local political culture long before oil started being pumped out of the North Sea in the 1970s. He argues: “The reason for Norway’s success where others have failed is not to be found in a series of policy choices but in what lies behind and informs such choice, the unique political culture” (1998:56). At the core of this political culture, Park argues, lies a particular form of “frozen” enlightenment tradition that generated a politics of participation rather than a utopianism generating charismatic leadership (1998:85–86; see also Sørensen and Stråth 1997). With this “politics of participation,” alongside relatively low class differentiation and an absence of the familistic patterns that create kinship blocks, Park argues that the local communities of Norway developed a strong democratic tradition already in place at the advent of Norwegian state building in the early nineteenth century. Central to this democratic tradition was an egalitarian political culture with a high degree of commitment to managing local affairs, which favored responsible political institutions. This created a wellentrenched and highly competent local government capable of balancing the relationship between center and periphery, not only by fending off threats from the state but also by extending the political culture of the local government into the realm of state and national politics (Park 1998). While it is based on a temporal focus on the early 1970s (during the height of the municipal renaissance) and therefore, perhaps, overly enthusiastic on behalf of local democracy in Norway, the strength of Park’s account is a focus on the interplay between the development of formal political institutions and political culture. Park draws attention both to the importance of historical trajectories and to the importance of political culture in understanding the practices of modern-day political institutions. In the sections that follow, I will introduce some central features of Norwegian political culture, and its effect on the enactment of political leadership in the Norwegian setting, that will inform the empirical analysis undertaken in the later chapters of this book. Government by committee

While George Park’s account of Rana may be the most prolonged study of local politics in Norway, John A. Barnes’s study of the island parish of Bremnes on the western coast of Norway is by far the most famous. Barnes’s seminal article from the study, “Class and Committees in a Norwegian Island Parish” (1954), is relevant to the topics raised in this book for a number of reasons. It is therefore worthwhile to consider his account in some detail here. Barnes’s 1954 article is widely known as the classic study that first employed the concept of “social networks” within social sciences. During his fieldwork in the early 1950s, Barnes took an interest in the abundance of formal organizations making up the social structure of Bremnes, but, perhaps to an even greater extent,

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in the social relations that cross-cut the borders of the many formal organizations. In his mapping of the social structure in Bremnes, Barnes identified and isolated three distinct relational patterns that he describes as “fields of the social system” (1954:42). The first was a stable, territorially based social field comprising land-based domestic, agricultural and administrative activities. These activities were organized through a large number of enduring administrative units and were characterized by long-lasting and stable relations. Barnes includes both the administration of the municipality and voluntary associations (based on territorial boundaries) in this territorially based field. The second field he isolated was the more fluid system generated by industrial activities – mainly fishing – and comprising a large number of interdependent, yet formally autonomous, units (e.g., fishing vessels, marketing cooperatives, etc.) characterized by more temporary groupings. The third social field, as Barnes argues, had no units, boundaries or coordinating organization, and comprised ties of friendship, acquaintances and kin. The elements of this third social field were not fixed, as new ties were constantly being formed while others broke. Furthermore, as person A may be friends with person B, but not all of A’s friends are friends with B, relations are generated around each individual person, and it is in the description of these relations, in which persons are understood as points joined by relational lines, that Barnes coins the term “network” (1954:43). In other words, Barnes applies his notion of social networks to analyze and describe the relations that cross-cut the formally delimited organizations making up the territorial and industrial fields of Bremnes. Making the observation that most ties were between people who considered themselves to be of similar social status, Barnes argues that the class system of Bremnes was manifested through these ties in the social network (1954:43). However, and in line with Park’s (1998) observations some decades later, a notable feature of the social networks Barnes observed was their floating and fluctuating nature, as opposed to more stable group formations based, for example, on kinship blocks. A central point of Barnes’s analysis is that while the three social fields were often made up of the same people, they also invoked quite different interactional patterns. For example, while equality was emphasized in activities within the system of social networks, interaction involving the same group of people could take quite different forms in the context of the industrial field. Hence, “while fishing, men are no longer equals” (Barnes 1954:49). Rather, Barnes argues that the close coordination of activities required in the technical task of fishing led to strict hierarchical command chains and a division of personnel into functional groupings. Moreover, the abundance of both informal and formal organizations within the territorial and industrial field created a system of overlapping memberships. Accordingly, each person in Bremnes belonged to many different social groups, and “at different times and different places membership of one or other of these groups is definitive for what he does” (Barnes 1954: 40–41).

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As the duties, rights and interests in the different groups a person belongs to may differ, conflicts in the enactment of roles may arise. Such role conflicts, Barnes argues, occur in every society. However, while other societies with more fixed kinship and friendship ties may form stronger and more stable groups for collective action, the fluid and fluctuating nature of social networks in Bremnes caused a complex system of relational ties in which the different systems (e.g., social fields and associations) of organizing collective action and leadership were not congruent: The organization of Bremnes is still largely an arrangement of cross-cutting ties and groupings in which not only friends and enemies, but also leaders and followers, are inextricably mixed. No one line of cleavage ever becomes dominant. The territorial system endures and the industrial system commands; but in this society the relationships that are valued most highly are still to be found in the shifting middle ground of social intercourse between approximate equals. (Barnes 1954:54)

Perhaps of most interest to the topics discussed in this book, this system of overlapping memberships and cross-cutting loyalties also had, according to Barnes, profound effects on the enactment of leadership and decision-making processes within the territorial field (where the administration of the municipality took place). According to Barnes, there were no long chains of command on the island, nor was there any overall leadership representing the totality of the community to the outside world. While some positions were “slightly more in the public eye” than others, such as those of the mayor, the rector and the sheriff, Barnes argues that none of these could be said to represent the totality of the municipality, and all were involved in factional interests (1954:52). However, the society was not leaderless. Instead, there was the large number of formal groups with overlapping membership, and the elected leaders of the various organizations, all organized through a similar democratic pattern and each operating within its restricted context. Counting around fifty voluntary associations and forty standing committees appointed or nominated by the municipal council, Barnes characterizes the pattern of public life in Bremnes as a sort of “government by committee” (1954:52). This pattern, Barnes argues, organized almost all aspects of social life on the island, from sports clubs to missionary societies to producers’ cooperatives, and also local government and the municipal council itself (1954:53–54). Despite the appearance on paper of a hierarchal structure suitable for taking autocratic decisions, Barnes argues that as the need for quick decisions and clear divisions of responsibility was less prominent in the formal organizations in the territorial field (in comparison to the industrial field), the achievement of consensus was valued more highly than the speed of autocratic command. While the formal procedure of reaching a decision by all governing bodies was the majority vote, Barnes notes that, in practice, voting was avoided whenever possible in favor of

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unanimous decisions. However, this tendency was most marked in the context of mission associations and less so in the municipal council, where there was more often a need to reach quick conclusions. However, as he further notes, the tendency also expressed itself in the municipal council in the use of trial votes in cases of irreconcilable differences in an attempt to find what conclusion had the greatest support and thus allow the minority a chance to conform before making a formal, preferably unanimous, vote (a tradition that is still observable; see Chapter 4). In his analysis, Barnes explains that the preference for unanimous decisions is due to a common interest in maintaining existing relations and appearing united as a group. While people living together in a community will inevitably have conflicting interests, individual goals must be attained through socially approved processes, and as far as possible the illusion must be maintained that each individual is acting only in the best interests of the community. As far as possible, that is, the group must appear united, not only vis-à-vis other similar groups, but also to itself. (Barnes 1954:50)

Barnes finds his explanation for this consensus-oriented behavior in the social network binding together the formal governing institutions through an egalitarian code of conduct. In a close-knit society, where members of associations and committees are enmeshed in a cross-cutting web of relations connecting everybody together, public displays of conflicting interests become a threat to the overall structure of social relations. Voting, which entails a public display of diverging interests, thus becomes an inappropriate procedure. Through a somewhat evolutionary perspective, Barnes interprets Bremnes in the early 1950s as an “intermediate society,” somewhere between the small-scale society, where the “meshes” of social networks are small (with many friends in common), and the modern society, characterized by larger “meshes” (with few friends in common). Consequently, people having a variety of roles with each other (i.e., multiplex relations) characterize relations in the former kind of smallscale societies, while in the latter type people tend to have “a different audience for each of the roles they play” (Barnes 1954:44) (i.e., uniplex relations). Furthermore, Barnes traces the structure of Bremnes’s local government to the longer political history of Norway and, particularly, to the vacuum caused by the withdrawal of the governing elite after Norway’s break with colonial Danish rule. Gradually, he argues, this gave way to the emergence of “peasant rule,” with “part-time peasants” taking key positions in structuring local government and organizing social life (Barnes 1954:54–58). Accordingly, Barnes interpreted the social world he observed as transitional. He predicted that the community he encountered in Bremnes would soon change, partly because of industrialization with increasing class differences and partly

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because of the growth in the mesh of social networks due to increased mobility. While the hindsight of today may grant some truth to Barnes’s predictions, particularly regarding class relations, many of his original observations on political culture and egalitarian codes of conduct have remained characteristic themes in Scandinavian anthropology (see Bendixen et al. 2018). Despite profound changes to the municipal organizations, where administration by “part-time peasants” has been gradually replaced by professionalized bureaucratic structures, many of the political practices deemed transitional by Barnes have proven less endangered and more resilient than originally anticipated (e.g., Park 1998, Vike 2018). As I will go on to discuss, Barnes’s seminal perspectives on the mechanisms informing political culture have been further developed in more recent literature, which will prove useful in interpreting the political practices explored in the next chapter of this book. First, however, I will introduce a few other anthropological observations on political culture in Norway that will also form an important part of the analysis in the later chapters. Egalitarian politics On a superficial look, a Norwegian government minister may look like a British “leader”; a Norwegian industrial executive may ape the German or Amerikan [sic] executive he admires. The parallels are superficial. Leadership in Norway – if the word is appropriate at all – is grounded in radically Norwegian premises. (Park 1998:256)

As demonstrated by Barnes, neither the radical pluralistic form of governance nor the emphasis on equality he encountered in Bremnes rendered the society leaderless. It did, however, as Park points out in the quotation above, inform how power was licensed and, thus, the norms guiding leadership and political behavior (Park 1998:255–257). In terms derived from (neo-institutional) political science, we might talk of how a context of political culture relates to “logics of appropriateness” (March and Olsen 2009), that is, the institutional logics regulating political legitimacy. As previously indicated, a central tenet of this book is the notion of government and governance as coexisting institutional logics informing practices of policy development. In an essay of 1984, Hans Christian (“Tian”) Sørhaug provides an account of Norwegian political culture that is of particular interest to the latter notion. In his essay, Sørhaug (1984) identifies two competing notions of political legitimacy that coexist in Norwegian public life. He notes that political culture and the Norwegian self-image are highly influenced by the egalitarian and rural modes that he metaphorically characterizes as the social formations of the village.2 This village, resembling Barnes’s description of Bremnes, is characterized by social proximity, stability, interwoven social relations and, importantly, a fundamental idea of equality. The latter point, according to Sørhaug, does not

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imply that people actually regard each other as equals but, rather, refers to a strict behavior code that emphasizes equality in the sense that no one is better than anyone else. Furthermore, leaning on Gluckman (1955) to understand the interactional forms associated with the village, Sørhaug argues that: The village is full of conflicts of which everyone is aware, and because of this it becomes unnatural and improper to speak of these [conflicts] directly, at least in public settings. Gossip therefore becomes an important element in the social life of the village. The conflicts do not in any way threaten the existence of the village, because everybody “knows” that at the end of the day, everything is actually personal relations and affairs. (Sørhaug 1984:64, my translation)

In this sense, social cohesion becomes a product of a range of activities and actions that the villagers are not necessarily aware of as actually contributing to maintaining the village, and leadership and social control become integral parts of actions and institutions that are simultaneously committed to other purposes. Sørhaug contrasts this “logic of the village” with the “logic of the state,” with the latter operating in accordance to the legal-rational principles associated with the modern state. In contrast to the aggregated form of steering characterizing the village, the state is considered (and considers itself ) to be a result of systematic and deliberate processes of governing. Furthermore, the state largely organizes power by separating it from the rest of the society. As the legitimacy of the state is derived from the totality of the society within its borders, legitimate administration of state power is dependent on barriers separating economic and political power. Both bureaucrats and politicians must, therefore, appear to be independent from specific economic interests. Rather than the multiplex relations characterizing the village, the relations of the state must therefore remain factual, uniplex and impersonal. In short, Sørhaug contrasts the social formations of the village and the state in the following manner: Village

State

Local Multiplex (“personal”) relations Egalitarian “Aggregate”

Central Uniplex (“factual”) relations Hierarchical “Steering”

Derived from Sørhaug 1984: 65; my translation.

While the contradicting logic of the village can undermine the logic producing the legitimacy of the state, Sørhaug demonstrates how the legitimacy of the village can also support the state, for example by portraying structural problems as solvable by personal involvement (1984:66). One consequence of this interplay, Sørhaug (1984) argues, is a less critical public debate than is found in other countries. As an example, Sørhaug notes that disqualification due to multiple

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roles and potential conflicts of interest is enforced less in Norway than, for example, in North America. This is partly because multiple roles are unavoidable in accordance with the logic of the village and are viewed with a certain amount of pragmatism, as well as a sense of trust rooted in the egalitarianism of the village (Sørhaug 1984). Furthermore, another reason for the lack of critical voices is the “discreet” nature of the village, where there are always issues that people do not discuss in public. In accordance with Barnes (1954), Sørhaug (1984) argues that this is partly because “anyone needing to know already knows,” and that bringing up conflicting issues threatens the unity of the village. As Sørhaug (1984) asserts, in a system where factual conflicts are seen as “actually” being personal issues, personal loyalties will inevitably generate secrecy on the one hand and gossip on the other. As I will discuss further in Chapter 6, Sørhaug’s notion of two alternative logics producing legitimacy is highly relevant in explaining not only how practices of government and practices of governance can draw their legitimacy from quite different institutional logics, but also how the two are embedded in policy practices. In line with many other observers of Norwegian culture (see Gullestad 1989b), Sørhaug’s main explanation for the existence of such contradictory logics is a Norwegian society that finds itself somehow between the rural, traditional modes of life of its recent past and the hierarchical and bureaucratic structures, that, according to such views, characterize modernity (see discussion in Vike 2018). Arguably, one unsatisfying aspect of treating social practices as surviving artifacts of the past is the blind eye turned toward the mechanisms of present-day structures that reproduce these supposedly outdated practices. In other words, the challenge at hand is to explain how the egalitarian logic of the village is embedded with the hierarchical logic of the state in present-day practices. Besides Sørhaug’s account, two other accounts from the same collection of essays (Klausen 1984) need to be briefly mentioned here. While neither of these addresses the question above directly, their observations do shed light on the topic and contribute to the analysis in the later chapters of this book. The first is Archetti’s (1984) observation that political culture in Norway is highly vested in the ideological belief in power as a result of objective processes. This, according to Archetti, leads to a strong emphasis on proper and open proceedings, as shared agreement on the framing of a political debate is understood as vital for securing access for all parties to participate on a factual basis. Bringing in past events that led to the current conflict is not considered proper, and neither is suggesting hidden conspiracies. One important consequence, according to Archetti, is that political conflicts are usually contained within their chosen arenas and seldom develop into conflicts of a more fundamental nature. The third essay in the collection, important to the themes discussed in this book, is Tord Larsen’s (1984) contribution titled “Peasants in the City” (my

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translation of the Norwegian title, “Bønder i byen”). Larsen explores the notion of a tendency to make “everything” political within Norwegian society, in the sense that all expressions should be traceable to a more “primary” form of reality, turning any separate issue into a matter of principle. The consequence is a “chaining of meaning” (tell me your position on … and I will tell you who you are, who you vote for, your position in the civil war of … and so on), in which discussing a matter isolated becomes impossible, leaving little space for neutrality. Ultimately, Larsen argues, this leads to a breakdown of spheres and a simultaneous translation of all forms of expression (including art and poetry, science, morals and entertainment) into a sort of “paramount reality”: politics. Without such neutral ground, it becomes impossible to discuss a matter on its own terms. For instance, discussion of whether the world is, in fact, round, independently of Galileo’s relation to God, was impossible before the question of God’s existence was made independent from the question of the Earth’s movements (Larsen 1984:25). The absence of such neutral ground, Larsen states, in line with Sørhaug (1984) as discussed above, is a characteristic of a “primitive society” in which everything, and consequently nothing, is politics. Importantly, Larsen argues that this tendency toward “packed meaning” leads to a kind of “ideological corporatism,” in which every expression of meaning becomes attached to a social structure and every spokesperson becomes a representative of such ideological communities. The political figure bred in such conditions is one of representation but not necessarily of a constituency as much as of a “package of meanings.” Larsen thus attempts a rewriting of the influential “Law of Jante” when he asserts that “You can think that you are special, but you have to clarify on whose behalf you are being special” (Larsen 1984:32, my translation). Bureaucratic individualism and hostile coexistence

According to the Swedish historian Lars Trägårdh, the most remarkable trait of the Nordic welfare state is not the common perception of a collectivist nature. Rather, Trägårdh suggests, “what is even more remarkable is the extent to which behind the Gemeinschaft of the so-called ‘homes of the people’ one finds a Gesellschaft of atomized individuals” (Trägårdh 1997:253). Trägårdh argues that the key trait of the Nordic welfare state is the alliance between state and individual, which is unthinkable in many other places where state power is perceived as a barrier to individual freedom. The notion of a particular cultural and historical handling of the inherent tension between egalitarianism and individualism, community and individual, is a central part of the literature exploring the historical and cultural underpinnings of the Nordic welfare state (e.g., Sørensen and Stråth 1997, Bendixen et al. 2018, Vike 2018). Within Scandinavian anthropology, Marianne Gullestad’s discussion

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of the notion of “equality as sameness” as a culturally specific way to resolve this tension has proved very influential (Gullestad 1991, 1992, 2002). Gullestad’s point is that while equality, for instance in the North American context, connotes ideas of equal opportunity (to become different), the Norwegian word for equality, likhet, literally means “sameness,” as it is applied to emphasize similarity not only in the processes of social life but also in results (1992:185). Accordingly, the strong notion of equality creates interactional styles that tend to emphasize sameness and under-communicate differences or altogether avoid relating to people of whom sameness has not been established or can no longer be maintained. While the notion of equality as sameness causes a resistance in many social situations to recognizing prestige and social differences, it is also essential to the idea of community, which carries a highly positive notion in Norwegian culture with its attachment to ideas of a moral totality of stable norms (Gullestad 1992:193–198). As people must see each other as equals to establish a notion of community, Gullestad coins the term “imagined sameness” to describe this egalitarian logic (2002:47). Meanwhile, the notion of individualism is ambiguous, as it may be associated with egotism, viewed as a negative trait, or with independence, which is viewed more positively. The key notion in the Norwegian concept of individualism, Gullestad argues, is therefore the idea of independence (1992:184). As the Norwegian notion of individualism (in its positive aspects) emphasizes independence to a greater extent than originality, individualism is not incompatible with a certain conformity, as prescribed by the egalitarian logic vested in equality as sameness (Gullestad 1992:199). In her work, Gullestad’s “egalitarian individualism” is closely associated with the realm of home, local community and the private, while she argues that Norwegians, in general, associate public spheres such as bureaucracy and the market with hierarchy, formality and impersonality (Gullestad 1989a, 1992). More recently, Halvard Vike has pointed out that by making the “home” a shelter from the impersonal relations of the “modern” society, this perspective fails to comprehend the links between egalitarianism and the formalized relational forms associated with the state and public life. Thus Vike (2013, 2018) argues that Gullestad’s perspective is in need of modification if it is to encompass the historical significance of formalized relations in the Nordic countries and their profound role in shaping the modern welfare state’s institutions. In a series of recent publications, Vike (2012, 2013, 2015, 2018) has suggested that the individualistic egalitarianism emphasized in descriptions of Nordic culture should be understood as a consequence of specific historical ways of organizing social relations in the Nordic countries. He thus objects both to an understanding of individualistic egalitarianism as an inherent Nordic cultural trait maintained by a lack of diversity (e.g., Larsen 1984) and (as mentioned above) to Gullestad’s (1989a, 1992) notion of egalitarianism as a property of the “home” under threat of the hierarchical and impersonal structures of the state and public life.

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Central to his argument is the important role of associations and mass movements and the long-lasting tradition of formalizing social relations within the Nordic societies, which he argues constitute the preconditions for (rather than threats against) Nordic egalitarianism and a particular form of “bureaucratic individualism” (Vike 2013, 2018). In his historically oriented analysis, Vike emphasizes that the path to political modernization was largely characterized by the emergence of organized politics and mass movements. The key role of associations in the construction of political institutions and the attached moral principle of “membership” are recognizable in how the municipality is still, in many ways, understood in terms of being a “membership association” (Vike 2013:158). A pivotal point in Vike’s analysis is that the formalization of personal relationships into what he labels as “proto-bureaucratic” social forms is not only a way to organize Foucauldian pastoral power (Dean 1999), but is also a viable tool for ensuring autonomy from hierarchical power (Vike 2013:188). In the Nordic countries, such proto-bureaucratic relations gained importance at a comparatively early stage. One illustration is the important role played by local government and volunteer organizations at early stages of modernization and state-building processes. Particularly in Norway, the limited extent of nobility and feudal structures, and the lack of independent statehood early on, made the peasants’ role in local government considerable and crucial during the nineteenth century. While within different frameworks, all the Nordic countries adopted administrative and political reforms supporting local government during the nineteenth century (including the aforementioned Formannskaps Acts in Norway) that were expected to deal with a wide range of issues without the involvement of the state (Aronsson 1997:174). In Norway, the Formannskaps Acts were understood as a necessary step after the drawing of the Constitution at Eidsvoll in 1814, making local and regional governments an integral part of the national pursuit for sovereignty. From an early stage, the emerging governing bodies of local government were seen as a way to power by the local peasantry. Farmers gradually took central positions in the municipalities and later, as a group, came to dominate the national parliament (Aronsson 1997:176). Closely intertwined with both local and national governments during the nineteenth century, voluntary associations and popular movements also came to play a crucial role in integrating rural political culture into the moldings of the welfare state (Sivesind and Selle 2010). While locally based, the Nordic associations had early and ambitious goals to influence national politics, and provided an important vertical linkage between local and national politics (Haukelien 2013). Accordingly, Vike argues that the common understanding of the peasant communities being embedded into the state and only then becoming diversified, formalized and modernized is fundamentally unsuitable for the Norwegian case. From the late Middle Ages onwards, peasants in Norway could mostly be regarded as freeholders, and the administration of property and autonomy had largely

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been administered by formal legal procedures (Vike 2013:188, Park 1998). In this regard, the early juridical protection of autonomy can be understood as a liberal expression of autonomy as “freedom from,” but while the protection from hierarchical power, such as indiscriminate state power or privileged city citizens, may have been the primary concern, protection from horizontal threats (i.e., neighbors) may also have provided an important motivation. Expanding the argument, Vike argues that the role of these early juridical frameworks would later come to inform the perceptions of both the central state and the local governments that would occupy this role as protectors of, rather than threats to, personal autonomy (Vike 2013:188–189). The notion of the formalization of social relations as instruments of protecting personal autonomy also has wider implications for an understanding of the emphasis on equality within Nordic culture. As noted earlier, locally based organizations and mass movements played vital roles in the Nordic state-building processes. The early success of these associations in gaining control over the governing structures of the state necessitated a form of “formally organized egalitarianism” as a means of ensuring that the delegated power of these organizations remained loyal to their grass roots (Vike 2012:128–129). According to Vike, the political morals springing from this need to control leaders is characterized by a high degree of social control related to specific common moral standards. Important components include conformity, an intense exchange of information about the conduct of members and particularly of leaders and, importantly, a normative emphasis on disinterested acts benefitting the common good of the association (Vike 2012:138). While a high degree of trust is also an important byproduct, Vike (2012) argues that such trust is not necessarily related to an enduring faith in the integrity of the leader but rather to the knowledge that the leaders who stray away from the group’s moral rules of conduct will face consequences. Simultaneously, this formalized egalitarianism, or “morals of membership,” has also had the effect of protecting individuals horizontally from each other by limiting the extent of personalized dependencies (Vike 2012, Trägårdh 1997). While a single association may exercise social control over its members through its egalitarian principles, the system of having multiple memberships in different associations balances this threat to individual autonomy. As Vike (2015) argues, the holding of memberships of multiple associations with specific agendas became common early in the Nordic societies. This created not only a system of overlapping allegiances but also a system in which the members could easily withdraw and avoid personal dependencies. In this regard, Barnes’s (1954) descriptions of the social system of Bremnes become illustrations of how such cross-cutting memberships and the principle of associations became vitally important in local government, and they also provide insightful analysis of the conditions limiting the extent of

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personalized dependency. While the social fields comprising the Bremnes social system consisted of multiple associations within different industrial and territorial fields, the formal principle of associations created contextual barriers through which power discrepancies and hierarchical structures could not automatically be transferred from one field to the other (Barnes 1954, Vike 2015). Promoting the argument further, Vike (2015) suggests that the term “crosscutting cleavages,” derived from Stein Rokkan’s (1987) descriptions of politics on a national level, can be applied to explain how overlapping associations and loyalties shape political institutions. In a comparative perspective, Rokkan (1987) applies the term “political cleavage” to the description of different political interests and conflicts that have shaped the political development (i.e., the formation of political parties) within the different states of Western Europe in the post-industrial period. While some cleavages may coincide (religious cleavages may, for example, correspond with territorial cleavages), other cleavages “cross-cut” each other. In a historical analysis, Rokkan argues that politics in Norway is characterized by a high degree of such cross-cutting cleavages that have shaped the formation of political parties in Norwegian history (1987:111–204). By institutionalizing different cross-cutting cleavages in political parties (and other associations), the political scope of each association and party is diversified so that each association represents only a limited selection of its individual members’ political interests. As a result, the individual person must obtain memberships of multiple associations to achieve a “complete” set of political representation, thus creating cross-cutting conflict patterns in which a political conflict can mobilize alliances among actors who have conflicting stands on other political issues (Vike 2015). The notion of cross-cutting cleavages, derived from Rokkan, has been applied not only to studies of how voting alignments and formal political affiliations shape the formation of political parties, but also to efforts to understand the conditions of democratic stability, since coinciding cleavages can potentially lead to the development of fundamentalism and damaging confrontations (Vike 2015). As Vike notes, expanding Rokkan’s notion of cross-cutting cleavages to also include informal allegiances brings it very much into line with notions of segmentary oppositions and conflicting allegiances from classical political anthropology. The most famous example is, probably, Max Gluckman’s (1955) discussion of how feuding arises and is restrained in societies without governmental institutions. Heavily based on Evans-Prichard’s descriptions of feuds and allegiances among the Nuer of South Sudan, Gluckman’s (1955) argument is that social cohesion in such societies is rooted in conflicts and quarrels in which people are organized into series of groups and relations, but where customary obligations and exogamy create cross-cutting ties and loyalties. In this way, the need to stay at peace with your neighbors, or your wife’s family, even if your clan has a dispute with them,

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ensures that quarrels and feuds are settled before escalating out of hand (when sufficient cross-cutting ties are in place). Another well-known example mentioned by Vike (2012) is by Fredrik Barth. Barth’s analysis in Political Leadership among Swat Phatans (1959a) and, particularly, the article “Segmentary opposition and the theory of games: a study of Pathan organization” (1959b) draw attention to the strategic and pragmatic aspects of such shifting alliances. While Gluckman and Evans-Pritchard emphasized stability and social cohesion in their analyses of allegiances among the Nuers, Barth’s analysis of the Swat Pathans displays a more unstable and unpredictable system of opportunistic and changing alliances in which normative rules of kinship ties are only parts of wider sets of incentives and constraints to be considered when choosing allegiances. By expanding Rokkan’s notion of cross-cutting cleavages to include the investigation of how both formal and informal loyalties shape political institutions, Vike demonstrates how cross-cutting alliances create horizontal ties and a balance of power that can possibly modify or even transform the vertical institutional logic of the governmental bodies (2015). In regard to local government, Haukelien et al. coin the term “hostile coexistence” (2011:20, my translation) to describe how trust and conflict coincide in local politics. They argue that conflicts within local politics have a particular ability to generate trust because (1) lines of conflict tend to overlap, (2) compromises are created among partners representing important local communities of interest and (3) the responsibilities of local politics are both concrete and binding in a community where people know each other (Haukelien et al. 2011:20). The idea that local politics, characterized by horizontal and overlapping ties, generates a political culture of trust and emphasis on social cohesion is largely in line with the observations of an egalitarian emphasis in Norwegian political culture discussed above and, particularly, with Barnes’s (1954) observations of local government in Bremnes. Furthermore, Vike’s argument for the connection between egalitarianism and bureaucratic individualism represents an alternative to the sort of explanations attempted by Sørhaug (1984) and Larsen (1984), suggesting that the emphasis on equality is a consequence of a historic lack of diversity. Nevertheless, Vike’s line of reasoning is highly compatible with many of the observations discussed earlier. In a system of overlapping ties, confining political struggle within formal structures and avoiding damaging climaxes (Archetti 1984) becomes a necessity to ensure that a conflict with a person who is your enemy in one situation does not damage your relationship with the same person who is needed as friend and ally in another situation. Moreover, a system of overlapping loyalties exists in tension with the universalistic legitimacy of the state (Sørhaug 1984), but clarifying what package of meaning you are formally representing (and not representing) at any given time may still allow you to be special (Larsen 1984).

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Notes 1 By some accounts, such as one by the Norwegian historian Arne Bergsgård (1886–1954), introduction of the Formannskaps Acts is also understood as a reintroduction of local government forms dating back to times before absolute monarchy in Norway. See Lauten 2010 for an overview of historical accounts discussing the introduction of the Formannskaps Acts. 2 The term “village” is my own translation of the Norwegian term “bygda” applied by Sørhaug (1984), connoting, in this historical context, a household pattern emphasizing the conjugal bond and nuclear family rather than the emphasis on extended family ties often associated with the social formations of the pre-modern “village” elsewhere (see Solheim 2016). The distinction made here is important as it provides a plausible explanation for why local government came to be dominated by relatively autonomous individuals organized in committees (in Barnes’s sense), rather than larger kinship-based corporate groups (see Park 1998).

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An introduction to municipal policy development In the previous chapters I have outlined the historical development of the Norwegian municipality and discussed three interrelated narratives dominating the descriptions of how municipal leadership has developed in recent decades. The first narrative concerned the impact of the New Public Management (NPM) reforms, which have, arguably, had a fragmenting effect both within the municipal organizations themselves and on their surrounding governing structures. The second narrative was the supposed transition from government to governance, describing a shift toward networked forms of governance in the production of public policy. In the context of Norwegian municipalities, this shift has been related to an increase in the use of intermunicipal cooperation. The third narrative was the tendency toward closer integration of the municipalities into the combined administrative machinery of the central state. It is argued that, by deploying more formal and bureaucratic forms of steering, the central state has strengthened its hierarchical control over the municipalities, thus turning the municipalities into mere implementers of state policy. In combination, the three narratives paint a picture of the modern-day Norwegian municipality as a fragmented organization, and of municipal policy development as a process caught in the tension between government and governance, organizational hierarchies and “flattened” networked steering and, also, between the autonomy of local government and state control. In this and the following chapters, I examine the relevance of these interrelated descriptions and tensions through empirical descriptions of municipal policy processes. This chapter begins this journey by exploring both the staging and the enactment of municipal policy processes through ethnographic micro-level accounts originating from my fieldwork. In the first part of this chapter, I introduce the organizational landscape of the municipal organizations I studied by introducing some of the people whom I met during fieldwork. Describing their tasks and organizational position allows me to illustrate the ambiguity of organizational borders that complicate a strict division between “inside” and “outside” in daily work procedures and policy processes.

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In the second part of the chapter, I reconstruct two cases of policy development that will form an empirical background for analysis later on. The empirical cases introduced in this part will therefore be revisited and further examined, along with other empirical cases, in the later chapters leading up to the concluding part of this book. The first example describes the process of building a sporting arena, and represents an example of a policy processes with a political actor as the prime mover. The second example concerns the process surrounding what I have called the “Health Service Center” (HSC), representing an example of a policy process driven by an administrative actor as the prime mover. I have chosen the two cases as introductory examples, because in combination they demonstrate many of the themes and points important for the main themes covered in this book. First, both cases entail a degree of controversy and thus show how both the political and administrative spheres of the municipal organization become arenas of political struggle during policy processes. Second, while demonstrating how both political and administrative actors can become the prime movers of policy processes, they also show how successful “municipal entrepreneurship” depends on a dialectic relationship between the two roles. Third, and most importantly concerning the ambition of exploring the relationship between government and governance (see the discussion in Chapter 2), the two cases both display how internal and external relations (and resources) are tightly interwoven during policy processes, and how external relations become an integral part of policy struggles within the municipal organization. Several organizations in one

The municipal halls are, perhaps, the foremost physical manifestation of local democracy and the municipal organization in Norwegian municipalities. With many being built at the time of the last municipal restructuring during the 1960s and 1970s, Norway’s municipal halls are often highly recognizable, with a functionalistic architectural design, typical of the era, and their respective coats of arms well displayed. More than being a symbolic mark of local government, the municipal halls are also sizable workplaces. Built to accommodate the top political and administrative leadership, along with other key functions and parts of the municipal organization, any municipal hall houses a highly specialized workforce with a wide array of expertise. With professional needs including a wide range of expert fields, such as engineering, city planning, agriculture, economy, law, school education, culture and sports, health and care, and human resources – to name just a few – the average-sized municipal hall probably houses a wider array of disciplines than what many Norwegian universities offer in their course catalogues. Upon my arrival for fieldwork, my initial impression of life within the municipal hall aligned mostly with my expectations of a diverse range of expertise and

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functions: working to meet the day-to-day needs of the municipal organization and providing services to its inhabitants. The latter preconception of an administration managing a clearly demarked municipal organization and providing services within its municipal borders would, however, soon be modified as I started looking into the daily work routines of my informants. Tax collection is one of the functions that can serve as an illustration. Along with other functions, in both the present and the past, tax collection represents a municipal task where the narrative of the municipalities acting as state servants fits well. Mike, responsible for tax collection in one of the municipalities I studied, explained to me at lunch early in my fieldwork that the main division of the work was that “the state handles the calculation of taxes, while the municipality does the collection.” While the municipality was his formal employer and paid his salary, Mike argued that, regarding the professional content of his position, he largely considered the state to be his employer. Stepping into Mike’s office for the first time later the same day, in an effort to get a better understanding of his job, I was however struck by the physical manifestation of another puzzling feature in his daily workflow. Organized on separate sides of the desk in front of his revolving chair were two separate desktop computers, complete with sets of displays and keyboards. As Mike explained it, the desktop computer on his right-hand side was logged onto the tax-collection system with a user account providing access to his own municipality, while the left-hand desktop was logged on with an account giving access to the tax-collection system of one of the neighboring municipalities. This arrangement, therefore, allowed him to handle cases within two different municipalities with a simple turn of his chair without the time-consuming process of logging into and out of the software systems with separate user accounts for the different municipalities. The need to quickly access the systems of the neighboring municipalities was due to a long-lasting informal intermunicipal collaboration, through which he had been collaborating for several years on the task of tax collection with colleagues in three neighboring municipalities. The collaboration had sprung out of what Mike called as a “collegial collaboration” on tax collection, established together with the municipalities involved over ten years earlier, with the primary purpose of sharing professional knowledge and creating common routines and work documents to ease the flow of work in the separate municipalities. Over time, the collaboration had evolved as they began to assist each other with concrete case handling across the municipalities’ borders when workloads were stacking up, particularly as a result of sick leave and vacancies. At the time of my fieldwork, Mike was leading a work group committed to further developing and formalizing the tax-collection collaboration between the four municipalities into a formal intermunicipal cooperation. According to Mike, the need to further develop the hitherto informal arrangement was partly due

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to the vulnerability of having single positions in each municipality dealing with such highly specialized tasks, and partly due to the state’s tax authorities urging small municipalities to collaborate on the task, the latter being particularly aimed at those municipalities with fewer than three positions dedicated to it. Formalizing the collaboration would also have the benefit of relieving Mike of his dual computer setup, as the state tax authority would then allow him to access all of the involved municipalities’ systems from a single user account. Mike argued that the latter possibility, which had been introduced quite recently in a new tax-collection system provided by the state tax authority, was an indication of the central government’s ambition to centralize the task, the first step being to abolish the one-man tax-collection offices in the smaller municipalities. Originally, Mike had an understanding with his chief municipal executive (CME), who had been working toward developing the collaboration into a “host municipality model,” meaning that the task was to be centralized in a single office within one of the municipalities that would handle the tax collection of all the municipalities concerned for an agreed fee. However, this idea was soon abandoned, as it became clear that the tax collectors in several of the other municipalities were reluctant to physically move into a new centralized office in another municipality. Mike was, therefore, now writing a suggestion that the collaboration should be framed as what he called a “virtual host municipality model.” This suggestion entailed that personnel concerned with the task would remain both physically and formally employed within their current municipalities, while still handling workloads across municipal borders as in the current informal arrangement. With this solution, Mike hoped to avoid a lengthy processes of negotiation with both the municipalities’ political leadership and the personnel involved about the geographic placement of their offices. Another example illustrating the ambiguous borders of the municipal organization was found a few corridor meters away from Mike’s office, in an office situated amid the executive offices bearing the name plate: “Sissel: Project Manager ‘MedNet.’” “MedNet” was a state-funded project for implementing a new electronic interaction system between different municipal and state-owned health and care institutions. Despite appearances, Sissel, the project manager situated in the office, was not formally employed by the municipality hosting her office or by any state agency. Instead, her employer was the administration of a neighboring municipality that was formally hosting the project, while her formal leadership comprised an intermunicipal board with executive board members from all of the municipal administrations involved in the project. From her office, and with the help of professional guidance from the state agency funding the project, she was currently coordinating separate project teams in each of the four involved municipalities, while also handling procurement procedures and the coordination of several private companies providing technical solutions for the project.

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Yet another example was the “course development office” (CDO), occupying two offices at the end of a corridor in one of the municipal halls. The CDO currently employed two full-time employees, both of whom had been previously employed by the municipality in other positions. As with Sissel, their leadership comprised an intermunicipal board with board members on the executive level from the involved municipalities. Unlike Sissel, however, they were not employed by any particular municipality. The CDO was, instead, organized as a permanent intermunicipal enterprise owned by the collaborating municipalities, with the board independently employing the personnel. Its main purpose was to provide courses to municipal employers within a wide range of specialized fields. While its municipal owners provided its core funding (i.e., the two positions), many of its activities and courses were funded by central government and county authority funds. This made obtaining external resources for the CDO’s own activities an essential task. By obtaining external funding, the board leader estimated that the CDO was actually tripling the amount of money that its municipal owners put into it when measured by the cost of its activity output. In addition to providing funding, the CDO was also dependent on external partners for the development of courses, most of which were developed and carried out in close collaboration with different central government agencies, county authorities and private actors. The three examples above illustrate how the municipal hall does not encompass a single municipal organization; rather, it is an intermingled mass of organizational forms intertwined to the core municipal organization (as legally defined) through different arrangements, but all with the common purpose of doing municipal tasks. Following the general understanding of organizations as social units established to achieve certain ends (Batteau 2001, Scott and Davis 2007), and thereby recognizing that organizational frames are results of social situations and subject to change (Giskeødegård 2013), it could be argued that the actors of the municipal organizations I studied were continuously shaping and framing their organizational form to achieving policy goals. The examples above represent two formalized examples of such reshaping, and one in the making. The latter example does, however, point to an important feature of such collaborations, with the tax-collection collaboration a largely institutionalized collaboration still awaiting a formalized framing: that such collaborations are reframing the organizational boundaries of municipal tasks and policy processes through both formal and informal arrangements. While not unique in the municipal halls I studied, the above examples are somewhat extreme, as the municipal administrators involved were (or were in the process of being) formally employed by a collaborative arrangement. However, they illustrate the social landscape I found within the municipal halls, where most administrators at all levels were, to some extent, involved in different sorts

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of collaborative efforts through formal and informal arrangements in their daily tasks. As previously discussed, my initial plan during the early parts of fieldwork was to explore how networked policy processes affected administrative and political actors in the municipal halls. By first identifying networked policy processes and their arenas, I planned to study how policy decisions were made through networks, and then trace the effects of such decisions to internal policy processes in the municipal organization. By diving into the everyday life of the municipal hall, the level of interconnectedness I found between the formal municipal organization and its external surroundings – through their collaborative arrangements and the relations between the individual administrator and politician – soon forced a shift in my angle of approach. The multitude of connections between both different processes and events made it impossible to create a clear analytical distinction between what could be understood as “networked” processes and “internal” processes. Rather than identifying and tracing networked policy, I would thus have to start with the individual actor in the municipal hall and explore how they employed both external and internal relations to the formal organization in their efforts to achieve policy goals. This approach, I argue, can lead to an exploration of a central point, with important analytical consequences, concerning the relationship between external networked relations and internal policy development. External relations and networks are not only tools employed by the municipality to achieve the formal organization’s common policy goals but also tools employed by the individual actor within the organization to define these policy goals. In other words, external relations are strategic tools in the internal political power struggle of the municipal organization. While this point may seem trivial, I argue that the emphasis put on the division between internal hierarchical processes and externally networked processes (i.e., between government and governance) in central parts of the literature on network governance (as discussed in Chapter 2) results in a lack of attention to how external relations are applied in internal power struggles. The latter point will be elaborated throughout the chapters that follow. First, however, I will start with two concrete examples of how municipal policy processes unfold themselves as viewed from the municipal hall. The sporting arena

Raymond, the municipality’s mayor, walks toward me where I’m sitting in the common area just outside his office. We manage to exchange a few polite words of greeting before he notices his vice-mayor walking by. He quickly grabs hold of the vice-mayor, ushering him into the mayor’s office for “a few words.” At

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4 p.m. the municipal hall is usually almost abandoned; however, this evening is different. The corridor is filled with people running around in an unusually hectic manner. Papers are printed, last-minute coordination is done in the corridors, and coffee cans are being filled, all in preparation for the evening’s scheduled municipal council meeting. Carrying a can of coffee and some biscuits, Jane, the service center manager, asks me to join her on the way in. Local politicians are already pouring in as we make our way down the corridor toward the municipal council room. With most of them arriving directly from their daytime jobs, the attire is strikingly casual, as are the conversations mostly concerning the upcoming moose hunt. The casual greetings are soon interrupted, however, by one of the councilors voicing his dissatisfaction over the large number of cases on the meeting’s agenda. “Well, at least there are no heavy cases,” another one quickly replies, which is met with an immediate burst of laughter from the other councilors. The irony of the statement originates from one of the cases toward the end of the agenda, involving the highly politicized and controversial building of a sporting arena in the municipality with a price tag approaching 50 million Norwegian kroner. The meeting occurred on the second day of my fieldwork, yet the tension caused by the sporting arena already had me engaged to the point where I was feeling strangely involved in the ongoing excitement, of which I had been completely ignorant before starting my fieldwork. The sporting arena had been by far the most frequent topic of conversation and had even caused a few heated discussions during the few lunches and coffee breaks I had attended. The outcome was far from certain, although most of the administrators and the mayor himself had calculated that the municipal council would probably vote in favor of the project by a minimal margin. Heavily invested in the project, the mayor had been working for years to realize it, along with a handful of administrators. The same morning, I had, while having coffee with administrators and politicians in the municipal hall, seen how the mayor and some of the executive administrators were still on their toes fearing threats to the sporting arena project. After seeing a short article in the newspaper that reported on a named business owner in the municipality who had applied for a building permit (for unnamed purposes), Raymond, the mayor, reacted immediately and started passing the newspaper around for the administrators to see: Raymond: I thought we had a deal? [As I would later learn, the named business owner had an informal agreement with the municipality to rent a small part of the proposed sporting arena hall, if the project went ahead.] Erik (one of the administrative executives): We will have to check it out tomorrow. Raymond: Yes, but I was sure we had an agreement, [sum of money] yearly! Erik: This one, you handle it!

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Raymond: No, I can’t. He is [describing relation to the business owner, indicating conflict of interest], you know. It makes it difficult. Erik: OK, then [another administrator] will have to handle it. Jane: I was in at the front desk when we received the application; he told me it was just a precaution. Raymond: Well, he could have waited a day! He should have thought about how this would look in the newspaper!

As the long-term financing of the project had been questioned by the political opposition to the sporting arena, the notice in the newspaper (suggesting that a business owner expected to rent space in the arena was looking elsewhere) could be enough to spread sufficient doubt to sway the outcome. The scene also suggested a political alliance between the mayor and the administrators concerning the particular case: Raymond immediately turned to his administrative colleagues around the table, or at least those of the administrators who could be considered political allies to the cause, to handle the case in a way that would contain the political consequences. The sporting arena had been a political struggle in the municipality for close to three decades, two prior attempts to realize the project having failed. While some considered it to be a giant boost for the municipality’s sport and cultural activities, others pointed to the large financial commitments involved, which could endanger the economic situation of a municipal administration on a constantly tight budget. Many claimed, however, that the real tension was caused by an underlying and historically rooted conflict concerning the proposed location of the building. Prior to the last restructuring during the 1960s, the municipality had consisted of several smaller municipalities with different municipal centers. The newly formed municipality covered a huge geographical area, with distances of over an hour-long drive between the municipal center and some of the former centers and settlements. The placement of the new municipal center had, therefore, been a topic of heated debate. With the gradual centralization of public services, such as schools and health services, the controversy surrounding the placement of public goods had persisted and occasionally hardened, as inhabitants of the former municipalities felt that services were being pulled away from their local communities. All of my informants emphasized the need to understand this problematic feature in order to understand both the general political landscape of the municipality and the particular case of the sporting arena. The geographical division dominated the political landscape to such a degree that many of the national political parties represented in the municipal council were directly associated in the collective consciousness with particular geographical areas within the municipality. The conflict around the sporting arena played directly into this conflict, as many considered it a massive centralization of the municipalities’ sporting and

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cultural activities. While the council members were divided on the issue, with some swayable, I was told that many had to stick with their voting bases in the different geographical areas, where some voters would consider voting for the sporting arena an act close to treason. In the prior attempts to realize the project, it was claimed, mayors had lost re-elections mainly because of their stance for or against the building. This time around, Raymond, the current mayor, had been the one reviving the issue. According to him, this third round had started around four years ago, when he had followed one of the municipalities’ sport teams to a national championship arranged in a neighboring municipality. Raymond: When saying goodbye to them [the team], I bragged a lot, and told them that next time we would build an arena for them here [in the municipality]. Researcher: You declared it openly? Raymond: Yes, I declared it openly! But they were all part of the congregation, you know [sure supporters of the project], over there. I remembered that, and it has remained in the back of my head – damn, we have to accomplish this!

The team and the community around it were to become the first of many allies recruited for the purpose of promoting the sporting arena. Shortly after declaring his intentions at the national championship, Raymond invited several key actors from his municipality’s sporting and cultural communities for a meeting to discuss the project: We invited them to an open meeting at the café. For those who were interested in working for this project. And we put together a task group, a preliminary task group, at that meeting. But there was … there has been voiced some criticism for that starting point. Because, well, who was invited to this first meeting? Was it really open? Was it only a “hallelujah” crowd, with people praising the project, was it? Well, maybe it was. It might have been. There was no point in inviting people that were strongly opposed [to the project] to come, people that we knew to be strongly opposed, when we were trying to carry such a cause through. You don’t want those people in a group that’s supposed to work toward such a project. So some criticism has been voiced over that starting point.

Simultaneously, another unexpected opportunity to gain an ally to the project emerged, when it became apparent that the premises of a county-owned educational program in the municipality were in poor condition. Therefore county officials, along with representatives running the educational program, were invited to a meeting in the municipality, at which the county agreed to a letter of intent promising to rent new premises for their service in the building of the sporting arena – if the project was ever realized. With the ball rolling and a strong coalition built, the process had reached the point where it was ready for a first processing in the municipal council, at this

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point only asking the municipal council to approve a smaller sum of money toward a preliminary project to calculate costs and draft a plan for the building. The timing for putting all of this together was not coincidental, however. The municipality had recently gained a substantial lump sum of money through its partial ownership of a power company, after a lengthy and complicated juridical struggle that had recently ended. According to Raymond, the newly won financial capability was essential. Raymond explained to me: I figured that we had a possibility with this upcoming lump sum of money. Now we had the possibility of realizing something that could be common for the entire municipality, without having to borrow ourselves to the grave. […] We could of course have paved our roads or done other things. That would have been reasonable too, of course. But, well, I took the ball there, and convinced the municipal council that this was an opportunity that we would never have again – there will not be any more large lump sums like this again.

The money had been essential for gaining the municipal council’s approval of the preliminary project. But it was also essential in recruiting another important ally for the project’s long haul − the administration: Researcher: When you are pushing through such a process, that you know is going to be hard on all sides, who are the first you have to get support from; the administration or the municipal council? Raymond: Well, it could not have been done without the administration being in on it. If they were working against it, not seeing it possible, [saying] “Now you are breaking [our] economy” and such things, then it wouldn’t be possible. They have been sort of on hold throughout the process. Everybody can be in on a preliminary project. “We can see what is in it, if it is possible” and so on. Everybody is sort of in on that. But when the going gets tough, and we are going to get it into our, we have fitted it into our budget plan, long-term budget and such. And if the administration had not been in on that, then we would have never been able to do that.

As in the rest of the community, the sporting arena had also been a cause of conflict and heated debate within the municipal administration. One of the administrators recalled an incident during the prior attempt to realize the sporting arena, which unfolded as he was getting a lift home after work from a colleague who was, at the time, a main protagonist for the project: I had just moved to the municipality at that time, and I noticed for sure that there was a large involvement attached to this [sporting arena]. And I did not really have any … it was not a matter of life or death to me, because they [proponents of the hall] were trying to pull me into this. [They] wanted me to join them and maybe become an active spokesperson for this. But I did not really have any [interest in it]; I was not ready [to have a clear opinion about it].

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So I was catching a ride home in his [the colleague’s] car. And, just for the hell of it, I started to argue against the whole thing [the sporting arena]. Then, by the time we were almost at my house, he got so angry that he stopped the car – and I had to get out. […] I [finally] asked him if I could ride with him for a bit longer, I was too lazy [to walk]. “Yes,” he said, “shut the door.” And he drove me home. Not a single word was spoken. That was when I understood the amount of emotion at work. For me, I did it just to jack him up a bit.

In the previous round, the main proponents of building the sporting arena had been a group of administrators without sufficient support from the political position and mayor at that time. While most of these administrators had rallied to the cause again when Raymond revived the process, there were still key actors within the administration who were skeptical of the project. Most importantly, the current CME had long held a cautious stance toward the project. As he explained: Yes, I will admit to that. I have been dwelling in reluctance [det har sittet ganske langt inne hos meg]. Because I’m looking at it from the angle of [costs associated with] running it. That has been my greatest worry. But when we received this gift package from the power company […]. Then you have more room for maneuver, and a much, much cheaper cost of running it than previously. And when all of that was in place [lifting his shoulders in approval] …

The political battle was still far from won, despite the approval for the preliminary project of the municipal council, which would map the costs and draft a more detailed proposal for the main project of actually building the arena. While the lump sum of money from the power company would cover some of the building costs, a large share of the financing still needed to be found. The political opposition against the building was still strong, with the financial consequences receiving the most outspoken criticism. One potential source of substantial funding was state funds dedicated to the building of sporting arenas. However, acquiring such funds required approval of the project from the responsible ministry and administering the funds in accordance with strict guidelines. This meant that the proposed plan had to be developed in dialog with the ministry to ensure that the building would comply with its funding scheme’s requirements. The plan’s designers would, thus, have to balance the requirements from the ministry against the different interests within the municipality. While the administrators now formally working with the project would handle some of this contact, Raymond had also been in direct telephone contact with the ministry on several occasions, asking about different requirements. Another source of funding came from the municipality’s commercial sponsors in the private sector. In particular, one of the biggest employers there had expressed an interest early in the process and had committed itself to contributing

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a substantial sum, and had additionally been active in recruiting other sponsors from local commerce and industry. While support from local commerce and industry totaled around 5 percent of the building costs, their outspoken support for the project may even have been more important. In a local community threatened by outward migration and in strong need of industry and commerce to secure both employment and tax income, serving the needs of the local private sector provides a strong political argument for any case. In this particular case, the support from local commerce and industry would, however, also prove vital to gaining another outside ally. Raymond and the administrators working on the project had been in contact early on with the county about the possibility of receiving funding. The county had responded in the early phases that it had no funding schemes matching the project. However, Raymond had written an application for funding from a county-administered funding scheme aimed at trade and industry development (TID) fund, although the sporting arena could hardly be defined as such a project. Raymond explained: [Local] industry and commerce had come up with big money, but not enough. So there was a lot of hassle. And we sent an application to the TID fund at the early stages. I wrote it. [I] wrote a lot of applications […] and to the TID fund – and we received a clear rejection. It did not fit into their scheme. […] OK, so be it. But we had another process running, and a few meetings with [a county politician] concerning trade and industry development in [our] municipality […] and he is a very nice guy … he wants to be positive and say “yes, yes, yes.” And toward the end of a meeting he sort of drifted off a bit and said: “OK, come to me if you’re lacking final funding, if you’re missing a few millions then you can come.” Researcher: In what other circumstances did you meet him [the county politician]? Raymond: In all kinds of things related to trade and commerce. Among other things he will be here next week to talk about agriculture. I don’t remember the exact meeting; it might have been a common meeting where we presented the sporting arena project. We have been to [the county office] many times to present it, as the county is in on education and such [referring to the county’s promise of renting space]. I think it might have been in one of those circumstances he said it. […] So we remembered that, [and reminded him] “You did say so.” So we took the opportunity to lobby it, and we eventually got the feeling that the county mayor signaled that if there were to be a possibility, it would have to be the TID fund, although they [the county] possess other funds […]. With that signal in mind, we understood that we would have to have the [local] trade and industry more heavily involved. Then the boys from [the local industry] involved themselves and wrote a statement that we attached to the new application that we sent. And they have been lobbying the board of the TID fund. It’s like this; the [TID fund] board does not decide, but the board recommends [approval or rejection of ] the applications [to the county politicians with the final word].

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Raymond went on to name the members of the TID fund board, of which several (including the board leader) were fellow mayors from other municipalities, people with whom he was very familiar. He continued:

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So there has been some lobbying done against them [the TID fund board], but I have not done it, I have kept myself a bit in the background. But the guys from trade and industry have been doing it. Researcher: They have pulled some strings? Raymond: They have pulled some strings there, and they gave it another angle – and the board said yes! [Changed their mind] to, “OK, we’re in, because this means so much for the trade and industry – for recruitment and such.” And that’s what industry also thinks. That having something like this in the municipality would mean a lot for their recruitment and attractiveness.

At the time of my conversation with Raymond concerning the TID funding, he had the same day received the final confirmation from the county authorities that the sporting arena would receive funding from the scheme. However, he had counted on receiving the funding for a long time and had included the funds in budgets presented to the municipal council, so a failure to obtain it would have been devastating for the project at this point. Therefore I asked him when he had felt certain enough to bet on the TID funding: Raymond: Well, we are never certain before actually receiving the decision letter. But in this case we were pretty certain […]. Because the signals were in place, through the people that had been talking to the [TID fund] board, those people from trade and industry had been talking to them. And I had been in contact with them and such. And yes, the signals were sufficiently strong that we knew that they had been positive toward it. The board had been positive to it, and there should be some money, some kroner. Even though, when I spoke to him [the board leader], he did not say anything about how much and such – but it started leaking out that we would get between one and three million. We had applied for three million, and [understood] we would get something in that area. Actually, [a county politician] also told me this. On that background we were pretty certain, even though the amount was not set yet.

Although both Raymond and the CME emphasized that the administration had an active role in obtaining funding, it seemed clear that Raymond also had a role as prime mover in this part of the process. As he explained about his role in general in the sporting arena process: It is clear; I think I can be so bold as to claim that this would not have worked if I, as mayor, had not been so positive to it. I think so. And I think everybody would say the same […]. I feel that I do have some power in this. And if someone,

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I have been getting some angry reactions from some of my own in the party over there [his home area of the municipality], because I have been running a process on unequal terms [rått parti]. And there might be some truth to that. Researcher: And you are referring to something more than the power coming from your votes in the municipal council? Raymond: Yes, I am actually. Because it is certain that in my position I am pretty well placed. I can pull quite a few strings and throw some balls here and there. I’m in contact with enterprises, you know, I can steer the proposals a bit, maybe have some control over what is written there and so on. I will have to admit to that.

By the time of my fieldwork, large parts of the administration in the municipal hall were to some extent involved in the project. As the process had progressed, some claimed that it had become increasingly difficult to voice skepticism toward it. Along with the heated debates, there was also a certain amount of teasing going on among the administrators, particularly aimed at those thought to be skeptical toward the project. Most of the proponents of the sporting arena would associate criticism of the project with what they labeled grendepolitikk, literary translatable as “politics of the village.” The term grendepolitikk was coined to describe the political attempts mentioned above to support a decentralized structure of services in the municipality, one that favors the multiple placement of municipal services in the different “old” settlement centers, rather than centralized services usually located at the municipal center surrounding the municipal hall. An example of this linkage came one day during lunch when the discussion, as it often would, started revolving around the sporting arena. As we were eating, Eva, one of the administrators, mentioned that there had been a lot of badmouthing about the sporting arena on a Facebook group the previous night. After discussing the matter for a while, Bent, one of the other administrators, stated that he thought having the sporting arena was important as it would make the municipality more attractive and would particularly help to convince young people who had previously left the municipality to move back. Eva voiced her disagreement to this, arguing that having employment was the decisive factor anyway. She said that she had discussed this with some of her relatives (who were in the category of people Bent mentioned), and that they had mentioned that having schools near where they lived would be the most important factor, as they did not want their young children traveling long distances by bus every day. At this point the CME, who was also sitting at the table, broke in and told them that he agreed that they needed to maintain a minimum number of elementary schools spread around the municipality. Bent immediately disagreed, arguing that they needed to retain a decentralized structure of kindergartens but that people would have to accept the need to travel some distance to school. Eva,

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now little frustrated, argued that Bent did not understand the problem of distances, because he himself lived less than five minutes from the municipal hall. Bent then responded that such distances were part of the choices people made when settling in low-populated areas, making several of the other administrators around the table react to a degree that kept both Eva and Bent quiet for the remainder of the lunch. The next day, I was again seated opposite Eva at the lunch table when Bent came walking up from behind her. As he was sitting down, he loudly asked Eva: So, you are opposed to the sporting arena? Eva: [annoyed] No, I am not. Why would you say that! Bent: I’m just kidding.

The lunch then went on in an unusually quiet manner before the conversation again started revolving around the sporting arena when a few other administrators settled around the table. When I later asked Eva how she felt about the sporting arena, she told me that she had doubts about the project, “because I work with budgets, and I know all the things that need attention on each round.” She further told me that she worried about workplaces in the municipality; she feared that the money spent on the sporting arena could lead to cutbacks and job lay-offs in the municipal organization. However, she hoped her worries were unfounded and stated that she would remain loyal to any decision made by the municipal council. Yet she felt entitled to ask critical questions and to give her opinion on the consequences of the project. During the past year, she had noticed, however, that it had become increasingly difficult to voice skeptical opinions. The administration had become more and more supportive of the project as external funding started pouring in, including the CME, who had earlier been very skeptical toward the project. With many in the administration working actively on the project, enthusiasm had also grown along with work and effort invested in it. Eva concluded that it had not really become completely “not OK” to be against the sporting arena, but any criticism was now met with very heated discussions. As already mentioned, proponents of the project interpreted most of the resistance they met as expressions of grendepolitikk; they argued that critics of the project “were stuck in the past” when the current municipality was divided into several smaller municipalities with their own centers. Now, with a diminishing population in many areas of the municipality, it was simply not possible to retain a spread service sector. For example, many of the former centers did not have enough children to support a school, or even a separate soccer team. To achieve anything in the municipality, the people of the different former centers would, therefore, have to put such old quarrels to rest and work together on projects like the sporting arena. After all, the proponents argued, it might just be a matter

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of time before the current municipality borders were again restructured into an even larger municipality, making it even harder to ever build such a facility within their current borders. Through such argumentation, which was very common within the municipal hall, critics of the project could be branded not only “old-fashioned” and “outdated” but also egocentric in their “utopian” struggle to uphold their own local community at the expense of the municipality’s common community. This may partly explain why the arguments about distances and diminishing local communities were confined to informal conversations and Internet chat rooms, while economic arguments constituted the main voice of public opposition to the project during my fieldwork, which strengthened the impact that the search for funding for the building had for the project. To return to the second day of my fieldwork and the evening of the municipal council meeting, since its first processing (permitting the preliminary project), the sporting arena had been through several more proceedings in both the municipal council and the executive board. About a year after the preliminary project was established, the municipal council had approved a more concrete plan for the building that had been used by the building committee to estimate exact costs (with help from external consultants). Through the plan and the cost estimates, they had also selected potential private contractors for the building process through a bidding round. With the exception of the TID funding, on which the municipality had not yet received a final verdict (though it had had positive signals), the external funding for the project was also largely in place. Therefore the evening’s municipal council meeting was considered by many to be the final processing of the project, providing the final verdict on the fate of the sporting arena. Through negotiation and some political horse-trading, Raymond and the project’s proponents in the city hall believed that the case stood a strong chance of approval in the municipal council but that, as many of the parties were split on the subject, individual votes could easily sway the outcome. The final vote on the sporting arena

Inside the municipal council room, people are settling in to their places. At the back, the local radio station is setting up its equipment for a live broadcast. With the mayor, vice-mayor and CME at the front, the meeting is formally opened with three strokes from the mayor’s hammer. With fifteen councilors around the table, seven municipal administrators at the sides, three visiting citizens in the audience, one journalist and one researcher present, the room is completely packed. Raymond starts the meeting by welcoming and commenting on the large number of people in the audience (there are three!), adding that “it is positive

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that so many people care about politics” (during one of the recesses, Raymond explains to me that the three visiting citizens in the audience are all well-known critics of the sporting arena). After the formalities of recording attendance and choosing representatives to sign the meeting protocol, Raymond announces that there will be a change in the meeting’s agenda, as the processing of the sporting arena will be moved further down. This is done to ensure sufficient time for some of the other cases on the agenda that need immediate conclusions. As Raymond opens for comments on the evening’s agenda, one of the councilors raises his hand and takes the speaker’s stand. His concern is that the documents associated with the sporting arena have not been distributed to the councilors in sufficient time before the meeting and that he has not had sufficient time to discuss the matter within his party. He announces that he will return to this matter when the processing starts. As the meeting moves on to the (now rearranged) agenda, there is a long list of cases to be processed before the sporting arena. Some of the cases, such as those concerning internal human resource issues within the municipal organization, raise a few discussions, while several other cases pass without much attention. Two hours into the meeting, during an orientation from the administration on an ongoing area planning process, one of the councilors takes the speaker’s stand to praise the competence of the administration, encouraging the council to applaud its impressive work. While the request for applause is met immediately with enthusiasm, many of the councilors are starting to look quite tired, with some even occasionally dozing off. A few more cases pass by without any substantial discussion, and there is a quick recess before the processing of the sporting arena begins. With everybody inside again and looking revitalized, Raymond starts the procedures by reading the description of the case directly from the documents already distributed in advance of the meeting. However, he announces that he wants to suggest an addition to the proposed conclusion in the case documents. While the current suggestion proposes an immediate start to the building process, Raymond suggests adding that the building process will not start before all external financing is in order, thereby having the case pending the county’s final verdict on the TID funding. One of the executive administrators takes the stand, giving an orientation on the costs and bidding round. He compares the project with another previous big building project in the municipality, and he states that the process of calculating costs and acquiring contractors has been carried out in the same manner. Raymond again takes the stand and starts talking about the previous attempts to have the hall built that had failed for financial reasons. He argues that the reason for reviving the case now has been the extraordinary income from the power company, and goes on to speak about the large array of content and services it is planning to fit into the hall.

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He then describes the detailed financial scheme of the project, stressing that no building will commence before the TID funding is ensured. Furthermore, he addresses the issue of future running costs and the intentional agreement with both the county and private enterprise to rent space in the building. He then finally addresses the problem of distances, claiming that he is indeed sympathetic to those in the municipality who will have long drives to the reach the hall. However, times have changed since the 1970s, when they had soccer tournaments with teams from all the different areas of the municipality. There are simply not enough children now. He then compares the sporting arena with a previous controversial centralization project in the municipality; he argues that it was initially controversial but is now largely considered a success. He believes the same will happen with the sporting arena, given time. After a brief orientation from the CME concerning this proposal’s compliances with earlier processing of the case, the meeting goes to a short recess before the debate is launched. First, a council member takes the stand to voice surprise that the case has not been postponed, as there are rumors floating that the county may be canceling the educational program that it intended to rent space for in the building. As motions of postponement in the municipal council require immediate processing, Raymond declares that this matter needs to be debated immediately. The councilor who had commented at the beginning of the meeting on the late distribution of case documents then takes the stand to support the motion to postpone the matter. He further adds that he would prefer to hold a referendum in the municipality on the building before concluding the matter. A third councilor takes the stand to argue the importance of settling the matter, arguing that building the hall may actually help in convincing the county not to cancel its educational program. The councilor further argues that the case is not at all new to the municipal council, as it has been through proceedings several times previously in the council. Yet another councilor takes the stand to support the motion to postpone, but the motion is turned down with seven votes against ten. Before continuing the debate, Raymond sets a three-minute limit on speeches. While the councilors accept the limit, there are several immediate reactions on a Facebook debate group condemning the limited speaking time on such an important matter, thereby confirming that the local radio’s live broadcast is reaching its listeners. Raymond then declares that “It is now either now or never for the sporting arena,” before reopening the debate. What follows is a lengthy debate, with most of the speeches pushing on the three-minute limit. While everybody praises the idea of a sporting arena and supports the positive aspects of such a building in the municipality, the critics argue strongly about the financial aspects of the building. The municipality simply cannot afford it, they say, and other important services, such as schools,

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will suffer. Both the external funding for the building process and the long-term running budget, with uncertain tenancies, is questioned by the critics. The arena’s proponents on the council argue that the municipality will never be completely comfortable with such a sizable investment, but there is actually a real opening to do it right now – and there may never be such a chance again. The council must trust the CME’s assessment stating that the municipality is capable of financing the project. Regarding the uncertainty of external funding, it has already been stated that building will not start before everything is in place. In the long term, it is possible to recruit other tenants for the building. The council is reminded that both youth organizations and the local industry and trade groups strongly support the project. The CME also takes the stand during the debate, confirming that he deems it possible for the municipality to afford the project in both the short and long terms. He adds that, although it is true that the municipality has to make tough economic choices, part of those choices includes prioritizing good things. Before the sporting arena moves to a vote, there is a short debate on whether or not to include a note on who voted for and against the sporting arena in the meeting protocol. It is decided not to include such a note. Before moving to a final vote on the matter, the mayor suggests a trial vote, “so that those opposed can have a chance to change their mind.” With ten votes against seven, the trial vote goes in favor of the project. However, nobody changes their mind. The formal vote ending with the same split as both the trial vote and the earlier vote on postponing the processing, and the municipal council finally decides to build the sporting arena. After processing a few more cases, the meeting is closed and the councilors leave the municipal hall. Outside the councilors are met by a few children on bicycles who are riding up and down the steps at the entrance of the municipal hall shouting, in a celebrative manner, “YES TO THE SPORTING ARENA.” Early the next day, Raymond was already on the telephone with his neighboring municipalities and the regional council gathering support against the county’s closure of the educational program. Within the next few days, another threat to the building revealed itself, as it became clear that one of the selected contractors had severe financial problems, thereby endangering the project’s budget if the municipality were to have to arrange a new bidding round. The battle for the sporting arena would therefore continue for the remainder of my stay in the municipality, and for a long time thereafter. The Health Service Center

The case of the sporting arena will be discussed throughout the remaining chapters of this book, along with other cases of policy development illuminating the mechanisms informing them. First, however, I will introduce another policy

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process in one of my case municipalities that I will also refer to in these chapters. Like the sporting arena, this second case also involved large investments and a considerable amount of political controversy. In contrast to the sporting arena, however, the prime mover in this incident was situated on the administrative side of the municipal organization. The account here is based mainly on the account given to me by Jim, the CME in the municipality concerned. His story does, however, match the accounts given by several of his colleagues in the relevant municipal hall. Researcher: Have you ever had any, or perhaps you still have, some particular “darling cases” [hjertesaker] in the municipality that you have been fighting for? Jim: Yes, and I have a darling case that I actually managed to bring about! It’s the Health Service Center. I was pretty active on that. And I will be bold enough to claim some honor for that. For actually having it realized. I worked pretty actively for that, and pretty tactically. Because there was a lot of resistance against it.

The HSC had been a pioneering project in its time, and it was largely spoken about within the municipal hall as a huge success, although it was very controversial at its birth. Creating the HSC meant centralizing most of the municipality’s healthcare and nursing services into a single building; it was deemed controversial not only because of the entailed organizational restructuring but also because of strong general opposition against centralizing services in the municipality. According to Jim, the process had started at a conference he attended with fellow chief executives in one of the larger regional cities. During an informal dinner with a few other CMEs at a pizza restaurant, one of them had told the group about how they were moving away from institutionally based health and elderly care to the model of “sheltered housing,” which was actually a combination of sheltered housing and nursing homes. Jim: This was kind of a trend at the time. And the reason was that the model of sheltered housing finances itself more, as the patients pay for their own medicines and pay rent for their housing. It is therefore cheaper to run for the municipalities, at least in caring for the people that were in sufficiently good health to live there.

After returning home, Jim started giving this a lot of thought. At the time, the municipality had at least one nursing home in the municipality in need of renovation. Several more were spread around the municipality, and they also maintained a decentralized service of medical practices and dental offices. Jim explained: In total it was a decentralized structure, an expensive structure, and a very vulnerable structure. And we can clearly see today that we would not have been able to survive with that structure, and we would not have been able to support the necessary

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professional environment. That was the case. And we had a mayor who was not really interested in these matters.

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So I thought, to hell with it; should we not do something about this? […] We were running with huge deficits at the time, particularly in the fields of health and nursing. And then the state also launched some of those carrots. They were giving grants directed at building nursing homes. The patients were to have single rooms and such. That was kind of the trend at the time.

Seeing the possibility of improving running costs through investments that could partially be sponsored by the state, Jim decided to pursue the matter further even without support from his mayor. The first step was to see if any support for such a move could be found among the affected professional groups, so Jim arranged a meeting, with over ninety participants from the relevant services. Although he callled it a “brainstorming meeting,” suggesting an open-ended approach, he made sure to provide some guidance to the meeting. The CME who had given him the idea at the dinner was invited, and so was another CME from a third municipality that had previously undergone such centralizing reorganizations of its healthcare and nursing services. While the invited CMEs shared their experiences at the meeting, Jim had also invited potential contractors who could possibly be providers in constructing a building for such a centralized service. According to Jim, the meeting was a huge success, as he managed to plant the idea among the professional employees and gain substantial support for the project. With the idea planted among the professionals, many now recruited as allies, it was time to move the process on. However, a political decision was required if Jim was to seriously commit resources in order to pursue the matter. Therefore, with a mayor not supporting the project, he had to find some alternative gateway into the political community. The solution was to contact another local politician who represented a different party from the mayor’s. Jim: Well, to be completely honest about how I did it, I saw that it would not be easy to carry forward such a process when I had a mayor that was fighting against it. […] so I contacted her [other politician], and asked her how we could do it. How could we get the politicians in on this. […] Then she said: “I can arrange a political meeting, here in the house, gathering all the political parties,” because she was intrigued by the same idea as me. So we did it, and one of those small seeds was planted.

While the idea had been planted, the political opposition was still strong. Jim explained that he therefore had to move forward slowly to gain the support of the municipal council: I understood that starting a process like this … this was a revolutionary thing for [our municipality]. We were once [several] municipalities. And that’s still in there

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[in people’s minds]. […] So I had to move carefully. I couldn’t simply present a proposal suggesting that we close everything, the whole damn thing, and build something new […]. That would never have worked.

The political meeting had been successful enough to gather support to establish a task group that would look into different options as to how the healthcare and nursing services could be organized in the future. Jim had also gained permission to hire external consultants. Upon a recommendation from another municipality that had previously undergone a similar project, he engaged a firm to calculate the costs of different organizational options. The latter proved vital to the process, as the calculations supported the option of the HSC when the task group later presented its options to the municipal council. Jim: We had to document that it would be cheaper to build something new, and that we would save money on the running [of a centralized service]. Then it became hard for the politicians to say no. Because then there was only the regional concerns and the emotional side of it still hanging in the air.

With the economic gains documented, Jim still stressed the recruitment of another ally as vital in swaying the municipal council. The doctors within the municipality had long been pushing for a centralized medical practice, but there was still an option of placing the medical practice outside the proposed HSC. Thus, Jim approached the municipal physician: Jim: I knew that he had a huge impact. What he said was often received as … it was understood as the “absolute truth.” I invited him into the municipal council, but I had a talk with him first. And I told him that it was not realistic to have one medical practice and one [separate] HSC. So now we had to put these pieces together, and get everything into one center […] and he [finally] did so. I had him standing in front of the municipal council and saying it. I used what I knew could have an impact.

With a strong expert opinion, partial funding from the state, documented economic arguments and both political and professional allies, the building of the HSC was eventually passed. But in addition to having all these factors in place, Jim particularly emphasized the role of the administration in sewing these things together and pushing the process through: I had a health and social chief that was very bright, and that thought the same way I did. There were many good supporters – the technical chief, and so on. There was no resistance [in the municipal organization]. The municipal organization understood this, and had seen the problems for a long time. But just imagining it, that we would close and lock up [the former institutions], and build something

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new at the municipal center? I don’t think anybody could have conceived it possible. “We will never gain political support for it.” I remember sitting many long nights creating and shaping the case. Making it as edible as possible. Researcher: Edible? Jim: Yes, edible. Yes, clarifying everything. As I told you, I could not simply invite them to say, “Yes, we decide to close down now, and build the HSC.” I had to phase it. From phase to phase to phase. First phase, throw up some alternatives. Have the municipal council consider this and that alternative. And when they have done so, one will appear as the best. And they will have to go for the best. And then they need some closer reports on one alternative, and we give it to them. And then they were soon there. It was too late to look back. But, understand, this is not some kind of scam [bondefangeri]. It’s a process running a process.

Comments

The two accounts of policy development display how policy processes and political struggles essentially involve sewing personnel and resources together when pursuing political goals. This process creates what I will label pragmatic policy alliances, created in the pursuit of different policy goals. The notion that such policy alliances are made up by utilizing relations both within and outside the formal municipal organization is essential to this book’s perspective on policy development. Through such alliances, external relations and resources become elements in internal political struggles, thereby tying together processes and relations of government and governance. I will return to a discussion of the nature and consequences of pragmatic policy alliances in Chapter 6. Juxtaposing the two similar cases of policy development also exemplifies how both politicians (in this case represented by Raymond the mayor) and administrators (in this case Jim, the CME) can act as municipal entrepreneurs in municipal policy processes, despite initial opposition from their respective administrative or political counterparts. While this point is contrary to the Weberian ideal of administrators as loyal followers of political leadership, the accounts of both Jim and Raymond emphasize that alliances crossing the boundary between politics and administration are essential for success in controversial matters. This leads to two other important features of municipal policy development that are further explored in the chapters that follow. First, municipal policy development is carried out in a dialectic relationship between political and administrative roles. As I will demonstrate in the next chapter, understanding this dialectic relationship requires an understanding of the normative rules that guide the enactment of political and administrative roles during municipal policy processes. Second, while my informants strongly emphasized the aforementioned Weberian ideal in their description of these roles,

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the cases demonstrate that municipal policy processes are enacted in a tension (and negotiation) between these ideals (conceptualized as normative rules) and the more pragmatic rules informing political struggle. Understanding this tension also requires and understanding of the normative rules at play. Therefore, before moving on to a detailed discussion on the nature of this tension in Chapter 6, I will begin my analysis of municipal policy processes with an exploration of these normative rules.

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Normative hierarchy: the rules of political struggle

Vignette

During the lengthy processing of the municipal budget, a discussion is raised in the municipal council concerning the proposed sale of several housing units currently owned by the municipality. After a briefing on the subject by the chief municipal executive (CME), Astri, one of the councilors, takes the stand and gives a speech concerning the importance of good planning of municipal social housing, during which she argues against the sale of the housing units concerned. Toward the end of her speech, however, she also proposes an alternative to selling the housing units on the open market as proposed by the administration. Rather than profiting from the possibility of a bidding round that would maximize the price of the units on an open market, she argues that: According to the county governor, there is no requirement stating that [the sale of ] the housing units need to be subjected to [open] bidding rounds. […] So it is also possible to imagine that we, as a municipality, help people in need of social housing to acquire their own house by selling the municipal owned housing units to them […] it is not exactly true that we need to sell [the housing units] in a bidding round.

Immediately after Astri’s speech, an agitated CME asks to pose a question directly from her chair and is allowed to do so by the mayor. The CME puts her question to Astri, now on her way down from the speaker’s stand: You said that the county governor is saying that there does not need to be a bidding round? Astri: Yes? CME: When did the county governor become responsible for the Public Procurement Act?

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Astri turns around; now looking equally agitated, and returns to the speaker’s stand. Well, I apologize for saying it like that, then. The county governor did say … because I have been asking around, about how we could, perhaps, convey housing units to people in need of social housing. Because there have been, among other things, TV reports where other municipalities, and I have also read about this, have helped persons in need to acquire their own housing […]. And I have been looking into how this can be done, and checked according to the Social Housing Plan, and according to the Social Services Act. Then I have been asking around, in order for find out if there are any objections to a municipality doing it this way; do we have to sell the housing units through bidding rounds like we have done before in [the municipality]? And we do not have to! There are no requirements stating that we need to have bidding rounds. It is possible to do it in another way. That’s what I meant. But the county governor also stated that we have to comply with some rules […] these are the options I want to present. There are options that we need to consider.

Following Astri’s speech, the CME takes the speaker’s stand again: Mayor, I will not delay this, but I would like to ask for the reference [person] at the county governor; because it is news to me that the county governor has any kind of competence regarding the Public Procurement Act. It is, in fact, the Ministry of Trade and Industry, and the Competition Authority, that is tasked with the supervision of this legislation.

Meeting the eyes of an obviously discouraged Astri, the CME continues: Yes, but … I’m open to suggestions, but this does sound rather peculiar.

At this point, the mayor breaks into the discussion and asks to end the case. Meanwhile, another representative, Ingvar, walks up to the speaker’s stand. Ingvar, it should be noted, is a long-time veteran of local politics in the municipality: Yes, mayor. I have to tell the representative [Astri] that it is good that she does research. But do not present such things to an assembled municipal council! Raise the issue internally to the Municipal Executive Board. It is completely … it borders on being undignified for the municipal council to be discussing these assumptions, that [you] have asked the county governor this and that. I have seen this [behavior] before; representatives asking questions during my term as mayor. And I told them; “No, unfortunately I cannot answer that [question].” But he said, “I can, because I have been talking to the county governor.” We can’t have it this way in the municipal council! You raise it through the administration – or through the executive board. Let it be said [however], it is positive if what you are saying is correct.

While the former part of the incident recounted above involving the council member, Astri, and the provoked CME could potentially be interpreted as an exchange of professional opinions, albeit an overstated one, the latter remark

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from an experienced council member (Ingvar) reveals more puzzling questions for the naïve researcher unaccustomed to the ritual setting of the municipal council. Why did Ingvar, although declaring a positive attitude to the content of Astri’s proposal, find the scene so provocative? Why were Astri’s arguments deemed “undignified”? In this chapter, I will attempt to answer this question by examining a wide selection of accounts and situations to demonstrate how my informants interpret and enact their roles as local politicians and administrators in policy processes. As discussed in Chapter 4, my perspective emphasizes that municipal policy development happens in a dialectic process between local politicians and administrators, thus recognizing administrators as political actors and bureaucratic organizations as political arenas. This chapter elaborates on the dialectic relationship between political and administrative roles and argues that the normative rules guiding these roles are essential to an understanding of how municipal policy development unfolds and, thus, to an understanding of the provocative nature of Astri’s arguments. The understanding of bureaucratic organizations (in this case the municipal administration) as political arenas might seem trivial and is well established in the literature (for example, see Bailey 2001, Britan and Cohen 1980). However, as the empirical analysis in this chapter demonstrates, treating administrative organizations as political arenas and, thus, administrators as political actors represents a contradiction of the emic and normative understanding of the nonpolitical administrative role as emphasized by my informants. I argue that analyzing the notions guiding the enactment of both political and administrative roles as normative rules provides an analytical framework within which this contradiction can be explored. The notion of normative rules guiding political agency echoes F. G Bailey’s famous conceptualization of political activity as games (1969). As was emphasized in Bailey’s work, my findings also demonstrate that the comparison between political activity and rule-based games lasts only up to a certain point, as politics is often played in a more pragmatic way. This latter sort of competition is where the other sets of rules conceptualized by Bailey, the pragmatic rules of political structures, become most prominent. In contrast to normative rules regulating political actions as normatively “just” or “unjust,” pragmatic rules are normatively neutral; they may operate both within and outside the normative rules of the political structure, and they are concerned with judging whether a particular line of conduct will be, or will not be, effective toward achieving political goals (Bailey 1969:6). These pragmatic rules will be explored more closely in Chapter 6, while this chapter dwells in more detail on the content of the normative rules separating political behavior from administrative behavior in the municipal organizations studied.

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First, another important assertion from Bailey (1969) may also serve as a useful starting point for this enquiry. While political structures have normative rules regulating competition, these rules seldom prescribe a single chain of action. Rather, they provide a general guide of conduct with broad limits to what the player can do, leaving leeway for both interpretation and choice (Bailey 1969:5) and negotiation through action. As a CME explained to me when asked about the rules guiding the separation of administrative and political roles within the municipal organization: CME: There is a very high consciousness of that. And there are very clear lines on that internally. And the mayor and I, we have a very clear and sorted system on that. Researcher: When you say clear lines, are these written down anywhere, I mean how? CME: No, they are not written down. But we have, in a way, a close dialog. And then, if there is any doubt, then we clarify as we go.

Furthermore, following Bailey, as the pragmatic rules of political struggles respond to external changes, the normative rules are also subject to gradual or sudden changes as the political actors adjust their strategies in response to the changing pragmatic rules; “if a role is bent often enough, it will break” (Bailey 1969:15). Although often portrayed as ossified as in the CME’s explanation above, the normative rules guiding political action are reshaped through such political actions. In other words, the normative rulebook is not only clarified but also reshaped “as we go.” Just as normative rules rest on a shared understanding of how the game should be conducted, the public judgment of a particular cause of action as morally “right” or “wrong” provides a strong indicator of how an action complies with established normative rules. In my analysis of the normative rules at play in the municipal organizations I studied, I have, therefore, given particular emphasis to how my informants interpret others’ actions and to social situations where negotiations and conflict arises because of possible breaches of the normative rules. The Weberian bureaucracy According to his proper vocation, the genuine official […] will not engage in politics. Rather, he should engage in impartial “administration.” This also holds for the so-called “political” administrator, at least officially, in so far as the raison d’état, that is, the vital interests of the ruling order are not in question. Sine ira et studio, “without scorn and bias.” He shall administer his office. Hence, he shall not do precisely what the politician, the leader as well as his following, must always and necessarily do, namely, fight. (Weber 1946: 95)

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Weber’s ideal-type description of the administrator is remarkably well fitted to the occupational ethos among the municipal administrators who are the subjects of this study, conducted almost a century later. In a few cases my informants (of whom many held degrees in political science) would even refer to Weber themselves when describing their rules of conduct. But even those with no explicit knowledge of Weber’s work would describe the relationship between politics and administration in terms of principles that matched Weber’s emphasis on a hierarchical relationship, in which the rules of conduct within the two spheres are defined in hierarchical opposition to each other. In accordance to the Weberian classical principles of an administrative staff representing the organization of political domination, the political sphere and the administrative sphere were explained to me as an internal hierarchical division between two levels of the municipal organization, with the municipal council always emphasized as the superior authority: Researcher: Who is the boss? CME: The municipal council, of course. The majority of the municipal council is the boss. And the day that this does not hold true, then it will be the chief municipal executive that has to pack up and leave.

Particular normative emphasis was also given to the so-called “hourglass” model, which asserts that all contact between the administrative sphere and the political sphere (and particularly the municipal council) should pass through the CME, whose relation to the mayor represents the formal link between politics and administration within the municipal organization. All my informants in the municipal administration would affirm a strict adherence to this principle of a chain of command rising through the municipal administration and passing through the CME before crossing the boundary into the political sphere, that is, to the mayor and municipal council. This was explained by Frode, an administrator at the executive level, when asked how he promoted a suggestion for the municipality that required a political assessment: Researcher: Why did you go to [the CME]? Frode: Because he was the chief municipal executive? Researcher: But why not to the sitting mayor? Frode: No, it was natural for me to speak to [the CME], it was not natural for me to speak with the mayor directly. Not in the line [of command] that I was within, then it is natural for me to speak with [the CME] […] particularly after [name of the mayor] became mayor. He [the mayor] and I, we have a pretty close; you can call it a friend and family relationship. We both have [children], and have in a way had a relationship for over twenty years. You know, celebrations, baptisms – in total a pretty close [relationship]. Because of that, we have become extra observant and careful about what you can label as the differences between

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administration and politics. So everything that somehow relates to work, and the dialog with the political side, that’s handled by [the CME]. Researcher: You always run through [the CME]? Frode: Yes, consistently.

Frode’s account conforms not only to the normative ideal of a separation between the political sphere and the administrative sphere, but also to the hierarchical “hourglass” model linking the two spheres to the roles of the CME and mayor. However, the account also shows the impossibility of separating the political from the administrative sphere by abstaining from contact. In reality, politicians and administrators are humans interacting both in the local community and in the municipal hall, where, as shown in Chapter 4, politicians and administrators often work closely together during policy processes. The separation of politics and administration may, therefore, not rest on an absence of interaction but, rather, on rules of interaction in which the administrative actors refrain from taking political roles (and the politician refrains from taking administrative roles). Consequently, the administrator must not do politics – “namely, fight.” Thou shalt not fight

While the general normative rule of administrators abstaining from political struggle was widely established, the exact implications of this rule – in essence, the specific content of doing politics – were a more debatable and less ossified matter. One explanation that was offered originated from an interview with the CME in one of the municipalities: Researcher: But if you were to explain to me the difference between politics and administration in a few words, how would you say it? CME: Yes, you can relate it to a case, the process of a case. From when it is conceived to when it is processed, proposed and carried out. Then there is a clear separation in time. Researcher: Process? CME: Yes, or time. As soon as the Chief Municipal Executive has provided its proposal, then the case has become politics. And then the Chief Municipal Executive and the administration will have to act in accordance with the decision that has been made, even if it is contrary to the recommendation of the administration – in an extreme case.

In the dialog above, the CME suggests that the political decision-making and the administrative processing take place at different times. A decision becomes the essential political act, and the administrator should abstain from politics by not participating in the decision-making part of the process.

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In real life, as the examples of policy processes presented in Chapter 4 demonstrate, this sequencing of decision-making and preparatory proceedings would, however, seldom be as clear-cut as in the CME’s description. Indeed, political fights seemed an integral part of all stages of the policy processes. A few days earlier, I had accompanied the same CME and the municipality’s mayor to a meeting in a collaborative forum where they meet with their respective counterparts from two of the neighboring municipalities. During this meeting, one of the mayors present had begun a discussion on initiating a study to examine the possibility of merging municipalities in the area. The CME had then engaged in the discussion, but, before presenting a view on the matter, had asked the meeting in a rhetorical manner, “I believe this to be politics, but do we [administrators] still have a right to speak?” Therefore, during the interview conducted a few days later, attempting to gain a closer understanding of how the separation of politics and administration was enacted, I decided to ask the CME why the particular topic was deemed “political”: Researcher: But is there not also a thematic division? I’m thinking of [the meeting a few days earlier]. There you said something like “now we are discussing politics, but that you expected that you still had a right to speak.” What made that particular case political? CME: That’s because, regardless, it would be the municipal council that defines what should be, and what should not be, on the agenda. So, I can say yes to merging municipalities as much as I would like, but if the municipal council of [the CME’s municipality] does not say that “now we are to merge one thing or the other [nothing will happen].” The politics are in power there. And it’s a very sensitive topic. Researcher: Is that a consideration? CME: It might be. Researcher: So the administration should not involve itself in matters that are [sensitive]? CME: It might be so. But in our municipality there is a pretty high ceiling on that subject. I think I can say whatever I would like […] at this time in the municipal council. But it is not certain that it would be listened to. If you go too far, then … But currently there is some rattling around that topic; municipal structure.

In the above scenario, the CME suggests that the matter of initiating a study of municipal mergers remains political as long as the municipal council has not made it an administrative “subject” and granted the administration any mandate to pursue the matter. However, the CME also suggests that there is a circumstantial element in the assessment of a particular topic as belonging to the political sphere: it depends on the political sensitivity of the subject and to the “attitude” of the municipal council toward discussing the topic. In other words, although administrators are responsible for facilitating political decisions, there are normative constraints on the extent to which administrators

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can propose new and possibly controversial initiatives, thereby starting a fight. While there were no formal discussions on the topic within the municipal council at the time, the issue was widely discussed on a national and a local level, with both politicians and administrators in the municipality discussing the topic in informal settings. This sense of the matter of municipality mergers being widely discussed while still not becoming an issue of formal political struggle in the municipal council may explain why the CME chose to voice an opinion on this topic during the meeting. Declaring the political content before presenting the opinion may also (as discussed further below) have served to soften the ground sufficiently to avoid a normative breach. However, as will be discussed later in this chapter, the CME’s choice to voice an opinion on a presumed political matter during the meeting must also be understood in relation to the specific social context of the meeting. Thou shalt be objective

Weber asserted that administrative honor was vested in civil servants’ ability to execute the will of their political leadership rather than engage in political fighting, sine ira et studio, without scorn and bias, and that “in principle a system of rational debatable ‘reasons’ stands behind every act of bureaucratic administration, namely, either subsumption under norms or a weighing of ends and means” (Weber 1968:979). In the study’s two municipal organizations, Weber’s ideal type of the objective and rational administrator was most conspicuously expressed through the normative value attached to the municipal administrator’s ability to conduct a “factual assessment” (saklig vurdering). The factual assessment was understood as the opposite of a political assessment. However, as both were understood to be capable of swaying a policy process one way or the other, the separation between the two forms of assessments was seldom clear-cut. An example follows from Johanne, another mid-level administrator interviewed during fieldwork in one of the municipal organizations: Researcher: What is it that makes a statement political, I mean, where do you draw the line? Johanne: Yes. If I [for example] had a strong opinion on the school structure, and we were talking about it, then I would … [as] I might have some ability to influence the outcome of it, as I’m present in all the meetings of the municipal executive board. And even though I have an [administrative] function there, it could be understood as political if I have an opinion on that matter. If I go out and say that we “we should [restructure schooling in our municipality] because there are fewer kids, and you have to understand that,” and start to argue with politicians […] the general public, and inhabitants. Then I’m thinking that I would be political. Researcher: You are thinking in terms of arguing?

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Johanne: Yes, and also in terms of trying to influence […]. If I try to influence a process because I want it moving in one direction, then, I’m moving into politics. But, of course, it could also be factual. It could be from a factual standpoint that “that’s not a good idea because I think that,” or that I have some other [factual] reason for it. That’s one of those places to draw a line. Researcher: Between a factual position and a political one? Johanne: Yes.

Again, for administrators to avoid engaging in a political struggle is an important part of separating politics and administration. However, acknowledging that factual argumentation can also influence the outcome of political struggle complicates that separation: According to Johannes’s explanation, a line can be drawn on the basis of (a) having the ability to influence a policy, (b) wanting to influence a policy for non-factual reasons and (c) trying to influence a policy. To a certain extent, the composition of these three factors can indicate whether or not a normative rule of administrative objectivity is broken. For example, arguing in political terms openly with a colleague would seldom be understood as a breach of norms if both parties were not believed to be in an actual position to influence the process (for example, two administrators in a department exchanging political opinions on a matter handled by another department). Likewise, if someone had a known interest in the outcome of a policy process through stated political views or personal interests, this would not become a problem until they were actually in a position to influence a process and/or were trying to do so. Moreover, trying to influence a process as an administrator could be considered legitimate, as long as it was done from a factual viewpoint or even, in some cases, from a political viewpoint if the administrator had sufficient distance from the matter and could approach the topic from a private or political role. There were, however, limits to such a simplified conceptualization of the normative rules at play, just as there were, of course, also differences of degree. For example, engaging in overheated debates on political matters could cancel out a “legal” distance, and insisting too hard on a factual assessment could be considered disloyalty to the political leadership. Furthermore, as discussed in the introduction of this chapter, all three factors were subject to interpretation by the observing bystanders judging the behavior with few exact standards and with a notion of rules constantly under collective revision. Niclas, an administrator who had previously also held positions as a local politician, further explained these differences of degree: Niclas: We do try, up here [in the municipal hall], to separate. From what we consider to be clear-cut factual assessments, which should be based on prior decisions and valid regulations, and personal opinions, which should be avoided. But of course, it will be some assessment in a case proposal, and among others an assessment through what you [choose to] emphasize – and this will of course

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always be partly subjective. But I still mean that there are gradual differences to how you do it. […] At least I am trying to have a conscious attitude toward it. I think that’s partly because of my background as a politician; then, I thought that the most annoying thing was getting case proposals that were obviously … where their [the administrators’] personal opinions were expressed […]. However, that borderline is sometimes unclear. Researcher: When you say personal opinions? […] Niclas: Yes, kind of independently from, for example, how the legislation is on that issue. Let’s say that you’re building something on the shoreline for example. Right, and I am thinking “Oh my god, why can’t the man be allowed to build a cabin down there, what’s the problem with that.” And when something close to that is written in the case proposal – then it’s obvious that it becomes a completely personal thing. But what I mean you should actually do is to say that; “The legislation is like this, this and that, our planning areas are such and such.” Then you can assess in accordance with those assessment criteria that you’re supposed to – and do an assessment for and against. And that’s what I usually try to do; on the one hand this, and on the other hand this – weighing. Then you can finally propose a conclusion. However, I think it’s important that you as case handler of the proposal should be able to, in a way, flip it politically. If you have another opinion than what’s in the proposal.

Although admitting that these are slight differences, Niclas distinguishes between assessments based on “personal opinions” (political assessments) and those based on formal legislation and/or informed by prior political decisions (factual assessments). Also, “weighing” options for and against an outcome through factual assessment and thereby facilitating a political decision is stated as a desired component of a proper and objective factual assessment. Niclas’s description of the administrative role does, however, allow a certain political voice, as he argues that the administrator should be allowed also to “flip it politically,” meaning to provide a political assessment or concern in a case proposal before subjecting it to political processing. The administrator is thus allowed to express a political opinion but is, however, required to clearly demarcate the border between factual (objective) and political assessments. This demarcation will be discussed later. First, however, I will address further the nature of the factual assessment. Thou shalt be rational

Below, Dan, a CME whom I interviewed, recollects an incident during a meeting where he had confronted a coworker who held dual roles in the municipality as both a mid-level administrator and local politician: Once I had had to tell him during a meeting that “Don’t forget what hat you are wearing in this room.” This was a management meeting, an administrative

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management meeting. And he had started talking with the politician’s hat on in that room, and that’s just wrong in my opinion.

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During the meeting, Dan claimed that his coworker had crossed the line into politics by arguing that a particular discussion in the municipal council should be interpreted by the administration as signal of a certain political will. Dan explains further: Well, he started talking himself up, and elaborating, right? But he [became] a politician. He stepped into that role. And it was wrong, because a politician had no place in that meeting. The administrative leader was present, so he will have to relate to his colleagues and his chief municipal executive as leader. While in the political room he is … another rationality is applied. Researcher: Another rationality? Dan: Yes, a political rationality. Researcher: OK, so there are two rationalities here, can you specify in some way what is what? Dan: Yes, well, in the administration you have the command chain. That’s administration, it’s bureaucracy, classic Weber. And the lines in it, you have to relate to the lines in it. While in the political [setting], then you’ll be more liberated in a way, or, I’m sure, also more controlled if you’re within a grouping or a party where the whip is applied and such. Then you might have to vote against your conviction. I wouldn’t know anything about it. It’s different.

Such tales of municipal administrators, particularly those with formal political party affiliations, overstepping the normative rules and crossing into political roles within administrative settings were often told in both of the municipal organizations that I studied. However, the descriptions of such breaches did not always include actually engaging in open political struggle, but more often a more subtle switch of roles or rationalities, as described by Dan. For example, another administrator recollected one such incident from a meeting in a municipal executive board meeting, again involving an administrator (at the meeting in an administrative capacity) with a known affiliation to the political party holding a majority in the municipality: And he is sitting there in [an administrative role], and he sort of started taking the role of [the mayor], [saying] “Yes, maybe we could do it in such a way in order to please the view of all the political parties.” And I was sitting there thinking, well, that’s not exactly your role is it? That’s what went through my mind then.

In the quotation above, the switch into a political role is not strictly accounted as engaging in a political fight, but rather as a more general switch into a “political rationality,” in this case attempting to compromise between the different political parties. To return to Dan’s description, he again refers to Weber’s classical writings

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on bureaucracy in an attempt to elaborate on how the “administrative rationality” is distinguished from the “political rationality”: Researcher: You were saying something about different rationalities; could you say something more about that? Dan: Yes, to me, the administrative rationality, to apply those words, it’s classic Weber, it’s the bureaucracy. It is the written, that’s the arguments you have, it’s kind of “pro – contra.” It might be, maybe, an attempt at something. In a case presentation it might be an attempt at an exhaustive factual assessment. Researcher: Rational? Dan: Yes, well, a rational rationality to use such a term. Although to the novice or outsiders politics may sometimes seem completely irrational, there may [simultaneously] be, in a way, a legitimate political rationality [behind it]. For example, we could have a case presentation that in the administration’s assessment is completely perfect. Here is the case, pros and cons, huge report, plenty of pages: conclusion; this and that. And they [the politicians] can throw it straight into the trash. Because it is completely uninteresting what is written in it. Because they have already made up their minds, because of something that we don’t know or don’t see. Researcher: Something too complex to [see]? Dan: No, the point is that it’s a different rationality. It might be horse trading involved in the particular case, decided at the election three years ago. “Right, we are agreed, there is no need to read what’s in there, because we have already decided” [mimicking the politicians], with that road, or that grant, or whatever. Researcher: But could not the bureaucrat be involved in horse trading? Dan: No, not in that way. The bureaucrat may certainly be involved in horse trading, and the administrative organization could surely be understood as political. Johan P. Olsen [the political scientist] and several others surely do have such an understanding of the organization. But the politician’s way of life, way of operating, is more irrational, sometimes, not always, of course.

While acknowledging that the administrative organization can be an arena of political struggle, Dan argues that the separation must, rather, be understood as a difference of rationalities or, in his words, a separation between the rational administrator and the irrational politician. Tom, another of the mid-level administrators also holding a formal political position in his municipality, provides more insights into this separation through his descriptions of how he separates his own dual role into different rationalities: Tom: Yes, I argue that it’s different. When it comes to the political level it might … local patriotism might become relevant. Because we are in a geographically spread municipality […]. And we can get discussions that are a bit …

Tom is referring to the aspect of grendepolitkk (discussed in Chapter 4), and argues that grendepolitkk are parts of the political rationality that do not fit into

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the rationality of the administrator, who, he argues, has the utmost responsibility to “see the whole picture.” As an example, Tom refers to a policy process in which the municipality had to rank applications for grants for new investments in sporting facilities. In this case, political voices argued that building new soccer fields and skiing tracks in the areas of the municipality that did not have such facilities should be prioritized, in accordance with the principle of grendepolitikk that favors a decentralized structure in which all the different areas in the municipality should have the same services. However, as an administrator responsible for seeing “the whole picture,” he argued that: we should prioritize building a skateboard park, simply because we do not have a skateboard park in [the municipality]. We have three to four skiing tracks, two or three soccer fields, but we do not have a skateboard park. And that’s what I meant from my standpoint [as an administrator], seeing the whole picture, through a factual assessment. You can call it factual or whatever, but as a [his administrative position] I have the utmost goal to provide an offer of services to everybody, and there was no skateboarding park in the municipality. Then, it’s natural that we prioritize it. Researcher: So you are relating the political assessments to the emotions of grendepolitikk? Tom: Yes, in the assessment of such explicit applications for grants, obviously.

While the relationship between the “political rationality” and grendepolitikk may have been a particular feature of Tom’s municipality, the more important point in Tom’s description (echoed in both of the municipalities studied) is the assumption that the rationality of politics is vested in other considerations than those of the administration. Politicians particularly have to consider their voters, as Eskil, another mid-level administrator, stated: “Well, politicians have many considerations. That’s how it is, politicians live by votes, and without votes they are not politicians.” Defined by being deprived of such “political” considerations, the administrative factual assessment is, rather, understood as a more rational pro and contra weighing of alternatives. However, by acknowledging that complete objectivity in such factual assessments is impossible, it is recognized that the administrative organization is also political in the sense of administrators having active agency in policy processes. However, as political actors administrators are distinguished from politicians through the normative rules of how such political agency, or fighting, can be conducted. Separating the spheres

In addition to being administrators, all of my administrative informants were also political actors in some sense of the word. All had political beliefs and were

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citizens with voting rights. Many also had affiliations with political parties, and some held political positions within their municipality of employment. With the strong normative emphasis put on separating political and administrative behavior, such dual roles required careful maneuvering within the sets of normative rules in order to handle the transitions between administrative and political roles. Researcher: Are you yourself a member of any political party? CME: No, and for me that’s completely off the table, in my role. It is. But I do vote at every election, of course. [But] I emphasize acting as neutrally as possible. I believe that is the price to pay [for being CME]. However, in questions related to value it’s probably not very hard to read my sympathies and antipathies, as a personal political [being], but it’s not something that I would state in public. Researcher: Do you expect the same for your organization? CME: I don’t think I have ever expressed such a limitation. Because I believe that we live in a country where freedom of speech is constitutional – and has a strong standing. But I think that for the chief municipal executive, it can’t be … I think there are stronger limitations for my role than for other leaders. I do, however, know that there are other leaders that are listed as members of political associations, and I believe that is within their democratic right. But they can’t participate in political debates, I mean local political tendentious [debates], and sign with their administrative positions. That would be wrong. They would have to have somebody else sign that letter.

This CME’s view on administrative personnel holding political affiliations was common, as the legislation in Norway does not place restrictions on party affiliations (but only restrictions on eligibility for those in certain key administrative positions). Thus it was everybody’s democratic right to have affiliations with political parties. However, the normative rules regulating (and largely prohibiting) public political behavior still applied, creating a narrow and complicated path for those who choose to have formal affiliations with political parties. In many cases, such as with the CME above, administrative personnel would, therefore, avoid affiliations with political parties. Some would, however, remain members of political parties, but abstain from actively engaging in local party politics. Niclas, the aforementioned administrator with a previous record of political positions, explains: Researcher: Are you engaged politically here? Niclas: Well, engaged and engaged … I have been involved quite a lot, in my spare time. […] It is in [political party], I have been with them the whole time, but now I am out of all boards and all the stuff attached. I have been a leader of [the party] within the municipality; I was for many years. But I found it increasingly difficult in relation to my work. You run into yourself quite a lot. Albeit not necessarily directly, you often realize that you are debating something politically that you have also been involved in discussing factually within these

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walls [the municipal hall]. When that happens, it becomes difficult. I may have been among those with the most orderly relation to this, and that makes it even more difficult. I have a feeling that many do not have such [an orderly separation of roles]. I think that is a problem; they really have no idea of what hat they are wearing. Researcher: But isn’t that somewhat natural in such a small [municipality], I mean, you will always have a few hats? Niclas: Well yes, and I am not saying that there should be any kind of restrictions put on employees here working with politics, really. But I see that someone … you need to have an orderly relation to it, at least […]. Researcher: Have you had any particular experiences of this? Niclas: No, nothing concrete involving myself. But it’s more like … I noticed when I had been in meetings with [the political party] and there had been discussions of cases that I was [administrative] case-handler on, right. And I would tell them, so everybody knew, and then you just declare that you have no political opinion on that case – the others will have to settle it. […] It concerns how free you are to speak, right, both in front of the rest of the party and politicians – and in front of other politicians [from other parties]. And to me, well I felt it became difficult – so I withdrew. But I’m not sure that I will remain out, I occasionally do want to get involved.

Above, Niclas describes several of the dilemmas associated with crossing the boundaries between politics and administration. Although formally he is allowed to engage in party politics, the normative rules regulating political and administrative behavior place heavy restrictions on his actual ability to involve himself in political processes. Paradoxically, the normative rules requiring administrative distance to allow political engagement (discussed earlier in this chapter) often exclude political participation precisely in the policy processes in which the administrators’ knowledge is extensive and in which the administrators might be most motivated on a personal level because of their commitment to the same process at work. Furthermore, Niclas also emphasized that he found that handling the separation of political and administrative roles became increasingly difficult in an environment where others in similar positions seem to have a less “orderly” separation between the two roles. Most of my informants, particularly those holding both political and administrative roles, would similarly emphasize, when asked, the importance of an “orderly” separation of these roles. However, frustration over, and criticism of, those not complying with such an “orderly” handling was a frequent topic of gossip both in public arenas and during our face-to-face conversations. In a few cases, as in the example previously mentioned where Dan reminded a colleague of what “hat” he was wearing during a meeting, such breaches of the normative rules were met with direct confrontations. Normative breaches committed by personnel in higher hierarchical political and administrative positions, and incidents not directly witnessed, could be more difficult to confront directly.

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As an example of the latter type of incident, one mid-level administrator explained how their daily routine of opening and sorting out the day’s incoming mail during informal morning meetings had become problematic. As the informal morning meetings took place in one of the common areas in the municipal hall, and were a common first stop for any one arriving at work who wanted a cup of coffee before starting their day, there was little control over who would be present during the sorting of the mail. Still, opening the mail at such a gathering point had its advantages, partly because it “kept everybody up to speed” on what was going on, and partly because it eased the sorting of the mail, because corresponding tasks could be immediately delegated with everyone present. Recently, however, the administrator had noticed that information from these informal meetings had found its way into the political sphere, where such information was “being used politically” in the municipal council and other political settings, with vague source references like “I have heard that.” Suspicion had thus been raised, particularly against administrators with dual roles suspected of conveying such information directly to the political sphere, thereby omitting the orderly passage of passing information through the CME as depicted by the “hourglass” model. Others, who also told of similar cases of information finding its way across the border and into the political sphere, argued that administrators generally should be more careful about what they discussed while seated in the common areas of the municipal hall. In many cases, frustration was also directed toward politicians without administrative roles who held offices in or otherwise visited the municipal hall and carried information gathered in informal settings back to the political arena. In other words, the normative rules also restricted how personnel in only political roles could apply information gathered through informal means in administrative settings. Administrators particularly frowned upon the involvement of political roles in matters related to human resources in the municipal organization. A mid-level manager, for example, told about how they had observed that employees in the municipal organization bypassed the administrative command chain and contacted the mayor directly on issues concerning their employment in the organization and, furthermore, how the mayor had involved himself with union representatives during such cases. The mid-level manager argued to me that this was a case of the mayor totally misunderstanding his role and that, although “[the mayor] is a kind man that wants to fix things, he has to accept the system.” Similarly, Johanne, the mid-level administrator quoted earlier, told how many of her colleagues had sought support among opposing politicians during a controversial restructuring of the administrative organization: It is perfectly clear, and I can state it straight out; they were playing their cards directly toward the politicians. Among other things, I had a politician that came [here] and interviewed my employees without me knowing anything about it.

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Like, “What are the disadvantages,” and many of those [questions] on the process. […] And there we have it again, the separation between the political and the stuff that is within the responsibility of the chief municipal executive. However, this is a small [town], and we know that is how it works.

In this quotation, Johanne argues that the incident she describes constituted a breach of the normative separation between politics and administration by the politician venturing into the responsibilities of the CME. In the latter part of the quotation, she also provides a rare outspoken reference to what, in Bailey’s terms, would constitute bending normative rules in favor of pragmatic rules. The reference to the fact that the town constitutes a “small” community was also a common explanation of why the normative ideal of separating politics and administration was hardly enforceable. In a small community where “everybody knows everybody,” often through multiple relations, upholding the separation of roles was understood to be more troublesome than in larger municipalities where the social distances between administrators and politicians could be greater. Hence it was common knowledge – “we know that is how it works” – that separation was occasionally breached and could be employed as a strategy in political struggle. The bendable structure of normative rules was further illustrated when I later asked Johanne to elaborate on her reaction upon discovering that a politician was interviewing her employees: Researcher: How did you react then? Johanne: Well, I was surprised, and then I thought that this was untidy. I thought that he should have spoken to me. But he knew that I was the leader [of the controversial process], so his choice was strategic. I had to ask her [the employee who was interviewed] about what actually happened, and she said that he came and asked her this and that. He did not give the impression of doing an interview or anything like that, but he did write it down. Actually, he stepped up to the speaker’s chair [in the municipal council] and spoke about it later. So some of them think that it is [OK], I have heard. Among others, [another municipal councilor] has said that if he hears rumors about trouble within health and care, then he would simply go over there and talk to them, and I know that several politicians do it; they go and talk separately with employees. However, you will not get the whole picture [when speaking separately to employees]. I mean, it is OK that those viewpoints should not be hidden or anything, and there are upsides and downsides to doing it in a new way, and that’s how it is, but you will not get the whole picture by speaking with an employee seated in his own professional area without having the whole picture. Researcher: I understand, but do you think that this works the other way also, that there are employees [actively] detouring through the political route? Johanne: I think so, yes, they have contact with the political life, yes. It is a very small community, so yes; I believe so. Researcher: But is it allowed, is it OK?

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Johanne: Well. We are … We are an open democratic society. That we are. But I do believe that it is just as tidy to discuss it internally [in the administrative organization], and that your voice should be heard there. If we are on the verge of moving in a completely wrong direction, then we need to be able to discuss it [internally]. Well, not if it is a political decision, then we will have to relate to it, and rather present the disadvantages. Though it is both OK and not OK, actually. Researcher: If one of your employees […] had approached you with something that [you] did not allow them to do, and they then take a political detour. Say [for example] that you notice that a municipal councilor argues that precise case, and it is completely obvious [that they have been approached by your employees], do you react? Johanne: Yes of course I would react to that. I think I would have felt that it would have been somewhat cruel to the leadership. I would have thought that I may not have had … I mean, if they do not have that kind of confidence in me, then maybe I should not be leader here. Researcher: Is it a question of confidence? Johanne: It is a question of confidence, yes. However, I believe that we should have a ceiling high enough to discuss such things internally. Then, if we have such big problems with it, then it should be the chief municipal executive that has to assess it. “Yes, OK, this is a dilemma that we might need to have a [political] debate about” [mimicking the CME], then it can be raised politically, but I would never raise anything politically without involving the chief municipal executive. No matter what.

While recognizing the reality of how the normative separation between politics and administration is being bent for political ends, Johanne retains her normative position by adhering to the “hourglass” model – “no matter what.” However, in admitting that an “open and democratic” society poses few restrictions on such behavior, Johanne is recognizing such normative breaches of the hierarchical command chain as a pragmatic reality of policy processes. Notice, however, how Johanne also relates such a potential breach of the hierarchical command chain to a lack of confidence to the organization’s leaders, in this case herself. Thus she not only confirms the existence of alternative alignments, but also suggests that the choice of such alignments is related to her own actions as leader. Her suggestion that “I should not be leader here” if such a lack of confidence actually existed further implies a notion of social control and weighing of her actions, potentially countering the hierarchical command chain. External relations

The next excerpt is from an interview with the mayor of one of the municipalities in which we discussed the extern communication of the municipal organization: Researcher: Can you explain the differences in your role in opposition to the role of the administration concerning external contact?

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Mayor: Yes, see, the administration does not have any links to the political milieu at all. They can send an application to the county authorities, and get their share of the county funds for trade and industry development, for example. Or they can write a letter to the county governor and get discretionary funds. That is kind of the [only] possibility the administration has. But if you are to get a solution – change something – for example getting a stretch of road built, then there has to be political pressure. Because the county authority will have to move funds toward it and prioritize that stretch of road, they have a list of priorities. Researcher: So you are separating political and administrative [relations]? Mayor: Yes, for example, they are now working on [a vital road in the municipality]. Those sharp turns over there. […] The process has been at a standstill the whole time. But then there was a political incident. When “the good man” [a former county politician] was [in charge of ] communications and transport, I brought him there, and told him: [banging hard on the table with his fist] “the road is about to slip out!” Then the matter came up, it was brought up in the system, into their consciousness. [They then realized] “We will have to do something about this.” Then it got on the county authorities’ list of priorities.

In the dialog, the mayor acknowledged to some extent that administrative personnel can be understood as political actors when applying external relations, but he suggests that politicians and administrators work within different frameworks of relations, thus implying that the normative rules of administrators not contacting politicians also extends to relations external to the formal municipal organization. However, the mayor was more ambiguous concerning politicians’ ability to contact administrators outside the politicians’ own organizations. The same mayor had previously told me about another incident involving the need for support from the county authorities. On this occasion, the mayor had first tried approaching administrative personnel at the county authorities, without success, before succeeding by contacting county politicians. I therefore pursued the matter further with the mayor: Researcher: But if I can be a bit bold, and suggest that those lines [between contacting administrative personnel and political personnel external to the municipal organization] are crossed all of the time. […] And that if you do not succeed in one way, you try another. You also told me that you called administrative personnel, on one occasion, first? Mayor: Yes, I might actually do that. Researcher: But have you given any thoughts to whether you possess any different tools or means, does your role function in another way [as opposed to an administrative role] […]? Mayor: Well, [pausing] there might be a difference. I do believe that my voice carries a greater weight than the voice of a bureaucrat in [the municipality] writing a letter or whatever. I do actually feel that, in that way, I might have

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more power. Yes, you are allowed to growl a bit. […] Politicians are allowed to growl a bit, be more [present] in media and such, and influence in that way.

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The mayor went on to give an example of such “growling” involving his attempt to push Telenor, the major Norwegian telecommunications company (with the Norwegian state as a majority owner), to improve the cell phone coverage within the municipality: Mayor: I have been very angry with Telenor. I’ve been pissed off. And I have had many meetings with a guy named [a high-ranking Telenor official]. It did not help at all. So I wrote a letter, I thought I had to bring this matter further, to [the Norwegian minister of transport and communications]. And we got an answer back: “Well, if you are dissatisfied with Telenor and the coverage, then we should just raise the issue with Telenor.” Then, then I thought that now I’m getting angry. Now I’m angry. And I thought; now I’m going to travel to Oslo. And it’s on my agenda, but I have not done it yet, but I am going to […]. Researcher: But what are you implying here? That you can use your network when you are angry? Mayor: Yes? Researcher: I mean, the bureaucrat might perhaps be more bound, and be as angry as he can in his office, and perhaps growl a bit around the coffee table, but you are able to growl a bit further out? Mayor: Yes! That is my feeling. It is true; I can go to the newspaper and such, as I did this morning, when I called [a journalist] about this fish farming thing that they want to bring over here, right. I told him: No way, they will not be allowed here with that stuff! [laughing]. But that, they cannot; a bureaucrat cannot do that.

In the latter example, the mayor referred to his reaction to a debate concerning the establishment of a particular form of fish farming deemed problematic from an environmental viewpoint. The issue had been debated earlier the same day on a national radio show, during which a participant in the debate had suggested establishing such problematic fish farming in the area of the mayor’s municipality. This prompted the mayor’s immediate response in the form of contacting a journalist at a regional newspaper to object to the suggestion. The dialog with the mayor quoted above shows how the normative rules separating political and administrative action also extended to the municipal actors’ relations outside the formal municipal organization, as well as how the normative rules concerned both who they contact and in what manner they communicate. For example, while the administrative actor could normatively also be allowed to speak out in newspapers or other medias, the administrative actor would be expected to refrain from such political “growling” as mentioned by the mayor, and instead conduct their public statements in a more factual and objective manner.

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In other words, while both administrators and politicians do apply external relations in political struggles (as exemplified in Chapter 4), the administrator would have to appear publicly not to be fighting in a political struggle. According to the mayor’s statements, the same also holds true, to a certain extent, for political struggles perceived as politically unilateral within the municipality, such as the example of pushing the county authorities to improve a county-owned road. While administrators may even be expected to participate in such struggles as representatives of the municipal organization, they are confined to doing so within an administrative framework; in the mayor’s definition, for example, this would mean writing applications and giving their factual assessments, while refraining from applying the kind of political pressure available in the politicians’ more emotional toolbox. The normative guidelines framing behavior in circumstances external to the formal municipal organization could, in many cases and to some extent, be understood as extensions of the normative rules structuring political struggle within the organization. Situations involving external actors and public appearances were, however, also the arenas of political struggle in which the normative rules seemed less settled, to judge both by my informants’ diverging interpretations of such settings and by the number of situations causing controversy due to normative breaches. One possible explanation for this is that such arenas tend to be less institutionalized, as, again following Bailey’s (1969) conceptual framework, external surroundings bring new situations to the political arena of the municipal organization. One example of this sort of new situation was the use of social media, particularly Facebook, among politicians and administrators within the municipal organization. While the normative rules of conduct with journalists, a category very familiar to the municipal organization, were relatively firmly agreed, the recent introduction of social media as an arena for political debate was far more controversial and a frequent topic of discussion during lunch and other informal meeting places in both of the municipal organizations. In both municipalities, there were Facebook chat groups for discussing local politics, where local politicians and other inhabitants would discuss current matters, often in quite heated debates. While both administrators and politicians would carefully stress that these chat groups were not to be considered “official” channels of the municipal organization (although the municipalities had other official accounts in social media which functioned as information channels), the individual application of such chat groups and other social media channels varied greatly. Among the administrators, the difficulty of separating the personal role of a politically concerned citizen and the professional role of the objective and neutral bureaucrat was stated by many as a reason for abstaining from any discussions on local politics in social media. For example,

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one administrator made the following remark regarding her personal use of social media:

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I will always have my personal opinions of course, but I think that it would be too untidy of me [to express them]. Because in social media, everybody would be thinking about “that [her administrative position],” even if I argue under [her own name].

Yet it was obvious that many of the administrators followed discussions in such groups closely, as detailed summaries of the previous day’s discussions on Facebook occurred frequently during the morning ritual of coffee and during lunchtime conversations. In cases of heated debates, the administrators would often express frustration at not being able to comment, particularly when they felt that the municipal organization’s actions were misunderstood or when factual errors had occurred in the discussion groups. However, there were few guidelines available on how to counter such misrepresentations of the municipal organization. For example, suggestions included providing correct information by commenting directly in such groups, providing information through other channels and contacting members or administrators of such groups to ask them to provide corrected information. The passive use of such channels was also contested. While some administrators argued for using them actively as feedback systems, thereby allowing them to influence practices in the municipal organization and, thus, policy developments, others viewed them as frivolous and as not representative enough of the general public to be taken seriously; as one administrator remarked: I have not read the Facebook page, and I am probably not going to, either. If you want to become depressed, then you are welcome to go in there. There is just too much evil bullshit there – I have only heard rumors about it. […] I do not understand why they [people in the Facebook chat group] cannot take a break once in a while; do they need to be so critical and negative no matter what? There is so much off topic and irrelevant, I think. I should not comment on it, as I have not read it.

Given the ambiguous views on such debate arenas, the administrators’ views on politicians participating actively in such debates were also ambiguous. While some praised politicians for actively contributing to open debates by participating in such forums, others were more skeptical and made sarcastic remarks about politicians “running their mouths” on Facebook, suggesting that such chat groups did not constitute worthy arenas for political struggle. The politicians themselves also had ambiguous attitudes to the use of Facebook chat groups. While some actively engaged in discussions and even used such platforms to launch controversial standpoints, others would participate more carefully by only stating brief standpoints or information without participating

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actively in polemical debates. Many also abstained completely from participating in such forums.

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Representing and switching hats

Politicians participating in social media debates encountered the same problem that caused administrators to abstain from such debates, which involved the separation of roles and the act of representing. Administrators abstained from joining such debates because they risked being perceived as politically biased representatives of the municipal organization, rather than as politically concerned citizens, thereby breaching the rule of objectiveness characterizing the administrative role. While the roles of politician and concerned citizen were more reconcilable, politicians acting on social media and elsewhere also had to consider representation. For example, the differences between their personal political views and those of their political parties could occasionally be irreconcilable. Furthermore, those holding formal political positions in the municipality (e.g., as mayor or vice-mayor) had to consider whether they represented particular political positions or the municipal organization at every public appearance or whenever they were meeting personnel external to their own municipal organization. The choice of representation was often metaphorically described by my informants as wearing and switching hats, as in the CME’s story about reminding a colleague with dual roles as both politician and administrator, “Don’t forget what hat you are wearing in this room” (quoted above). In the next excerpt, I discussed with Tom, the previously quoted mid-level administrator who also held a political position in the municipality, how he handled switching such hats by declaring representation: Researcher: But is it possible? I understand that when you speak to new people, you can call and present yourself as [political position], or as the [political party], or as [administrative position], and that it might have some effect. But I’m guessing that in this work you’re applying your network a lot, and people that you already know – and that know you in [all your] roles. I mean, is it possible to be anybody other than Tom and all of the positions that you hold? Tom: Well, what you are talking about is important. That is why it is important that we set things straight. When I present myself and take initiative as [political position in the municipal organization], then I am taking an initiative on behalf of the municipality, and it has to be in an understanding with the mayor. If I take an initiative on behalf of [the political party] or as [naming position in the municipal council] – then it is a very different matter. […] Separating them [the political roles] is very important. Also, as you [researcher] are on to what they are accusing … asking me all the time about, [because] it is a challenge to be both [administrative position] and [political position in the municipal organization], “What hat are you wearing now?” […]

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That is why I always say: “Tonight I am wearing the [administrative position] hat […] or Tonight I’m actually [in a political position].” It is not a bigger matter than that; in this way you eliminate the whole problem. Researcher: By declaring it first? Tom: Yes. Researcher: But when you have declared yourself, does that in any way structure what you do? Tom: No, it does not really have any big impact on what I say. […] But if I have been given a mandate, representing [the municipality] […] then it would be important to present myself accordingly and clearly state […] that I am there representing the municipality. However, it is not a problem, that is how it has to be. […] Researcher: But is it then OK to switch hats during the same meeting? Tom: No, but that’s not an [issue]. In the same meeting? I cannot see if that would ever be [an issue]. Researcher: During lunch? Tom: Well, during lunch, I think that when you are done with the formalities and you are sitting down to have lunch … If there is not enough room, then we will not get far in life.

For Tom, highly aware that his actions are being observed and judged, the quintessential act in handling the separation of rules is the declaration of what hat he is wearing at any given time. In Tom’s statement, the switching of hats did not imply, however, any major restructuring of his modus operandi, and his comment on switching hats during lunch suggests that such a declaration of hats is largely understood as a formal matter. In his latter statement, he also implies that occasionally accepting a mix of hats, when being “done with the formalities” is a pragmatic necessity in order to get things done. While many of Tom’s colleagues would probably (and in many similar cases actually did) object to his strictly formal attitude toward hat switching, such a formal declaration of hats was still considered the most important component in handling multiple roles. In other words, a basic normative rule of switching between political and administrative roles stated that there should no ambiguity as to what role a political or administrative actor represented at any time. In many cases, switching hats, and thereby the role being represented, could also entail larger shifts in political standpoints. One example of such a switch happened at a regional council meeting, where the political delegation from the municipal organization I studied had taken a political stand against a controversial project related to natural resource extraction in the region. During the meeting, the delegation had encountered little sympathy from the representatives of the other municipalities and the council’s leadership. Somewhat surprised by the stark opposition they encountered and what they labeled almost evangelical praise of the controversial project during the meeting, some of the members discussed

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upon returning how many of the people who they knew to be strongly against the project from other settings had taken an opposite stand during the regional council meeting. However, rather than condemning their political opponents for not “sticking to their personal views” during the meeting, the delegation spoke in highly positive terms regarding their political opponents’ ability to set aside their personal views and to comply with their role of representing their home municipalities and organizations that had formally declared standpoints in favor of the project. As one of the members of the political delegation remarked of the leader of the regional council who was bound by a previous statement from the council declaring themselves in favor of the project: Politician: [He] was very clever handling it during the regional council meeting. I thought so, but I do know that he is actually not very happy about [the extraction project], and I am not either. However, I was still impressed at the influence he had on all the speakers. There was almost one of those, well, “hallelujah we must [realize the extraction project],” almost. There was almost no opposition to it during the meeting – and some of us reacted to [the lack of opposition] […]. Researcher: But you were saying he set aside his personal [conviction]? Politician: Yes, that is what I meant. He did not mention his own conviction during the regional council meeting. He may have gone a little too far in the other direction [laughing], because, you know, I would have preferred somebody a bit more [critical], but, well, [he] is a clever person and a good leader for [the regional council], absolutely.

In other words, willingness to set aside personal political opinions and comply with the role of representing different political standpoints could be a necessary (and valued) component of complying with the rules for switching hats and for representation. An example of the normative implications of failing to do so appeared in a meeting organized by the Norwegian Association of Local and Regional Authorities (KS). The meeting was an annual event in which the many regional councils in the county were invited to raise national issues of local and regional importance before the Storting [the Norwegian parliament] members representing the county, who were expected to bring these issues of regional importance back to the national arena of the Storting. Therefore the meeting consisted of representatives from all of the county’s regional councils, as well as the members of Storting from within the county. At the meeting, each of the regional councils was given fifteen minutes to argue its cases of local and regional importance. With limited time available, each of the regional councils had carefully prioritized a short list of issues to present during the meeting. A week earlier, I had attended a meeting of the working committee of one of the regional councils due to be present at the KS meeting, and there I witnessed how the working committee had selected issues to present in the meeting. The

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main principle was that selected issues should have been processed formally in the regional council to ensure that their standpoint reflected a unified view of the municipalities they represented. However, a few issues were also selected on the grounds of being considered sufficiently uncontroversial among the member municipalities to be presented without such processing. While the first category of issues was largely related to communication structures and main roads, where the regional council had reached agreement on its preferred prioritization of developments, the latter category largely comprised smaller developments that were of high importance to single member municipalities and were believed to be uncontroversial among the other members. During the KS meeting with the members of the Storting, most of the issues raised by the attending regional councils followed the same pattern, with regional council representatives presenting either issues that had been firmly agreed within their respective counties, or smaller issues that were considered uncontroversial. However, toward the end of the meeting a representative from one of the regional councils raised a controversial issue regarding the natural resource extraction project mentioned earlier in this chapter. While this regional council had earlier issued a statement supporting the project, the representative now argued that new knowledge about the project had sparked more uncertainty among the regional council’s members and that several of the council’s political members were now reconsidering their separate standpoints. Following the statement, one of the members of the Storting present immediately posed a question in an agitated manner: Member of Storting: Does this mean that we are to ignore the previous statement from the regional council? Regional council representative: […] The regional council has not reprocessed the issue, but we have been given new knowledge. I’m signaling that some of us are now more skeptical.

The response was greeted with several loud grunts of disbelief and whispering among the audience. The politician seated next to me, representing another regional council, whispered to me that the representative at the stand seemed to be mixing her own personal beliefs with those of her regional council, and later added: “She can do that, but she has to tell us first [that she’s speaking on her own behalf ].” Defining the rulebook

The incident at the KS meeting demonstrated the importance not only of acting in accordance with the prescribed role of representation in public arenas but also of how a political argument could easily be dismissed on the grounds of its

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proponent not acting in accordance with the normative rules in play. Thus both acting in accordance with the rules and calling out faults become integral parts of a political struggle. Defining the relevant rulebook at play becomes increasingly important when political arenas that are “new” and institutionally “unsettled” are entered. While the earlier example of social media as a new and normative “unsettled” arena of political struggle illustrates this, social media did not constitute the only arena in which my informants would occasionally display uncertainty about the normative rules at play. As illustrated in Chapter 4, intermunicipal collaborations existed in a wide array of forms and in different hierarchical steering structures. The Norwegian Municipality Act formulated three different juridical models of organizing formal intermunicipal cooperation, namely the intermunicipal board model, the host municipal model and the intermunicipal enterprise model. In practice, however, the formal collaborative models could exist in different variations within the three main juridical frameworks allowed in the Municipality Act; for example, the “virtual host municipality model” described in Chapter 4. Combined with the wide array of informal collaborative arenas, and also regional councils and other overlying structures that acted as “umbrellas” for large numbers of collaborative arrangements, the totality of formal and informal collaborative arenas comprised a large mix of governing structures requiring in-depth knowledge to operate in each particular case. For the individual politician or administrator tasked with representing their municipal organization in such settings, understanding and identifying the particular normative rules at play and their own particular role (i.e., what hat to wear) could, therefore, be an uncertain affair, particularly when they participate in new arenas. For example, while most public arenas involving a mix of political and administrative personnel would require a strict and formal separation of political and administrative roles, other more enclosed settings could entail less formalized and pragmatic attitudes toward the division of roles. The working committee meeting of the regional council that I attended before the previously mentioned KS meeting represented an example of the latter setting, where both politicians and administrators seemingly discussed matters in a pragmatic manner without much attention to the division of political and administrative roles. While such a pragmatic attitude toward the division of rules may be expected in a clearly mandated collaborative setting, such as a working committee, similar tendencies could also be observed in other, less obvious arenas. The episode during the collaborative forum between neighboring municipalities mentioned earlier in this chapter, during which a CME expressed a “political” opinion on the matter of municipality mergers, represents an example of the latter sort of less obvious arena. During the same meeting, there were also other cases of the participating administrators venturing into discussions on matters that elsewhere

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were considered too politically sensitive for (public) administrative involvement, seemingly on equal terms with the participating politicians. At one point, for example, both politicians and administrators discussed and criticized what they considered a general lack of will in their respective municipal councils to engage in further collaborative relations across municipal borders, giving the discussion a flavor of “plotting” against, rather than representing, the hierarchy of their municipal organizations. When later asked about the casual attitude toward managing roles at the meeting, one of the CMEs who participated regularly in the forum explained to me: “It is more of a collegial forum. Therefore there is not so much a division of roles there. When those six people [the regular participators] meet, that’s kind of how it is.” Consisting of the CMEs and mayors of three neighboring municipalities, the collaborative forum’s regular participants were very familiar with each other and met regularly through multiple ties and connections. Despite its being a formal collaborative body acting as an umbrella for numerous intermunicipal collaborations between the concerned municipalities, the CME thus implied that the forum had developed a form in which such an informal and pragmatic attitude toward the handling of roles was accepted. Thus a bond of solidarity had formed that was capable of crossing not only the normative boundaries of political and administrative spheres, but also the bounds of loyalty to the hierarchal lines of municipal organizations that the participants represented, enabling them to openly criticize their municipal councils. Finally, the bond of solidarity created during the meeting also seemed to cross-cut the party loyalties of the politicians present (the mayors), who could openly criticize their fellow party members for not understanding the pragmatic need to expand the use of intermunicipal collaboration. Explaining Astri’s provocation

To return to this chapter’s opening vignette, the insight into the normative rules at play presented in this chapter – particularly the rules separating political roles and administrative roles – may offer an explanation as to why Councilor Astri’s arguments in the municipal council were understood as provocative and undignified. By contacting personnel at the county governor’s office and asking about detailed regulations concerning the sale of properties owned by the municipality, Astri overstepped the line into administrative affairs – not by arguing politically against the sale but by undermining the CME’s factual assessment of the issue. As the same CME explained to me on a later occasion: CME: That politicians step into the administration? Oh yes, that has happened, and can happen.

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Researcher: Can we discuss the last municipal council meeting? I believe I might have observed something like that. CME: Oh yes! That made me unbelievably annoyed. Researcher: Yes, I noticed. CME: Yes, and I let it show through, partly on purpose. I did not meet that particular councilor [Astri] after that meeting, but I am going to tell her. Because I know her quite well, and I plan to tell her that I think she was completely out of line. I do not want that, it is completely hopeless; almost a no-confidence [motion]. They should approach the administration with such questions. Researcher: Yes, but where exactly did [she] step out of line? CME: Well, for example in having called the county governor and asked about the Public Procurement Act concerning the sale of the municipality-owned houses. It is the administration’s job to assess those questions. That is my belief. Then they [the politicians] can make a decision. Also, they have to state what they want to have assessed! […] Calling the county governor; she is free to do so in a democratic system. But I think that she should have, and she could have, run it past us in advance. Then the administration could have investigated and made a summary or something. But it is wrong to bring it to the speaker’s chair. That is what I think.

The CME argued that Astri had committed a breach by taking over the administration’s job of assessing the procedures of selling the housing units concerned, thereby (in the CME’s opinion) displaying a lack of confidence in that administration. The mayor who was present during the meeting also confirmed the CME’s interpretation of the incident during an interview: Mayor: My experience is that we do have a firm and clear separation of politics and administration in [the municipality]. I do retain that faith, and I believe that we maintain it. What that means, among other things, is that I have great respect for the chief municipal executive as a leader of administration […]. It is not the mayor [who is supposed to lead the administration]. And we have had a lot of discussions on that, and I have been criticized among my own. I think it’s interesting, because in many incidents there is almost a systematic split in generations concerning that. The elders, my older party comrades, they often want me to step into the organization, walk up to the nursing home! As mayor I’m [expected to] walk up to the nursing home and speak with the employees […]. I tell them “No, I will not do that.” The employees have their channels to use. They should relate to the chief municipal executive, and I relate to the chief municipal executive. Because I know nobody there, like that, I mean, and I can’t do that. I clearly have an interest in what’s going on at the nursing home, but I have to relate to the chief municipal executive […] what the chief municipal executive says, and what the chief municipal executive provides me with for information. I can’t, in a way, seek and apply information originating from other sources than the chief municipal executive. Researcher: Seek and apply?

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Mayor: Yes, that means, how should I put it? Well, we did experience, relatively often, like when we were at the municipal council previously, there you saw an example of this.

Referring to the incident with Astri in the municipal council, the mayor applied the incident as an example of a politician overstepping into the sphere of administration by seeking and applying information not originating from the CME, thereby confirming the CME’s interpretation of the situation. However, the careful reader should also note the mayor’s reflections on his relations with employees at the nursing home. What the mayor is implying, I argue, is not that he cannot (and does not) have any social relations with anybody employed in the municipal organization, a normative rule that in a Norwegian municipality of a normal size would entail recruiting local politicians only from distant communities and isolating them upon arrival. What the mayor is implying, rather, is that the political role of mayor should ideally not have any direct relations with employees in the municipal organization, thus avoiding the spillage of information and relational ties from the administrative sphere into the political sphere. Note also the mayor’s claim of “a systematic split in generations concerning that,” relating to how politicians view contacting administrative employees directly for information, as in the aforementioned incident involving a politician interviewing Johanne’s employees, which implies a recently developed and still contested aspect of the normative rules guiding political behavior. The reactions to Astri’s statements in the municipal council demonstrated how the normative restrictions on cross-sphere relations also extended to external relations, in this case to surrounding governing bodies, where Astri’s contact with the county governor’s office was deemed a breach of normative rules. However, the contact with the county governor’s office may not have been the only, or even the foremost, reason for the strong reaction. As the CME added a little later when explaining the incident: Researcher: So you would rather prefer that a correction [to the understanding of regulations concerning the sale of housing units] had been brought forward to you in another setting than the municipal council meeting? CME: But this was no correction to me. This concerned how the municipality should sell a particular house, to a particular person, by omitting a bidding round. If the municipality wanted to sell to a person living in a municipal housing, there is a way to do it – just as we have previously done it. It is simply a matter of asking if it’s possible, asking the administration if it’s possible. […] But I found it a bit undignified, because what Astri was doing during the particular meeting was talking on behalf of a particular person. It’s so transparent in our tiny local community that everybody sitting there probably knew who it was.

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This interpretation of Astri’s statements was, however, never uttered publicly during the council meeting. As explained to me by the CME, this other breach of normative rules, involving speaking on behalf of a personal matter that concerned one of the municipality’s citizens, was an underlying reason for the strong reactions of the CME and others during the meeting. While crossing into the administrative sphere by contacting the county governor did, in itself, constitute a normative breach, it may not have been the only cause of the degree of outrage displayed at the meeting. As I will go on to discuss in the final parts of this book, this example shows, therefore, how reactions in the public arena can also be results of processes not uttered publicly, and how normative breaches in informal arenas can cause reactions in formal arenas. Thus informal social control becomes an embedded part of the formal political struggle. Moreover, Astri’s provocation also becomes an example of the common tension defining both political and administrative roles, the tension between impersonal and personal relations. Conclusions: it’s nothing personal

The normative content of handling roles in the administrative sphere can be understood through the Weberian notion of a bureaucratic occupational ethos defined in contrast to the political role. By abstaining from a political fight and remaining loyal to the hierarchical chain of command within the municipal organization, administrators secure the democratic legitimacy of policy processes. Furthermore, I argue that the normative emphasis placed on acting in accordance with both the political and the administrative roles functions as a barrier against the most dreaded role in the political arena of the municipal organization, that of the personal social being characterized by multiplex social relations to its surroundings. As I will discuss further in the next chapter, personal and multiplex relations are understood as corruptible and undermining of the modern (in our case, local) government’s rational, effective and impartial grounds of legitimacy, prescribing an ideal-type political arena characterized by uniplex, impersonal and formal relations (Sørhaug 1984). Confining oneself and others within the normative guidelines of behavior thus becomes the way to legitimize political processes by avoiding the descent into the corruptible political arena of personalized conflicts and loyalties. If my assertion is correct, it explains not only why holding on to normative roles becomes increasingly important when the actors are in fact known to have personal ties (as the in the case of Frode’s personal relationship with the mayor), but also why having both a political and an administrative role (causing multiplex relations) becomes troublesome. In this light, the kind of collegial solidarity that is aroused in the collaborative forum between the participating politicians and administrators, mentioned above, becomes an example of the kind of situation to be avoided. Overstepping their

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respective roles as politicians and administrators in the forum threatened the hierarchies of the participating municipal organizations, thereby undermining their political legitimacy. In this case, overstepping the normative rules became possible because the actors present knew each other well (perhaps confirming the dangers of multiplex relations) and had developed a relationship in which such breaches were expected to remain within the closed setting of the meeting and not return to haunt them by undermining their political legitimacy. The kind of solidarity described above remains important as we move on to the next chapter, where we will shift the focus to what Bailey (1969) would label as the pragmatic rules at play during policy development. As the example of the forum meeting shows, the breach of normative rules in such settings, and particularly of the normative rules associated with the act of representing, can potentially lead to new political alliances forming. From being able to criticize their political leadership (i.e., in the municipal councils and/or political parties) for not having the will and knowledge to engage in closer intermunicipal collaborations, it is only a short distance to developing collaborative strategies for promoting such causes within their respective organizations. However, the latter point also marks a departure into a part of the political games I encountered during fieldwork that receive less attention in Bailey’s analytical framework for understanding political arenas. For while Bailey (1969) focuses on more or less stable political teams formed on the basis of loyalty and reciprocal relations to political leaders, I argue that the municipal policy arenas I encountered were characterized by actors with cross-cutting loyalties forming alliances around individual policy goals, making the creation of pragmatic policy alliances the quintessential part of the political game.

6

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Pragmatic egalitarianism: tales of municipal entrepreneurship In this chapter, I will describe this volume’s understanding of how municipal policy development unfolds by exploring the strategies and tactics at play during controversial policy developments. In doing so, the analytical focus shifts from Bailey’s concept of normative rules to the more pragmatic rules of political struggle. However, as previously indicated, this chapter also entails an important departure from Bailey’s classical description of political struggle (1969), as I argue for a contrast between Bailey’s descriptions of leader-centered political teams and the high degree of cross-cutting political loyalties and goal-oriented alliances that I encountered during fieldwork. This characteristic, I argue, makes the creation and enactment of pragmatic policy alliances, understood as the tying together of both actors and resources for political goals, a vital analytical vantage point both for understanding how municipal policy development unfolds and for addressing the interconnections between hierarchical government and networked governance. Enacting such pragmatic policy alliances often entails tying together actors and resources with different relational status both to the borders of the municipal organization and to its hierarchical command chain. My main ambition in this chapter is to advance this understanding beyond pure descriptions of the relational mechanisms and social dynamics of the municipal organization and into a more detailed account of their functions. This, I argue, requires an investigation of these relations in light of a wider social and cultural context. With reference to the previous chapter, my aim is to move beyond descriptions of the normative and pragmatic rules of political struggle and advance toward an understanding of the wider social functions of these rules as they inform municipal policy processes. Administration vs. politics?

The suggestion made in the two previous chapters that the municipal administration forms an arena for political struggle, thus recognizing the political agency of administrative actors, is by no means new; it is stated because it provides an illustrative contrast to the emic and normative understanding of the “objective”

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administrative sphere. However, as argued by Jacobsen (2002), the political agency of administrative actions has often been treated as a conflict of interest between politicians and administrators, thus implying the existence of a homogeneous administrative organization with a particular set of common “administrative” interests. According to such a view, administrative actors are prone to support issues of general advantage to administrative personnel, while their political counterparts are thought to generally prefer issues of importance to their voters, to whom politicians are more directly accountable through elections. Jacobsen (2002:8–12) lists typical examples of such commonly assumed administrative interests: First, administrators are generally thought to be more willing than politicians to expand municipal budgets for all areas of municipal activity. Second, they are expected to generally favor issues of “internal” importance to the municipal organization (e.g., planning and human resources) rather than issues directly related to the production of services. Finally, administrators are thought to be generally less enthusiastic about reforms and organizational changes than their political counterparts are. This is due partly to an assumption that politicians gain prestige by advancing changes rather than the status quo and partly to a belief that organizations are characterized by a general reluctance to change. On the basis of survey data from thirty different Norwegian municipalities, Jacobsen (2002) found little support, however, for such systematic conflict between political interests and administrative interests when he investigated their respective attitudes toward different political issues and the budgetary prioritization of municipal funds. He did, however, find some support for a different hypothesis, arguing that both politicians and administrators can be expected to prioritize the sectors of municipal activities that they themselves are most familiar with through their political activities and work. This finding suggests that political alliances crossing political and administrative spheres may be just as likely as, or even more likely than, systematic conflicts between the two spheres. However, Jacobsen (2002) argues that the picture portrayed by his study is mainly that of a fragmented municipal organization. Just as political views on different matters depend on which politician you ask, the municipal administration can also hardly be understood as a unified and homogeneous political actor. Views on different issues of policy development among municipal administrators seem to vary greatly, depending on both hierarchical and sectorial positions within the municipal administration. Furthermore, among both politicians and administrators Jacobsen (2002) finds that individual traits, such as gender, age and educational levels, cross-cut both party affiliations and organizational positions, thus strengthening the picture of a complex municipal organization in regard to political views. The findings of my study strongly mirror Jacobsen’s (2002) picture of a complex municipal organization, one characterized by individuals and groups (of both

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politicians and administrators) pursuing different goals in more or less stable coalitions. As shown by the examples of municipal policy development in Chapter 4, advancing a particular issue could involve an internal struggle within both the administrative and political spheres of the municipal organization. Furthermore, while political alliances across the two spheres were normally a troublesome affair, such alliances were considered vital in cases such as Mayor Raymond’s fight for the sporting arena and the fight by Jim, the chief municipal executive (CME), for the Health Service Center (HSC).1 Before addressing the nature of relations within pragmatic policy alliances further, I will elaborate in the next sections on the particular administrative figure who forms the empirical backbone of this chapter, the administrative entrepreneur. Administrative entrepreneurs Researcher: Last time we spoke, you applied a term that I might steal from you: administrative entrepreneurs. […] What do you mean by that? CME: I was probably talking about [mid-level administrator]? Researcher: You were talking about [mid-level administrator], but I’m sure it could just as well have been somebody else? CME: Oh yes, that’s obvious! Both, I’m sure, in our municipality and in others. Well, he is an administrative entrepreneur. It’s all about seeing the possibilities within the leeway, the strategic leeway. Seeing the flow of money and seeing the whole picture, both internally in the municipality, but also in the borderlines between what’s the municipality and what’s not the municipal organization, for example, the private sector or civic society.

The CME quoted in this excerpt went on to mention several examples of developments within the municipality, all widely viewed as largely successful developments, and he argued that none of these would have been possible without the particular sort of “entrepreneurial view” displayed by the administrative entrepreneur. Portraying administrative entrepreneurship as a particular kind of “skill” was quite common among my informants within the two municipal organizations. As in the CME’s description, many described this skill as an ability to create new solutions by working simultaneously within and outside – on the “borderlines” of – the municipal organization. For example, having oversight over the bewildering terrain of various funding schemes available in the other governing bodies (such as state- and county-administered funding schemes) was considered an essential skill in the administrative entrepreneur’s toolbox. While finding some sort of external funding would often prove crucial for any new developments in a municipal organization on an ever-tight budget, money was not, however, the only resource to be harvested outside the formal municipal organization. As will be elaborated later in this chapter, working along the “borderlines” of the municipal organization also entailed recruiting other political potent allies. Ultimately, however, municipal entrepreneurship would always require the support of the municipal council at

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some point in order to succeed. Driving municipal policy development would, therefore, always require the administrative entrepreneur to work simultaneously both within and outside the borders of the municipal organization in gathering allies and resources. “Doing” municipal entrepreneurship, whether as politician or administrator, can be understood, therefore, as an act of “sewing together” the resources of the municipal organization and its surroundings for specific policy goals. In essence, it often entails sewing together policies and objectives from different actors into a new policy development. While such “bricolage” was portrayed as a particular skillset of a select few, experiences with such acts of administrative entrepreneurship were surprisingly widespread among my informants. While mapping the start and identifying a (single) prime mover of any municipal policy development proved extensively difficult (possibly for reasons to be discussed shortly), during interviews I would ask all my informants whether they had any particular past or present “darling cases.” The term “darling cases” is my translation of the Norwegian term hjertebarn, literally meaning “children of heart.” Among my informants, the term signified a process or project they felt a particularly strong commitment to realizing, often because of a personal conviction about a cause that could, in some cases, stretch beyond organizational loyalty. During interviews, my informants would also confirm a sense of pride and accomplishment when recollecting their involvement in such processes. Jim’s recollection of the HSC represents an example of such a “darling case,” with a relatively large policy development driven forward by the administration’s top leadership. I found that most of my administrative informants who had spent some years in the municipal organization would, when asked, recollect one or, often, several such examples of policy processes in which their recollections placed themselves as prime movers in key parts of the process. Most of these recollections (as in the case of the HSC) entailed some degree of political struggle, on both the administrative and the political sides of the municipal organization. Alliances cross-cutting the two spheres (such as Jim’s alliance with an opposition politician during the HSC process) were also not uncommon in such tales of administrative entrepreneurship, and, in a few cases, administrators further down the hierarchical command chain also told about processes in which they had acted as prime movers against the will of their own CMEs. In the case of Jim and the HSC, the stated motivation was the belief that the municipality had to rid itself of a costly, de-centralized healthcare and nursing services structure. This was combined with Jim’s belief in the HSC solution, which had reached him through professional peers from other municipalities. Such beliefs in projects and developments as necessary for or benefitting the common good of the municipality were stated as reasons for all acts of municipal entrepreneurship I encountered, whether of administrative or political origins. In several accounts of administratively driven entrepreneurship, reducing costs or earning income (for example by acquiring external funding) for the municipal

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organization was often stated as a reason to engage in new policy developments not sanctioned by the municipal council, using the argument that the political leadership were afraid to propose unpopular cost-reducing policies such as (for example) centralization of services. At least in my informants’ statements and, I would argue, their self-understanding, such accounts of administrative entrepreneurship complicate the above-mentioned (and grossly oversimplified) generalization of administrators as keener on expanding municipal budgets than their political counterparts. Motivations

While the belief in their efforts as beneficial to the common good of the municipality would always be their most explicit motivation, many administrators also stated more personal reasons for involving themselves in entrepreneurial tasks. One example follows from Trond, an executive-level administrator, who explained how he came to task himself with establishing a service aimed at settling refugees in his municipality. His account of the process started several years ago, when he had taken a year’s leave from his position as an administrative leader in the municipality to receive further education in another city. As he explains: I was at college for a year and was actually supposed to [come back to the municipality and] do, that has kind of been my ticket in life, some pioneering work. What we were then discussing was the establishment and further development of psychiatric healthcare in the municipality. We were supposed to build a better structure and a better service. But I felt that I did not really want to do it. Partly because I used to work over there [at the healthcare services], and I really did not feel good about stepping in there, partly because I had burnt myself out there. That kind of stuck, and I did not want to be there, so I was not really sure what do. So, there I was. I think it was January [year], and I was at the college in my bedsit, probably bored and tired. Away from the wife and kids and all that. A winter night in [the city of the college], and nothing to do. So; there was a story on the news, concerning refugees stuck in camps all around Norway, because no municipalities would welcome them. And then, I thought, “Yes, that’s what I’m going to do!” Because, I am kind of a believer, and when you believe you have to be open, awake, for those messages you receive. Researcher: For incoming messages? Trond: Yes, because they come in various ways. And I understood it, then and there, as a message to me – that this was what I was supposed to do. So, this was a Thursday night, I believe, and I went back home and had a meeting with [the CME] the same Friday. And said that I had an idea, or that I had gotten a message. I did not actually say that I had an idea, I said that I had gotten a message [laughing]. Researcher: You said that?

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Trond: Yeah, I did say that, about what I was going to do. And I drafted the idea for [the CME], and we agreed to go through with it. Actually, this was February. And when I was done in the spring, I had my exams, and after the summer vacation, we welcomed the first [refugees].

While few personal motivations were revealed as openly as Trond’s account of receiving a request from “higher authorities,” many stories of administrative entrepreneurship also entailed a feeling of professional and/or moral obligation to act on opportunities for the common good. Understanding themselves (often rightly) as specialists within their fields, many among the highly skilled administrators saw it as their task to apply their skills for the good of the municipality, in both recognizing needs and possibilities and engaging in such acts of entrepreneurship. For example, Espen, a mid-level administrator, explained how he became involved in the building of a biomass-fired district heating plant (DHP) in the municipality: At the point of departure, I actually started that. This was because during my education I had a particular focus on bioenergy. So I recognized the concrete potential we had in [the municipality] to make it work. Then it got a bit political, this thing about applying the forest resources for bio heating. Then in [year] I started looking into it, and, what was at the bottom of it, was that I knew there were enough forest resources. Getting enough wood was no problem, but there were logistical challenges. And getting established people [to run it] that had thought things through and such. So we applied for some [external] funding, and were able to launch a preliminary project. Then we were able involve the chairman of the Forest Owner Association, and a few other [external actors].

The development of the DHP provides a particularly interesting example of administrative entrepreneurship, as it was realized against the will of the CME in Espen’s municipality, thereby illustrating how alliances outside the formal hierarchy of the municipal organization can be applied in political struggles during policy development. I will return to the example of the DHP later in this chapter; here, however, the quotation above will serve as a final example of the multiplicity of motivations fueling administrative entrepreneurship. As in political life in general, the motivations for engaging in administrative entrepreneurship can come from a variety of sources, making the idea of a single-minded administrative political will vastly over-simplified. However, this notion of a multi-headed municipal administration does present a telling contrast to the normative idea of the “loyal and objective” municipal administration. The paradox of administrative entrepreneurship

Such clearly stated origins of administrative entrepreneurship as those in Jim’s narrative of the HSC and Trond’s settlement of refugees were few and seldom

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outspoken. While the stories told about past and present policy processes during lunch, coffee-breaks and other public arenas in the municipal hall would often identify key actors, the exact origins of policy processes and the more personalized accounts of how new ideas “emerged” in the municipal organization would usually be more difficult to identify. Access to clear statements about origins and personal motives behind municipal policy processes was confined to more informal conversations, gossip, and, in my case, interviews. I believe this to be partly due to the general “messiness and ambiguity” of policy processes in which the beginning and end of a given process, as well as the agents behind the initiatives, can be extremely hard to identify (Shore and Wright 2011:9–11). However, I also believe the observation to be a consequence of the paradoxical normative status of administrative entrepreneurship. As discussed previously in Chapter 5, there were normative constraints to the extent to which administrators could promote new, particularly controversial, initiatives. With an administrative occupational ethos echoing Weber’s ideal-type description of the objective administrator loyal to political leadership, we remember the (unnamed) CME’s description (in Chapter 5) of policy processes as chronological sequences in which, in turn, the administration provides its suggestions, politicians decide, and administrators execute. However, we also remember the same CME’s argument referring to the discussion about initiating a study on municipal mergers that “the municipal council defines what should be, and what should not be, on the agenda,” which suggests that, even for new policy initiatives from the administration, the original initiative should somehow be derived from the political leadership. Another illustration of this point came from Jim’s account of the HSC. There he explained that the HSC would be a “revolutionary thing” for his municipality, requiring a more careful approach than simply presenting a proposal to the municipal council and asking them to vote for it, if he was to succeed in realizing the project. The paradox expressed – that while administrators are expected to propose new developments, they are also expected to await political initiatives before doing so – can, I argue, be best understood in relation to the normative rules constraining administrators from engaging in political fights. This is because suggesting new policy initiatives, even deriving from a factual assessment of needs, essentially entails introducing a political fight, which explains why introducing policy initiatives expected to cause political controversy is particularly difficult for the administrative entrepreneur. This paradox has also been expressed in more general terms by Britan and Cohen, who argue that “essential to a full understanding of organizational process is the degree of conflict among the rules, regulations, and sanctions governing an office (damned if you do, damned if you don’t) and the degree of ambiguity in rules and goals” (1980:15). Such conflict and ambiguity create a leeway that

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gives individual bureaucratic actors a variable degree of discretional power and, thus, freedom in how to carry out their duties. Britan and Cohen elaborate this tension between flexibility and discipline as follows: The more disciplined or predictable a bureaucracy is, the more it follows a strictly rational Weberian set of operations. However, rationality in this sense may also mean the organization is less flexible and less adaptive. Conversely, the greater the degree of unmonitored autonomy and freedom, the greater the possibility of corruption, incompetence and systematic dysfunction. (1980:15–16)

The example of the administrative entrepreneur strung between the choice of adherence to the Weberian ideals of loyalty and objectivity – in this case abstaining from political fighting – and introducing new and innovative policy suggestions fits well into the dilemma pinpointed by Britan and Cohen. By presenting a controversial policy suggestion, the administrative entrepreneur endangers the legitimacy of the municipal organization by demonstrating the administrative capacity for political agency, which suggests a less than objective administration and, ultimately, a democratic deficit. As the normative (ideal) portrayal of the administrator does not entail a political will or agency, the administrative entrepreneur will be understood as mixing personal political views with the administrative role, thereby bringing the corruptible personal being, burdened by personal loyalties and conflicts, into office. By having its main protagonist suffer the loss of political legitimacy (which is likely to happen if the administrative entrepreneur does not abstain from political fights), the policy process will, itself, ultimately be prone to failure. Rather than singlehandedly introducing a controversial political fight, the administrative entrepreneur must, therefore, ensure that someone else introduces the fight, or at least somehow obscures its origins. Planting a seed

Without introducing a political fight singlehandedly, the administrative entrepreneur has to create a legitimate reason for pursuing a certain policy goal, particularly if the goal risks becoming a politically controversial matter. Creating such a legitimate reason for pursuing a policy goal essentially entails creating a legitimate order for the loyal and objective administrator to act upon. In many cases, I believe, this entailed what some of my administrative informants would metaphorically refer to as “planting a seed.” The metaphor is explained in Jim’s recollection of the HSC: Researcher: So, I’m thinking the first step here, in a way, finding allies? Jim: Finding allies is very important. The first step is getting the seed planted, getting the idea planted. Researcher: What do you mean by planting a seed?

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Jim: Like we did at that brainstorming meeting, or whatever we should call it. I remember one of the head nurses came over to us and said: “This, this sounds very clever.” A few there got kind of an [awakening]. It did need some maturing. Then, secondly, what I believe was very clever in all of this – of course, getting allies was very important – but the second thing was contacting that firm.

The “firm” Jim referred to was the firm hired to calculate the costs of the HSC and other options for restructuring the health and nursing services: options that would later prove important in providing the necessary “factual” advice and weighing of alternatives for the municipal council to make its final verdict. As discussed in Chapter 4, after being given the HSC idea, Jim had arranged the brainstorming meeting in an attempt to spread his idea to the professionals concerned and other interested partners in the municipality. While he had a clear idea in mind of how to restructure the municipality’s healthcare and nursing services, he presented the meeting as a more open-ended brainstorming session, suggesting that the meeting itself should come up with ideas. However, because presenters from municipalities that had previously realized projects similar to the HSC and potential contractors were invited, any “ideas” from the meeting tended in the direction of the centralized HSC. Therefore by succeeding in spreading the idea through the meeting and with a positive attitude from the professionals, Jim not only succeeded in recruiting allies for the project but also obscured the origins of the political fight that was to result in the HSC. Instead of the CME introducing a political fight, the HSC had now become a suggestion from a much broader group of professionals, inspired by the “good practices” of other municipalities presented during the meeting. However, the brainstorming meeting was not the only seed planted by Jim in his effort to launch the policy process of the HSC. As also mentioned in Chapter 4, Jim, lacking his mayor’s support, bypassed the normative command chain of the “hourglass” model and contacted another politician, who helped spread the idea in the political community by arranging a political meeting about the HSC. In his own words, Jim argued that, by contacting the politician, “one of those small seeds was planted” in the political community. With the idea of the HSC firmly planted, the policy process could soon evolve independently, without Jim singlehandedly introducing the matter to the municipal council. Publicly, the fight had now been introduced through more normatively legitimate (or at least more unclear) sources. With the restructuring of healthcare and nursing services now on the political agenda, a formal order for a “factual” assessment was easy to secure, in this case through a working group looking into different options, followed by the involvement of a firm that did more detailed calculations. Although he did not have a final decision from the municipal council, Jim could now actively engage in the policy process (and become the administrative participant in the political fight), on the basis of having a legitimate

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mandate from the municipal council for providing a factually based administrative assessment of the case. Such trespassing into the political sphere, bypassing the “hourglass” model, was a common element in many of the stories of policy processes I collected during fieldwork. While Jim took a direct approach by contacting a politician, such planting of seeds in the political sphere could also be done through more indirect approaches. One example of such indirect approaches appeared during my fieldwork in relation to the development of a sewer facility in one of the municipalities. The project had been planned for close to ten years and was widely considered a pressing issue among the administrators concerned. While the project had partly been budgeted for some years back, the administration had been unable in recent years to convince the municipal council to provide the remaining funding. Cathrine, a mid-level administrator, explained: [The situation of the sewer facility] is completely terrible. And it has been proposed several times by the administration that we should put it on our budget of investments, and get it sorted! […] In recent years, it has not even been on the budget, but I do find it quite important. I believe that neither I, nor the chief municipal executive or the mayor, none of us, can take the responsibility for carrying on the way the way it is now. But it remains so, and I do think it is my task.

Recently, the administration had also received complaints related to the matter from a local shopkeeper who had experienced bad smells in his shop, a problem believed to be solvable by finishing the sewer project. A few years back, Cathrine recollected, there had been a similar matter related to another sewer facility in another part of the municipality, which had resolved itself quickly as a result of commercial interests sparking political action: Now, I remember a few years back, there was suddenly a [municipal council] decision that we were to renovate the sewage facilities in [the area]. A completely new sewer was needed there because [one of the municipality’s largest industrial companies] was to build a new facility there, and there was also somebody planning to build some rental cabins there. [In this case] the commercial interests went straight to the mayor, and had the mayor come for a survey. He promised right there that “Of course, we are going to fix this.” However, here [in the present case] it has been like this for a terribly long time. […] So what I did, I talked to [the shopkeeper], or, well, he had on several occasions raised the issue, but he had kind of raised it to “us” [the administration], and we are … we already know that it is bad, and we do want to get it done. Therefore I have asked him, speaking directly, to raise the issue politically. And this might be [considered] disloyal, because the politicians are my superiors […]. I saw that it had become obvious that [the other case of sewer development] went straight through because the commercial interests there pushed it hard and directly to the politicians. But in [the present case] nobody was doing that.

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The shopkeeper had then contacted a local politician, seemingly with good results, as the project to finish the sewage facility development had now found its way into the budget. During my time in the municipal organization, I witnessed the treatment of the sewer project in the municipal council. There, one of the local politicians implied the shopkeeper’s involvement by directly asking the administrator presenting the project whether the completing the facility would “solve the problem of bad smell” in the shop. I also asked Cathrine if she believed involving the shopkeeper was important for swaying the municipal council, to which she replied: Yes, I absolutely think that this was one of the things letting us get it into the budget. […] Of course the politicians had heard about it for many years so they might have done it anyway, but I am absolutely sure this [had an effect]. Surely, we see that the politicians … they are used to us bringing them suggestions, and both they and we know that the municipality cannot afford everything we suggest. That’s how it is. Nevertheless, it does sometimes have a larger impact when it comes from, particularly, commercial interests.

While the case of the sewage facility was already a well-known issue in the political sphere, the shopkeeper’s problem represented a new element in the political struggle. In this case, Cathrine could probably have included a shopkeeper’s problem as part of the factual assessment of the case in yet another attempt to recommend completing the facility. However, as she argues, having the shopkeeper himself introduce the problem to the political sphere had a stronger impact than what could be achieved by administrative means. Because he was a representative of commercial interests in the municipality, the shopkeeper’s direct involvement in the matter carried greater political potency than the administration’s factual assessment alone. Thus the example illustrates how such “planting” is a technique not only for introducing a political fight but also for recruiting allies to a political cause. Recruiting allies

On one of my first days of fieldwork in one of the municipal organizations I studied, the mayor explained the basics of political struggle to me in one of our first conversations. “Politics is all about weight and strength. It is always about political power, a constant state of competition,” he said, continuing, “Politics is actually all about being good at counting. You have to be sure about winning the vote, if the vote matters to you. That’s how it is in [the party], you have to ally yourself all the time.” The statement did have an obvious meaning in the context of a tradition of representative democracy where the majority vote ultimately represented the supreme authority. However, I would soon learn that the statement also held true in a more basic sense of how political fights were conducted within the municipal organization. While the majority vote of the municipal council would

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always represent the municipal organization’s supreme authority, the very idea that verdicts in the municipal council can be predicted – to a certain extent – and “counted” in advance illustrates the obvious point that the actual political fight of a policy development happens outside the municipal council’s ritual setting. A key to understanding the strategies at play during municipal policy development, I argue, is the creation of pragmatic policy alliances, while counting and recruiting allies among those without formal voting rights in the municipal council was also an essential part of the game. The examples of the HSC and the sewage facility given earlier in this chapter have illustrated the particular political potency of alliances crossing the boundaries between the political and administrative spheres. As previously discussed, policy processes in the municipal organization are carried out in a dialectic relationship between the political sphere and the administrative sphere. The normative rules elaborated in Chapter 5 prescribe different roles during policy development for administrative and political actors. This separation of roles, in which both are essential in the political fight over policy goals, is, I argue, what gives alliances that cross-cut the political and administrative spheres their particular political potency. Another example of the latter point is provided in the account of the political fight for the sporting arena in Chapter 4, in which winning over the administration, and particularly an initially skeptical CME, constituted an essential part of the political fight. Several of the policy stories told so far in this book have also shown how allies and resources external to the formal municipal organization played a central role in political struggles within the organization. In the remaining parts of this chapter, I explore some of the potential sources of alliances and resources I found at play in the policy struggles recollected in this study. The potential alliances and resources described in this chapter should not be understood, however, as an exhaustive listing of all the actors and forces at play in municipal policy development. Rather, they are presented as examples illustrating the (larger) multiplicity of actors involved in policy struggles. The administrative command chain and the CME

For both politicians and administrators, the administrative command chain, and particularly the CME, represented a main source of alliances and resources in policy developments. In both of the municipalities studied, the mayors stressed that gaining the CME as an ally was often crucially important in any political struggle within the municipality, as for example in the case of the sporting arena process. In the administrative part of the organization, the normative emphasis put on the hierarchical command chain and the “hourglass” model made the formal command chain to the CME a preferred path on any issue. When asked whom they preferred to involve when pursuing a new idea (or policy goal), most administrators would mention the formal chain of command and the CME as

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the place to start. By processing a policy suggestion through the formal command chain, a legitimate process could be ensured, at least in cases where the content of a policy suggestion could be expected to cause little or no political controversy and therefore would not cause a political fight. Furthermore, involving the CME as soon as possible could also be vital when the administrators attempted to push a controversial issue, as the CME’s closeness to the political community put him or her in a position in which “planting” an idea over to the political sphere could be done more easily than from other parts of the organization. A close relationship with the CME was, therefore, considered important by most of the administrators because, as one put it, “it makes the route to planting something much shorter.” Besides the normative emphasis on the command chain, there were also several other reasons why both politicians and administrators considered the CME an essential ally. First, as the administration’s leader, the CME has the ability to commit administrative resources to pursuing a policy and has some discretion to do so without needing a political decision. Second, in accordance with the “hourglass” model, the CME is responsible for both submitting and suggesting conclusions to proposals that originate from the administration to the municipal council and the executive committee. This, of course, makes it difficult for the administrative entrepreneur to omit the CME, and places the CME in a particular position to influence political decisions, thus making the CME important also on the political side. Furthermore, it allows the CME to exercise the kind of tactics described, for example, by Jim in Chapter 4, that of creating “a process running a process.” Third, and perhaps most important, is also the political credibility of the CME’s factual assessment. As the formal channel to the administration, and normatively emphasized as the only gateway for politicians seeking information regarding administrative affairs, the CME has a credibility that is vested not only in personal competence but also in the municipal organization’s institutional fabric. While politicians may certainly vote against the CME’s suggested conclusions, doubting the CME’s factual assessments is an entirely different matter. As Astri certainly experienced (see Chapter 5), publicly doubting the CME’s factual assessment borders on a motion of no confidence, as the political bodies are normatively completely dependent on the CME’s ability to provide competent information. In both municipalities, the CME’s assessment in economic matters was particularly powerful. Within a municipal budget that was strained but large and complex, the CME’s assessment of whether a policy course could be deemed economically viable or not, that is, whether or not the municipality could afford it, would often constitute the decisive assessment of policy issues. I discussed this with a mid-level administrator: Researcher: At the end of the day, as you say, if you have the administration’s backing, if you have the CME on board, and there is a clear ownership to [a

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policy suggestion] within the CME and administrative leadership, will [any policy suggestion] pass through the municipal council? Mid-level administrator: Yes, very often. Something out of the ordinary will have to emerge [to stop it]. […] But if an issue is controversial, and it runs into politics [something out of the ordinary might emerge]. But if, in a way, the chief municipal executive has given away one of those stamps labeling it as “healthy economics,” then there needs to be something special for them [the municipal council] not to run with it.

While the question posed in the above excerpt may have been leading, and the administrator’s answer a little pointed, I nevertheless believe that the administrator’s statement illustrates the general political strength of the CME’s assessment. Certainly, not every policy suggestion proposed by the CME passes through political processing, but the main point (as argued by the administrator) is that most issues not causing extraordinary political controversy will pass on the basis of the CME’s assessment. Equally, issues not given the CME’s stamp of “healthy economics” will have a much harder time being passed. The administrator quoted above named the sporting arena as an example of a case that “runs into politics,” meaning that the issue had caused so much political engagement that the voice of the CME alone could not settle it. However, as we remember from Chapter 4, the municipal council concerned did vote for the realization of the sporting arena and, according to many of my informants, one of the crucial factors was the CME’s turnaround toward embracing the project and deeming it economically viable. Thus that case testifies to the political strength of the CME’s factual assessment also in very controversial policy issues. However, the will of the CME does not, of course, always steer the municipal council, and in cases of political controversy the CME’s assessment alone will seldom sway the vote. As mentioned earlier, the accounts of administrative entrepreneurship also included cases in which policy developments had succeeded against the will of the CME. While all of my administrative informants stressed the notion that following the command chain was preferable for realizing controversial policy goals, some were also quite open about the fact that, in reality, they would first approach whomever they thought could be sympathetic to their cause, regardless of the command chain. Particularly if the CME could be expected to be skeptical toward a suggestion, many stressed the importance of doing comprehensive legwork before approaching the CME. In other words, depending on the situation, the formal command chain did not always constitute the only basis of an alliance for achieving political goals and, in some cases, could be omitted all together. Sparring partners and collegial friendships

One term frequently used among my administrative informants was “sparring partners,” which was used to describe a particular sort of collegial relationship

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in terms of a personal friendship characterized by a large degree of trust. Such relationships would often be used by administrative personnel to discuss difficult matters, especially strategies for overcoming challenging situations, in informal, often confidential, talks. While some of these relationships were described almost in terms of informal “coaching,” particularly those characterized by unequal levels of experience or position in the organizational hierarchy, others were more like friendships on equal terms. Mapping such relations exhaustively was difficult because of their confidentiality and perhaps shifting nature. However, most of my informants spoke of having confidants within their professional worlds with whom they retained a closer relationship than with other colleagues. While many of these relationships followed the formal command chain (with many indicating their superiors as their closest confidants), many others crossed the formal internal lines of the organization. Some also stretched beyond the formal borders of the municipal organization. For example, some administrators emphasized their close relations with people who held similar positions in other (often-neighboring) municipalities whom they knew well through past or current collaborations. Furthermore, in some cases, administrators also spoke of close relations which followed professional ties to personnel in surrounding governing bodies, such as administrators working at the county governor’s office or at the county authorities. In such cases, my informants referred to these relations as somehow extending beyond the formal contact following from their formal positions, as they could be utilized in informal and confidential exchanges of information and advice. Given the normative emphasis on the formal chain of command, such relations existed in an often troublesome and ambiguous normative status. The latter point also holds true for those confidential relations that followed the formal command chain, as accusations of favoritism or clientelism could easily threaten the political legitimacy of the actors involved. Two particular observations testify to the difficult normative status of “sparring partners” and collegial friendships: First, when asked directly about “sparring partners” and collegial friends, none of my administrative informants would admit to having such relations crossing into the political sphere. Second, while several of my informants were publicly known (albeit mostly through gossip) to have close relationships with coworkers and politicians (for example, personal friendships, memberships and positions in associations, family ties, etc.), very few informants would admit to taking such relationships with them into the municipal hall. In other words, personal relationships from other contexts were normatively separated from collegial relationships within the professional world. Given the relatively small sizes of communities where “everybody knows everybody” and the number of administrative personnel having dual roles, both of these observations seem peculiar. This is particularly true of those known to have personal relationships outside the work-place that crossed the boundaries

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between politics and administration, who would strongly emphasize that such contacts did not transform into “sparring partners” and close collegial friendships within the municipal hall (gossip from coworkers would suggest, however, that this was not always the case). In regard to municipal policy development, I believe that such informal relations within and outside both the formal organization and command chain have an important impact in a number of ways. The most obvious, and the one mostly emphasized by my informants, is the exchange of knowledge and ideas, as such informal and confidential relations provide a safe arena for both developing policy ideas and developing strategies to promote them. Furthermore, such arenas also constitute an important means of coordinating efforts and gaining resources. I asked Thomas, an experienced mid-level administrator, to imagine I was a young, newly appointed administrative employee; then I asked him what advice he would give to me if I were to approach him with an idea for a new but possibly controversial policy development. His response illustrates the latter point: Well, you would have to: first, you would have to analyze what kind of barriers existed. Why would [for example] the chief municipal executive be negative? […] It would probably depend on the situation, but I am honestly convinced that in most cases being thorough pays off. It is not going to work with a few pieces of paper and such. Therefore, what I would probably say to you is: “Listen, we are going to sit down together and look at this, and then it is possible that we should go over to Vegard, and ask him. Talk to him, and maybe we will get some funding to elaborate on this a bit further.”

Vegard was another mid-level administrator situated a few offices down from Thomas. Although working in different professional fields, Thomas and Vegard retained a close relationship with each other and had worked on numerous projects together in the past. In the quotation above, Thomas argued that “a few pieces of paper and such” would seldom be enough to succeed in promoting an idea within the municipal organization. Rather than simply handing over an idea through the chain of command, Thomas implied that one needed to start with something more. In this case, “something more” was discussing the matter with Vegard and the possibility of obtaining funding to “elaborate on this a bit further.” Through his position and work tasks, Vegard had access to two particular resources useful for further promoting a policy. What Thomas was referring to in his advice to me was the discretionary funds that Vegard administered, which were particularly aimed at developments in the local community. While his suggested strategy in the segment quoted above was based on a fictional example, Vegard had previously applied such funds to preliminary studies when working on controversial policy developments. Second, thanks to his position, Vegard had long-lasting relationships with several of the key actors within the municipality’s commercial trade and industry organizations. These relationships

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made Vegard the “go-to guy” whenever people in the municipal hall (both politicians and administrators) needed such connections to people in trade and industry, who often proved to be particularly important allies during political struggles. In other words, Thomas’s suggested strategy for promoting a controversial policy involved more than simply discussing and exchanging ideas with Vegard; it included initiating the process to enlist resources and allies for an upcoming political fight. Thomas explained to me that, particularly at the early stages of policy processes, adding such “weight” was important to avoid the impression of the suggestion being a “pipe dream” (luftslott). In other words, making the project seem both practically and political plausible was deemed important if it was to gain traction within the municipal organization. The most important point illustrated by the proposed strategy, however, is the fact that resources relevant for policy development (and associated struggles) were distributed unequally within the municipal organization. Involving a wide variety of skills and expertise, the process of creating alliances and gathering resources within the organization was, therefore, often just as important as doing such work outside the organization, as demonstrated by the examples of policy development given earlier. However, resources such as the funds administered by Vegard are seldom subject to the complete discretion of their administrator alone. Particularly in matters such as funding, applying such resources often required the approval of someone further up the command chain, for example the CME or even the municipal council. Rather than a simple exchange of resources, alliances between such confidants could more often be understood, therefore, as a strategic coordination of activities. In this light, Thomas’s suggestion of approaching Vegard and asking his advice about funding should be understood not as actually asking Vegard to simply hand over funds but rather as engaging him to promote the policy development on his side of the organization, to work toward committing such funds to the cause in this example. While this latter point may seem obvious, I would argue that understanding this basic feature of policy alliances is extremely important in order to understand the relations between the municipal organization and external surroundings. Expert networks

Expert networks existed in a variety of forms and formal structures, ranging from informal networks based on professional and administrative tasks to more formal versions organized by professional associations, as well as to networks resembling a form of intermunicipal cooperation (for example, the tax-collection network mentioned in Chapter 4). In many cases, such networks seemed to have varying

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degrees of formalization: for example, many of the informal networks were based on networks that had previously been formalized in some way, and simultaneously informal networks developed into formalized institutions. Particularly in the networks based on professional skills, the perceived mandate for participation seemed to exist in an interesting tension between representing the municipal organization and participating in the interest of the individual professionals. An illustration was a regional expert network under the umbrella of a larger nationwide professional association for municipal engineers, an association in which both individual professionals and the municipal organization became formal members by paying membership fees. This particular regional network was organized and attended by administrators working with building control in six nearby municipalities. One of the agreed policy goals of this network in recent years was the harmonization of procedures for handling building applications among the neighboring municipalities. Having different procedures across the municipal borders was deemed problematic by the administrators, because they were often dealing with applications and requests from large companies operating across the municipal borders. Naturally, those companies would often have difficulties in keeping up with all the current practices and demands in the different municipalities, which caused extra work and much frustration for both parties. Harmonizing the rules and procedures had, however, proven a difficult task, as there were different needs and challenges in the different municipalities. For example, harmonizing processing fees had proven exceedingly difficult, as these fees were a highly politicized affair in some of the municipalities where retaining low fees for building houses and commercial buildings was considered an important tool for promoting settlement and development. As explained to me by one of the administrators participating in the network, they could, of course, agree on any number of things during the meetings but, because the participants were only administrators, “There can only be agreement on the guidelines for how we present things back in the municipalities, they [agreements] remain strategies.” In other words, rather than deciding on policy issues for the municipal organization, in this example, the network can be understood to be creating policy alliances, working toward achieving its policy goals in the different municipal organizations. Thus the network is both creating policy goals and coordinating strategic action toward achieving them. However, such agreed policy goals can often conflict with the political will in the municipal organization and, thereby, with the formal command chain of the participating actors. In such cases, participants are caught in a tension between loyalty to the municipal organization and to the policy goals agreed in the network, which often coincides with a tension between the formal command chain and the professional assessment (made by professional peers). However,

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individual participation in the expert network also empowers the individual participants by providing them with important allies and resources for policy struggles within the municipal organization.

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Intermunicipal cooperation

While intermunicipal cooperation was, in its design and legal frameworks, usually institutionalized and embedded in the municipal organization in more formal ways than the expert networks previously discussed, I argue that, in practice, their management and application in policy developments often bore many of the individualized features of the expert networks. While people’s overview and knowledge of what intermunicipal collaborative arrangements they were actually engaged in varied in the two municipalities studied, getting a detailed overview of such collaborations proved exceedingly difficult for this researcher in both organizations. In one of them, such an overview was rumored to exist, but my attempt to retrieve it led to a wild goose chase, going from one person rumored to possess it to another, until I finally gave up in the knowledge that if such a document existed it would surely be vastly outdated and of little use. In the other municipality, such a document was available but it too was both slightly outdated and unclear on what forms of collaboration were actually considered to constitute independent collaborations. However, I was not the first researcher to attempt a mapping of intermunicipal collaborations in the two municipalities, as other consultants and researchers on assignments from the county authorities had also previously attempted to map them. With over thirty formal collaborations in both municipalities, the total did, however, far exceed the fifteen to twenty formal collaborations that my own notes included on the basis of my informants’ accounts and what they experienced as constituting independent collaborations. In other words, the number of formal intermunicipal collaborations seemed to vary greatly, depending on the definitions applied. In both municipalities, the CMEs could list most collaborations from memory when asked, roughly matching my own notes and numbers. They seemed to be the only people who had such a comprehensive overview of both the existence and the current status of all of the collaborations. Furthermore, as discussed in Chapter 5, the variation in institutional frameworks and overlying structures for such collaborations made knowledge of how the municipal organization could influence such collaborations a scarce resource. While both the understandings of and the attitudes toward intermunicipal collaborations varied greatly, many emphasized the pragmatic need for collaborations across borders, with the recruitment of professional expertise (believed to be easier in bigger units) as the argument most frequently expressed in public. However, many also found such collaborations highly impenetrable and lacking

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in political control. One of the stronger statements illustrating this came during an interview with Tom, who had both political and administrative roles in one of the municipalities: Researcher: On another subject, these intermunicipal collaborations and enterprises. I’m thinking particularly about the intermunicipal enterprises. Tom: [breaking in] Yes, all intermunicipal cooperations in [the region] are a threat to democracy. That is what I believe. Researcher: Can you say something [more] about that? Tom: No, it is that simple. Democracy is about autonomy and decisions. If there is too much intermunicipal cooperation, then we can just stop having meetings about the budget – because all the money is already locked. It is a careful balance. I think we have more than enough intermunicipal cooperation. It’s because of, for example, the regional fire department taking up to two and a half – almost three million of [the municipality] budget. We are unable to regulate it up and down, because somebody has already decided that this is how it is supposed to be. Researcher: Who is deciding then? Tom: Well, the regional fire enterprise, that is through the regional council, and that intermunicipal organization. It is decided that the distribution of costs is so and so […]. Researcher: But don’t you have any control over the regional council? Tom: [laughing] Not at all. I mean control! The regional council is, well, we have very little control when they have agreed in a case. Particularly when the intermunicipal enterprise has been formed, then we have little control.

Through his public statements, Tom was known to be particularly critical of intermunicipal cooperation, and the reactions to these public statements – both in his own and in the neighboring municipalities – suggested that not everyone shared his somewhat categorically critical view. Nevertheless, I would argue, the lack of democratic control (i.e., control by the municipal council) in such collaborations was widely recognized as a trade-off, even among those emphasizing the pragmatic need for such collaborations. The seemingly impenetrable nature of intermunicipal cooperation was often very visible in the municipal councils, where I noticed how proceedings that involved ongoing collaborative efforts would often pass without much notice or questioning. I asked the mayor in Tom’s municipality for his reflections on my observation. Researcher: I noticed when we were at the municipal council […]. There seemed to be a general tendency that the cases concerning collaborations, like the regional strategies and the collaboration on culture, they seemed to just flow through [the proceedings]. Mayor: Yes.

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Researcher: Could you say something about that? Mayor: Yes, I think it will always be like that. You see, there is zero enthusiasm for those [collaborations] here. Right now we are making an ownership strategy for everything we own, and that was supposed to be a common [strategy] for the region, but that work has collapsed. The thing is, we as politicians, at least most of us … – I think that as mayor, I’m probably the only one with intimate knowledge of it, through participating in the general assemblies [of the intermunicipal enterprises], and we have members in a few boards and such, in some enterprises, like the fire department. But other than that, I do not think that the municipal councilors have any idea about any of these [collaborations], you know, what goes on in them. Like the fire department, for example, we have had troubles with our [former] fire department for years, and then we got this arrangement, and [gesturing like a magician making something disappear] poof! And we’re done with it, now they will take care of it, we just provide them with money. There is no enthusiasm, really. Researcher: It simply becomes an expense? Mayor: Yeah, and that is the only thing that upsets us, that we are spending more money now than earlier. And that is all the politicians here are talking about, when we are talking about these daughters [intermunicipal enterprises] of ours – the fact that they are taking larger and larger parts of our total budgets. First, kind of, they have to have their money, and then the rest is for us to distribute to what is, in a way, within our own municipality.

The particular case of the intermunicipal fire department, mentioned by both Tom and the mayor, had been a frequently discussed issue in the municipality for a long time. The general feeling was that the firefighting service, while it had certainly improved after being handed over to a regional intermunicipal enterprise, had also become more expensive. A few years ago, the municipality had unsuccessfully attempted to cut down its spending on the fire department. Therefore the subject of the fire department came up again when I asked the mayor (on a more general basis) whether he thought the politicians had any feeling of being able to influence intermunicipal collaborations: Researcher: Do they have any real sense of how to influence these? Mayor: There, I think you are on to something. That’s probably what we do not have. As I said, they simply take their money first. Another example of that, I think it was the first year I was mayor. We were struggling with the budget, it was that time of the year, and we were on our way to a seminar to work on the budget, [including] these enterprises. And then I was given word […] that the fire department had to have 400,000 [kroner] more from [the municipality]. What! Yeah, I got pretty pissed. But what good did that do? Nothing. They had to have it, there was some clothing they needed to buy, some building of … “blah, blah, blah.” We in [the municipality] simply had to

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withdraw those 400,000 [kroner], and reduce the rest of our [budget] by the same amount. So, as you say, the possibility of influencing is minimal. That’s how it is. Researcher: But is it about knowledge, I mean “know how,” or is it that [the possibility of influencing] is simply not there? In your mind? Mayor: No, in my mind, it is like you have to have an incredible … if you’re going to enter the details you’ll have to get incredibly far into the matter, if you’re going to be able to do something about this stuff. We did an attempt a few years back, while working with the budget. We [the municipal council] said, “OK, we will grant,” I don’t remember the amount, but it was like a few hundred thousand less to the fire department [than what they asked for]. What happened was that [name] who was the leader for the regional fire department came here, we had a meeting and talked, and talked, and drew, and he told us: “There is no way, it is like this and like that, the law requires it, and we have to make risk assessments, maybe when we have made the risk assessments.” It was about the readiness, because we are actually above the minimum requirement for fire readiness in the municipality, in relation to the number of inhabitants and such. But there was no way to [reduce it], because [according to the leader of the fire department], “it is so far between people here and the fire station there, and we will not get there fast enough, blah, blah, blah.” We did not get anywhere. So we simply had to come up with the money. What I am saying is, in real life they have a lot of power. We had the power before [the regional] fire department. I remember the old firefighting chief, who was technical chief over here, he [the chief ], said: “Hey you, I need money in the budget, we need a new fire station, and we need that truck.” He never got it. He never got that money. We did not have [the money]. But now we have to find that money. Of course, we are getting a better firefighting service. They have new equipment and such, and we have a new firefighting truck, and that’s all great. But that is not how the municipal council has prioritized it, how they would have prioritized it, I do not think so.

The mayor’s statements confirm my suspicion that the complexity of influencing intermunicipal collaborations can have the effect of pacifying political ambitions to steer them. Simultaneously, the administrative side of the municipal organization did not experience any automatic transfer of power, particularly in the case of intermunicipal enterprises, when administrative control over the enterprises was also moved out of the municipal organization. The CME from the same municipality as both Tom and the above-quoted mayor actually expressed a view that that the political side probably had more power over such collaborations than the administration, as the politicians had voting rights in the regional council – and also occupied seats in the general assembly and the boards of these collaborations: I really do not feel that the intermunicipal collaborations give more power to the administration. Rather, I feel that it is the other way around. It [power] is lifted up to another level, where the administration no longer participates.

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However, the CME also pointed to another reason why such proceedings regarding intermunicipal collaborations met with little objection in the municipal council. The CME’s assertion was that, although the municipal council was to process the decisions from ongoing collaborations, such proposals were often “a summary already made, sewing together a concept that all eight to nine municipalities are supposed to be in on. Then it becomes pretty hard to disagree.” In other words, policy suggestions originating from collaborative efforts come with a ready-made policy alliance, so that objecting to the collaborative policies entails simultaneously objecting to the same process in all the other municipal councils involved (regardless of their actual stances). There were, however, as mentioned earlier, large differences in the general attitudes toward intermunicipal collaboration, both within and between the two municipal organizations. In the other municipal organization I studied, both the CME and the mayor had a generally more positive attitude toward intermunicipal collaborations, arguing that the pragmatic need for collaborations in many cases outweighed the potential loss of control and the often-experienced increase in costs. However, in this municipality, the CME and mayor had long had a more active engagement in their municipality’s collaborative efforts, holding multiple tasks and board positions in many of the collaborative efforts the municipality participated in. Generally, the municipal organization also had a history of having a more active stance toward initiating intermunicipal collaborations; thus many of its administrators were actively engaged in the development and running of collaborative efforts. However, there was also some opposition in this municipality to intermunicipal collaborations, from individuals who argued particularly against the loss of municipal workplaces and services within the municipal borders due to services being located in other municipalities. In the main, both organizations confirmed an overall impression that those in the municipal organization, whether politicians or administrators with the position and skill to influence such arenas, were also those with the most positive attitudes toward them. Furthermore, the lack of such positions and skills seemed to have a pacifying effect on the municipal councils, despite their formal status as the superior authorities of the municipal organizations. I therefore argue that the complexity of intermunicipal collaboration led to an individualization of political power and, thus, an ability to affect policy outcomes, when someone – politician or administrator, high or low on the hierarchical ladder – with the skill and position to influence such collaborations gained power at the expense of the formal command chain of the organization. Given the political potency of such collaborations, because of an often-pacified command chain and municipal council, I further argue that actors in such positions to influence collaborative goals possessed a particularly valuable resource in any internal political struggle. For example, embedding a controversial policy suggestion into a policy suggestion originating from a collaborative arrangement

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could, in many cases, be an easier way to affect the municipal council’s decision than moving through the regular command chain.

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The governing bodies of surrounding state and county authorities

The relationships between the municipal organization and the surrounding governing bodies of the state and county authorities took a wide variety of forms and were, like the other relationships, often highly individualized. On the political side, contact with other politicians on the state and county level was often perceived as vital for achieving political goals within the municipality, and influencing state and county politics in favor of the municipality was seen as an important part of the political role. As discussed in Chapter 5, there was also a perceived division of roles between political and administrative contacts outside the municipal organization. In practice, however, the role of the mayor, particularly, could occasionally be hard to separate from that of the CME and other administrative actors in the external contact with state agencies and the county. While the administrative actors in the municipalities would seldom be in contact with the political sides of the state and county, the mayors would frequently be in contact with, and retain relations with, administrative personnel at both the state and county levels. In the two municipalities, the mayors’ contacts with county and state personnel seemed largely circumstantial, depending on their current political engagements and interests. Raymond’s contacts during the political battle for the sporting arena with both the county authorities (concerning funding from the trade and industry development (TID) fund and securing the educational program as tenants) and the state ministry (concerning requirements for state funding) represent examples of such circumstantial contacts. Similarly, the other mayor told me how he had recently been highly involved in a housing project that entailed a close relationship with administrators at a regional office of the State Housing Bank. Another example was his relations with the regional office of the Directorate of Integration and Diversity (IMDi) concerning refugee settlements. Below, the mayor emphasizes the importance of also developing a more lasting relationship with such state agencies: IMDi is one of the agencies that I have quite an active relationship with, and that is important for the settlement work. I have to say that we have very good relations, and they are close to us. It is a relationship that we have been developing through twenty years […]. It might be in the nature of the task, because working with and settling refugees is a task kind of “close to us.” So it becomes somewhat relational. And I feel that, well, I knew [administrator at IMDi] quite well from beforehand, and I do know [another administrator at IMDi] pretty well by now, and there are plenty of people there that I appreciate.

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Researcher: But can you say something about what you achieve by having a good relationship with … well, you can use IMDi as an example? Mayor: Well, achieve … We can speak quite openly. It becomes a relationship of trust. So that we may have a close dialog and speak quite openly about, well, the future, and how I assess the possibilities for further developments and such, in relation to that field. It is the same way as with [administrator at the State Housing Bank], I do talk about them by [personal name]. These are people that I appreciate as persons. We do not have any relations beyond pure business, to be clear, but there is something about having collaborated well, talked about many issues and having developed things together.

The mayor’s knowledge of my own previous affiliation with IMDi may have caused his use of such personal terms and names when describing his relationship with IMDi. However, the mayor emphasized in the excerpt above that he also applied such personal terms to his relations with personnel of other state agencies. The use of personal names and discussion of relations with state agencies and county authorities as personal relationships were quite common among both administrators and politicians in the municipal organizations studied. While terms such as “the state” or “central authorities” were frequently applied in discussions of more distant and general relations between the municipality and the state, the concrete relational processes between the municipal organization and the surrounding governing bodies were usually referred to in terms signifying more personalized relations. As discussed earlier, this also meant that some of these relations took the form of “collegial friendships,” thus becoming a potential source of pragmatic alliances and strategic resources. As a result, personnel in state agencies and the county authorities were considered an important source of expert knowledge and, particularly, of funding for achieving policy goals. During the interviews, I also asked most informants, both politicians and administrators, whether they ever felt that their relational partners in the state and county authorities attempted to exercise or impose some sort of steering upon the municipality through these relations. When describing how they perceived the relationships with the county and state, most of those asked stated that, while I was probably making a good point about how steering was actually conducted between the levels of government, they had seldom given any thought to their collaborative partners’ agendas at the state and county levels. For example, Tom, the administrator previously quoted who also has a political role in his municipality, stated: I have not really thought too much about it in that direction. To be completely honest, I have kind of thought of the state as, in a way, they possess the key to do most things [in the municipality]. But the other way around? That is a concern I have not really given to much thought to.

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Researcher: Do you think it is a real [concern]? Tom: Yes, it is real in the sense that if the state, or someone in the state machinery, be they bureaucrats or whatever, absolutely want something to happen in the municipality, then I am sure that they have the possibility to make it happen. They can lure us, and that is what the state does, they lure us with many carrots. They do it all the time.

In other words, the concrete relations with state and county authorities were largely understood as instrumental tools for achieving policy goals within the municipality, rather than as an exercise of control from the state or the county level. However, when asked more specifically, particularly in the case of funding, most would (like Tom) recognized that the allure of state and county incentives constituted a strong exercise of power. This view was stated by the CME in one of the municipalities when asked directly about how such incentives related to the autonomy of the municipality: Yes, I have some thoughts on that. You can certainly claim that there is a sort of hidden steering from the state. […] A striking example was – it was many years ago, back when I first started working in the municipality – [the state] started having a focus on trade and industry, and wanted the municipalities to commit to working with trade and industry development. It was one of these government, Storting and national politics [priorities] … So how did they do it? Well, there were these economic incentives aimed at the municipalities. They [the municipalities] were to hire consultants for trade and industry, and we were giving funding for two years. […] Later there was a different focus, on the environment. So all the municipalities were given money to hire an environmental leader. So we hired an environmental leader, and then they [the state] removed the funding.

The CME gave a range of examples of how incentives from the state had led to hiring new personnel, investments and projects in his municipality. His point was that such incentives were usually available only for a limited time, while the cost for the municipal budget often remained permanent. Cutting down on established services was often more troublesome than establishing new services initially financed through incentives from the state, which was why services often outlived the incentives. CME: Right now, they are giving incentive funding for child welfare services. For how long, we don’t know. We were given it last year, and we are still getting it. But when they remove it, well, that is the danger. Because we are increasing the level of the service, and it is not easy to reduce it again when the money disappears. It is a dilemma, and it is not a small one.

Along with several other informants, the CME displayed a high alertness to how economic incentives affected municipal policy development. Arguably, this

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alertness can be interpreted as a sign that the tendency, discussed earlier, to understand the concrete relations with actors at the state and county authorities as instruments for achieving policy goals rather than as threats to municipal autonomy does not necessarily imply an ignorance of how such relations affect the power relations between the municipality and its surrounding governing bodies. Rather, I argue, this understanding of individualized relations between the municipality, state and county authorities testifies to the important role such relations play during municipal policy development. While more general structures (e.g., more detailed legislation and increased use of earmarked grants) were viewed as the largest threats to municipal autonomy, there was also a high awareness of how the softer governing tools that the state uses, such as economic incentives and persuasion (for example through thematic conferences organized by state agencies), affected municipal policy development. However, for the individual actor at the municipal hall, the concrete relations with personnel in the state and county authorities were perceived more as potential alliances and sources of resources for achieving individual policy goals than as threats to autonomy. Partly, this was due precisely to the strong effect that external funding had on policy development, making economic resources sourced from beyond the borders of the municipal organization an essential part of policy struggles within the municipal organization. Maintaining good relations with personnel in the state and county authorities who control such resources was thus essential for winning political struggles. Furthermore, while my informants had a high awareness that such funds were strongly attached to political agendas, there was also a widespread belief that incentive funding could be reshaped to comply with the political agendas of the municipality. This was explained by Erik, an executive-level administrator already mentioned who worked closely with Raymond (the mayor) in his efforts to secure TID funding for the sporting arena project. The persons you meet at the County Authorities Building in [the county capital], are often decision-makers, also those on an administrative level – [because] there is an interplay [between politicians and administrators]. It is just like when our mayor during the 1990s wanted to use 300,000 [kroner] from the [a fund administered by the municipality], but the ministry had some guidelines that did not allow to apply those 300,000 [kroner] directly for this purpose. Then I had to find a way to spend this money without breaking the guidelines. I had to figure out where there was a loophole for spending these funds in a way that the ministry did not, initially, want them to be spent. Do you get it? It is the same way with the use of TID funding. If we had gone directly to the bureaucrat at the county who is administering the TID fund, then we might not have been able to go through with it, because we would probably have been given one of those technical answers.

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This is how it works. You have to measure the rules with rubber bands, and that is how you … well, anyway. The reason why we started that process with the TID funding was because we got a very clear signal from the [county politician] that we should be able to find a solution, and we had to try to send an application for getting the extra funding needed to realize this. It was a very positive attitude from their side.

Here Erik compares the process in the county for allowing TID funding to be used for the sporting arena to how he had himself been searching for a loophole in the application of funds that were municipally administered (but governed by state rules) on a previous occasion. His point is that, while the rules determining the application of TID funding were not intended to be used for projects such as the sporting arena, there is often some leeway in such guidelines, in which both interpreting the guidelines and reshaping the intended project (measuring the rules with rubber bands) can create a match. In the case of the TID funding, Erik argued that the contact between the mayor and politicians at the county level was essential for gaining access to the TID funding, because a “technical” interpretation of the guidelines would not have allowed the use of TID funds for the sporting arena project. As described in Chapter 4, a previous application for TID funding had already been rejected because the sporting arena did not fulfil the requirements for such funding. However, after receiving reassuring comments from a prominent county politician stating that they would find a way to support the project, Raymond had initiated writing a second application for TID funding. This time, the application was developed in a dialog between the protagonists for the sporting arena in the municipal hall and both administrative and political personnel at the county authorities; all made a coordinated effort to supply the project with the vital TID funding. On the municipality’s side, stretching the “rubber band” to make the project fit within the guidelines of TID funding meant involving the local trade and industry organizations to push for the project, thus redefining it as partly a trade and industry development project. Thus the specific fight to gain TID funding became dependent on the coordinated efforts of political and administrative personnel within both the municipal organization and the county authorities, as well as of actors in private trade and industry. Because the issue of the sporting arena was still controversial and unsettled in the formal command chain and the municipal council of the municipality, I argue that the process described above constitutes the making of a pragmatic policy alliance to engage in a political struggle within the municipal organization. The case of the sporting arena provides an illuminating example of how relations between individuals in the municipal organization and personnel of surrounding governing bodies, as well as private actors, become essential alliances in the municipal organization’s internal power struggles. The ability to

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“bend” incentives toward specific projects was, of course, not the only reason why such alliances were perceived to create individual autonomy rather than to enact steering. More important was, probably, the guidance on the bewildering array of different incentives and funding schemes, which allowed municipal entrepreneurs to find suitable funding for their projects, or often to shape their projects to comply with the closest funding scheme. Funding was not, however, the only resource to be obtained through such relations. In a similar matter, expert knowledge of and guidance with rules and regulations were also described as an important element of such relations. As with incentives and funding schemes, a general point was that the rules and guidelines pushed and enforced by the surrounding governing apparatus were often also manifold, open to interpretation and occasionally contradictory of each other. This was demonstrated during an interview with Niclas, already mentioned as a mid-level administrator in one of my municipalities: Researcher: Do you ever experience that different kinds of rules and guidelines pushed by the state contradict each other? Niclas: Yes, that happens all the time. Researcher: Do you have an example? Niclas: Yes, right now we have the inputs to the municipality master plan, right, then we receive word from the county governor that we must not for any reason build within the shore zone. The county authorities are saying the same, because that is sacred, right, the regulation of shore zones. Then the Public Road Administration comes along, and they are saying: “No, you are not allowed to build on the upper side of the road between here and the tunnel.” Right, because there will be too much traffic, and it becomes dangerous, so we have to build below the road – within the shore zone. Right, so it becomes very logical. One state agency is telling us to build above, and the other one is saying that we should build below.

While obviously sometimes a cause of frustration, the manifold state also represents manifold opportunities for the municipal entrepreneur who is capable of shopping for the resources necessary for political struggles. Consequently, the state enters the arena of municipal policy development not as a particular and integrated set of interests but as sets of different and often competing interests: selected, interpreted and reshaped by the municipal entrepreneur and their allies. Citizens and private interests

As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, the relations described here represent only a few examples of those involved during municipal policy development, and they are meant to exemplify how relations within and outside the borders of the formal municipal organization affect policy struggles within the organization.

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In reality, of course, countless formal and informal relations have an effect on how municipal policy development unfolds. The multiple roles of the municipal organization entail that it relates to almost all aspects of society. Most important, and an integral part of all the municipality’s roles, are its citizens. Claiming alignment with the will and interests of the municipalities’ citizens can provide a powerful political capacity in any policy struggle. However, alliances with citizens and particular interests in the society can also be a highly tricky affair. As previously discussed, the roles of politician and administrator exist in a normative tension, in which the existence of personalized ties and relations represents a threat to the legitimacy of political processes that should ideally be characterized by impersonal and formal relations (Sørhaug 1984). While alignment with groups of citizens, organizations and private enterprise can provide powerful political alliances, representing individual citizens and particular interests of society can also have devastating effects on any political cause, particularly if some sort of personal tie is suggested as motivating political actions and viewpoints. Particularly on the administrative side of the municipal organization, being called out for engaging in a political fight and representing particular interests on possible grounds of personal ties can provide sufficient grounds for corruption accusations, with devastating personal and professional consequences. However, on the political side, politicians frequently also emphasize their role as ombudsmen for the municipalities’ citizens. This was emphasized by one of the mayors when I asked him to describe his role in contrast to that of the CME: Well, I am an ombudsman. That is my role. I am a representative of the people, for the people – in this municipal organization. I do have many roles as mayor. I am both a leader of the municipal council, and I do have one of those very formal roles, signing on behalf of the municipality, many of those things. But I am also an ombudsman for people, and I try to play my part as such also, as consciously as I can. But what is my role? Well, it is to listen, support and such.

Despite the emphasis on the role of politicians as ombudsmen, politicians also needed to avoid familiarity with particular interests, especially if some kind of personal tie could be suggested (which would often be the case in the relatively small society where “everybody knows everybody”). As the reactions to Councilor Astri’s speech from the municipal council showed (Chapter 5), “speaking on behalf ” of particular persons was deemed inappropriate, even for politicians. As has been described, Astri never directly advocated cases of individual persons in arguing against the sale of municipality-owned housing units; rather, she argued in more general and principled terms for selling the housing units to “persons in need of social housing.” Astri’s approach could thus be claimed to resemble the “chaining of meaning” described in the aforementioned work of Larsen (1984), firsts mentioned in Chapter 3, in the effort to transform a concrete issue into wider forms of generalized (and political legitimate) matters of principle.

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As described to me later by the CME present at the meeting, Astri’s statement was interpreted as speaking on behalf of a “specific person.” Nevertheless, neither the CME nor anyone else present chose to publicly confront Astri for speaking on behalf of a “specific person” during the meeting, and instead she was confronted by her fellow councilors for having called the county governor’s office to investigate formal rules and procedures. Related to this, although there were frequent tales and gossip about how informal relations and dual roles affected policy decisions, public confrontations on this topic were far less frequent. For example, one administrator made the following remark to me concerning an ongoing controversial political case in which one of the key political movers was known to have a dual role, also representing an interest in the outcome: Administrator: It has been quite a large issue, and ongoing for a long time now. Or actually, several [related] cases for some years now, and it is quite characteristic, [because] there are obvious factual reasons for us not to do it. […] But he [the politician] has his networks, and he is working covertly all the time. […] there are linkages; families and relations, commercial collaborations and such.

The difficulty of proving concrete evidence of the motivations behind political actions may, of course, have been one important reason why such allegations were seldom discussed in public (exceptions being clear and formal grounds for disqualification). However, I would also argue that the close interconnectedness of the relatively small societies, where “everybody” would have some kind of connection to each other, also led to a pragmatic view of such ties. As discussed in Chapter 3, when multiple roles are unavoidable, they tend to be viewed with a sense of pragmatism and, possibly, a sense of trust rooted in the egalitarianism of the “village” (Sørhaug 1984). When everybody knows that everybody is somehow connected through personal relations and interests, publicly confronting such ties becomes improper because it endangers the entire system – as everyone is somehow potentially corrupted in this way (Sørhaug 1984). Simultaneously, accepting that “everyone knows each other” also means that speaking on behalf of any individual person from the municipality becomes improper on a general basis, even though there is no clear and immediate relationship (as seemingly in the case of Astri’s statements), as everybody becomes connected by default. If the assumptions above are correct, political processes involving power plays between particular interests of society risk becoming less visible and clouded in guises of more principled and factual or objective (i.e., administrative and universalistic) forms of public rhetoric (Larsen 1984). Particularly to newcomers, this effect of the close interconnectedness of society can make local politics hard to comprehend. Lisa, a mid-level administrator, provided an example of the latter. Lisa had recently moved to one of the municipalities to take a position within the municipal organization that required close collaboration with actors

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with both civic and commercial interests in the municipality. During an interview, we discussed some of the challenges she had experienced after she started working in a municipality where everybody seemed connected through linkages that she, as new to the municipality, knew little about: Lisa: You have to start by understanding that it is one of the premises. I mean, if you are to survive here, you have to accept it. You have to accept that everybody has linkages to someone. […] Because it is what it is, when we are talking about the premises. Often they [the people she meets through her work] have multiple roles. It is not only the informal linkages between them, which you do not know about, them being brothers, neighbors or cabin neighbors or whatever. But they are also politicians and actors of commerce, or politicians and leaders of athletics clubs – or whatever it is. Researcher: Challenging? Lisa: Yes, but it is something I have to cope with. I have to cope with the fact that I cannot have full oversight over [relations and multiple roles], and that I will occasionally take a wrong step.

During the interview, Lisa explained clearly that she felt that informal (and to her, hidden) social linkages and politicians’ multiple roles affected policy outcomes. Tellingly, she understood this close and informal interconnectedness between politics and society as a premise of the job that she would have to accept, learn and deal with, thus displaying a pragmatic attitude toward the unavoidable consequences of a close-knit society. While informal ties to particular interests and dual roles in political struggles were rarely confronted publicly, seeing both politicians and administrators disqualifying themselves because of conflicts of interest was a regular part of meetings in the municipal organization. While declaring disqualification was considered a proper procedure and was seldom challenged on an individual basis, comments concerning the general difficulties of finding candidates for political committee work due to “everyone” being somehow disqualified were frequently uttered publicly, particularly in the municipal council. In general, the practice of disqualification followed the formal grounds of disqualification as formulated in juridical frameworks (i.e., in the Public Administration Act). However, this did not mean that less formal ties were simply overlooked. As mentioned earlier, gossip provided information about the linkages between political standpoints uttered publicly and what was conceived of as the “actual” interests underpinning such political standpoints. Thus gossip became an informal means of communicating the information about political processes that were not uttered formally and publicly, in addition to perhaps being a way to exercise a strategic spin on how political motives were interpreted (Paine 1967). The case of the sporting arena can yet again provide an illustration of how the political opposition was portrayed, through gossip, as being motivated by grendepolitikk (essentially,

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a struggle of interests between the different areas of the municipality) rather than the more universalistic and objective economic arguments characterizing the opposition’s public rhetoric. Simultaneously, gossip and associated scandals also functioned as tools of social control with a unifying effect, in the sense of asserting and enforcing moral standards for political struggles (Gluckman 1963b). Although overstepping the normative rules of political struggle was a common part of the game, gossip served to reinforce the rules and could mobilize social control and political action against those who went too far. As discussed above, not all information and criticism uttered in informal gossip could be mentioned publicly. However, political opposition raised informally could easily be transformed into acceptable public criticism. In speculation, it could be argued, for example, that confronting Astri about her telephone call to the county governor’s office might have been seen as excessive if some of those involved did not also interpret it as a reaction to the underlying problem of Astri speaking on behalf of a specific person. In a sense, one could argue, therefore, that opposing but interconnected sets of logics producing political legitimacy coexisted in the informal sphere of gossip and in the formal sphere of political rhetoric, mirroring the tension described by Sørhaug (1984) between legitimacy derived from the logic of “the village” and legitimacy drawn from the logic of “the state.” Finding alliances within the social landscape of civic society and commercial interests in the municipality was often crucial during policy struggles, despite the problematic potential pitfalls of aligning oneself with particular citizens and interests of the society. While partnerships in the latter category were particularly troublesome, as they entailed merging economic and political interests, the strong emphasis put on the municipal organization’s role as a community developer contributed strongly to legitimizing such collaborations. Given the problem of a declining population, supporting trade and industry (and thus employment) in the municipality was a valued goal, making alliances and alignments with commercial interests a powerful political tool. As a result, defining the sporting arena as a project that would promote trade and industry strengthened the project not only by ensuring TID funding but also by aligning the sporting arena with the interests and needs of the municipality’s trade and industry organizations. However, such alignments required a careful balance between alliances with particular commercial interests and promoting the municipality’s trade and industry bodies in a more general sense. Tellingly, regarding the relationship between formal and informal legitimacy, even though formal representative structures such as trade and commerce associations existed in both municipalities, their representatives were, in several cases, informally seen as having multiple roles and being biased toward a particular interest. For example, in one municipality, the municipal organization had initiated a trade and industry panel that functioned as an advisory body to the municipality on different issues and in official hearings.

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However, the person running the panel and others in his family were all local businessowners and entrepreneurs involved in a wide range of businesses there. While the panel was formally recognized as a representative voice in policy development, its inputs were questioned informally, for example, by a mid-level administrator in the municipality concerned: The trade and industry panel functions quite well, as it has been able to gather some funding and has a manager. He is also a businessman himself, [the manager]. He is kind of running it, and the trade and industry panel is probably colored to a large extent by him and his views. […] We get quite a lot of inputs from them, and when we have hearings we do get feedback from them. But to what extent they represent 100 percent of the whole trade and industry, I could not tell you. But they do have a lot of members, and it is kind of the panel we use if we need to have a hearing into the trade and industry.

In other words, while formally considered a representative body, the trade and industry panel could informally be considered biased. However, as the informal basis of legitimacy interacts with the formal basis of legitimacy, drawing a strict division between formal and informal legitimacy is complicated. An example was an association working to promote a specific industry across municipal borders. Partly financed through municipal budgets, the association was heavily dependent on a collaborative effort of several municipalities, despite being organized as an independent association, with members from the relevant municipal organizations and representatives from industry itself on its board. Like the trade and industry panel, the association had a hired manager who was also associated with an actor from industry. During my fieldwork, both political and administrative actors in one of the municipalities were debating abandoning the collaboration. In public, politicians were arguing in terms of economics (the money invested in the association did not pay sufficiently), and they argued in general terms that the association was not equally representative of industry in their municipality. While the latter set of arguments was also echoed in informal debates in the city hall, several informants told me that another reason for dissatisfaction was the managers’ dual role, which caused a bias toward certain aspects of industry and not in favor of industry within their municipality in general. Again, the case illustrates how local politics are interpreted in relation to underlying particular interests of society, while public debate is carried out in more universalistic, objective and factual terms. Revisiting the observations of Archetti (1984) on Norwegian political culture in a general sense, discussed in Chapter 3, I would argue that my informants in the municipal hall interpreted political power games also in relation to closed and perhaps “conspiratorial” processes, in which personal empathies and subjective values were understood to influence political struggles. While the latter goes against Archetti’s observations, I would also add that Archetti’s

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notion of a strong emphasis on open and objective processes is relevant for an understanding of the public display of politics in my municipalities, where it was considered improper to bring up the existence of non-observable processes and less than factually relevant issues. In line with Archetti (1984), my observations suggest that confining a political struggle to the agreed terms of factual relevance served the purpose of preventing irreconcilable personalized conflicts from emerging, a highly significant confinement in a close-knit society with shifting alliances. Furthermore, I would add that maintaining the public appearance of open and objective processes served the important function of securing the legitimacy of policy processes and, ultimately, the legitimacy of the municipal organization. However, this does not exclude the role of issues not uttered publicly in policy debates. Rather, as also in the case of Astri’s provocation, “informal” social control is embedded in the “formal” parts of policy struggle in the guise of more factual and observable terms. Equally, the normative rules based on universal and factual terms become culturally embedded in “informal” social interaction and social control, leading to a constant negotiation of how the “logic of the state” can be interpreted and applied in the “logic of the village.” In other words, the incident involving Astri’s provocation illustrates how the two logics, more than just existing in a side-by-side tension (Sørhaug 1984), are capable of animating and modifying each other. The open meeting

Aligning a political cause with the general interests of the local community and its citizens could produce powerful political alignments. However, finding such representative voices among citizens of the municipalities who were not conceived as biased toward particular interests), beyond their voices as voters, was difficult. This, I argue, made the “open” meeting, portrayed as a stage where different societal interests could interact and achieve general consensus, an important tool for both the administrative and the political entrepreneur attempting to gain momentum for a political cause. As previously discussed, “planting” ideas by arranging open public meetings, which were “open” in the sense of allowing any interested citizens and concerned stakeholders to participate, was an effective strategy to diffuse the origins of policy initiatives and enlist allies for controversial policy suggestions. Raymond’s description of the “open” meeting with key stakeholders during the early stages of the sporting arena project represents an interesting example, not only for his relative success in gaining important allies for the process but also for his descriptions of the criticism later raised against the meeting. As described by Raymond, the meeting was criticized because, although it was portrayed as an “open” meeting, people known to be opposed to the building were not invited, thus demonstrating

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that the legitimacy (and thus political value) of such meetings is attached to representation from different interests. Despite the value attached to open meetings as representations of different societal interests, the degree of conformity caused by the common emphasis on containing such differences in public struggles resulted in meetings that were usually more attuned to the same factualness and objectivity that characterized public politics in general than to clashes of interest. An example was an open meeting held in one of the municipalities, which in this case also drew attendees from neighboring municipalities, to discuss the controversial issue of restructuring municipal borders. The meeting was arranged by a local politician who had recently publicly voiced the view that the municipality, along with its neighbors, should start looking into the possibility of municipal mergers. These views had sparked a public debate in which the politician’s statements had received considerable criticism from within and outside the municipality. Parts of the criticism were aimed at the politician “getting ahead of the process,” as a substantial discussion had not yet been launched in the municipality or even within the politician’s party. Partly as a response to this criticism, the meeting was thus launched as a fresh “restart” for such a debate. A professor from a university situated outside the municipalities represented was invited to the meeting. When opening the meeting, the organizing politician introduced the professor and stated that he had invited him to present a factual and objective view of the municipal restructuring issue. The apparent objectivity was further emphasized by the professor at the start of his speech, when he stated he had “no political beliefs” on the subject and that his approach was largely of a pragmatic nature. The professor gave a factual, lecture-like speech summarizing the historical background of the current municipal structure and division of tasks, as well as providing comparable examples from the municipal structures of other countries. He also discussed the question of optimal municipality sizes and argued, in an objective way, that there was no clear indicator of optimal size, as it depended on what municipal service one chose to look at. However, toward the end of the speech, the professor argued that the climate of national politics was moving toward restructuring municipal borders. Therefore, he urged, the municipalities present should, rather than spending time and energy delaying the inevitable, adopt a proactive approach by discussing possible models and planning democratic processes and, thus, retain control over the upcoming restructuring process. The invitation to the professor to give an objective speech exemplifies how the very framing of the meeting sought a factual and objective debate, rather than an open clash of interests and subjective opinions. In this setting, and perhaps in an ironic twist, the professor’s statement that he held no political views on the subject may inadvertently have enhanced the political impact of his speech. Had he, for example, openly declared a political viewpoint in line

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with the politician organizing the meeting, the political legitimacy of the speech and the entire meeting would have been threatened by suggestions of his being one-sided rather than representative. This “objective” space occupied by the professor, I argue, was also partly enabled by the fact that the professor came from “outside” the local community and thus could thus only with difficulty be associated with any ongoing political struggle within the present municipalities, as well as by the factual authority vested in the title of “professor.” However, the latter remarks in the professor’s speech, when he recommended a proactive approach, could be, and, I would argue, were, interpreted as support for the politician’s views and actions. The debate that followed did, however, also display the strong impact of factual and (seemingly) objective arguments in a setting where discussing particular interests and subjective viewpoints was inappropriate. The meeting had gathered a crowd of both local politicians and other concerned citizens from that municipality and the neighboring municipalities, and which several present in the audience had publicly criticized the local politician arranging the meeting for his statements regarding municipal restructuring. After the professor’s speech, several of the local politicians in the audience raised their hands and were allowed to voice their opinions on the subject. An absolute majority spoke in favor of raising a discussion on a municipal merger and voiced arguments that followed the rational and objective rhetorical standard of discussion set by the professor, the main arguments being the need for bigger units to ensure sufficient professional expertise in the municipal organizations. Only two of the approximately ten local politicians who spoke during the debate voiced remarks that were clearly critical of the idea of municipal restructuring. While neither of these two openly suggested that the professor speaking at the meeting had been selected because the organizing politician knew him to have a view supporting his cause, both did include more subtle remarks. The first opened his speech by thanking the good professor for his speech but then remarked, “There are always [other] professors that would have presented a more critical view, I know there are.” The other argued against some of the international comparisons made by the professor, and argued that the prior public statements from the politician organizing the meeting were “getting ahead of a process of democratic dialog.” Toward the end, the latter politician also held up a copy of a newspaper article containing an interview with another professor who had voiced a critical opinion against the case for municipal restructuring. Copies of the article had been printed and were distributed later in the meeting. Despite the emphasis put on a separation between administrative, factual and objective assessment and the political rationality characterized by subjective interests, the separation seemed less clear in practice. My general observation, including other political arenas such as the municipal councils, was that although

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the discussion in political arenas did entail more heated debate and one-sided voices characteristic of a political fight, the rhetoric applied largely remained within the objective and factual manner normatively associated with the administrative sphere. As stated by Tom in an interview reported Chapter 5, switching hats between the political and administrative sphere did not “really have any big impact on what I say.” In the previous description of the open meeting concerning municipal restructuring, the critical voices raised remained within the factual and objective rationale set by the professor, which essentially meant that any substantial criticism would have to counter the professor’s factual authority, which was enhanced by the objective framing of his speech. Because there was no an alternative professor at hand, the solution entailed recruiting other professors with opposing views as allies by proxy, by referring to them and by distributing the newspaper article. However, this does not mean that supremely factual arguments could decide any political outcome. Winning the discussion and winning the political fight remained two interrelated but also separate issues. The point is rather that the political side of the struggle became invisible in the public domain, giving meaning to Dan’s statements, quoted in Chapter 5, that factual assessment can be “completely uninteresting” to political decision-makers, “[b]ecause they have already made up their minds, because of something that we don’t know or don’t see.” The meeting on municipal restructuring was not the only arena in which I was struck by the apparent conformity and downplaying of political discussions, understood as a clash of subjective views and different interests. During my fieldwork, I also followed a process of land-use planning in one of the municipalities. As part of the process, the municipal organization arranged a number of open meetings in different areas, or “planning zones,” of the municipality, in which citizens and interest groups were invited to discuss and share their views on how the municipality should regulate areas of their respective local communities. Land-use planning is, perhaps, one of the municipal activities that most explicitly underlines the different interests of society. In practice, drawing up a land-use plan entails filling up the geographical map of the municipality with infrastructure and activity; that is, deciding what should be allowed, and built, in each separate area. It is thus one of the most profound ways in which the municipal organization regulates and exerts power over its citizens. Land-use planning defines what people should be allowed to build on their properties, what areas should be preserved and for what purpose, where industry should be located and allowed to expand, where sporting and leisure areas can be built, where commercial centers should develop and so on. As space is always a limited resource, land-use planning is essentially a process of weighing up the different interests of society

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against each other, and a successful area plan should minimize the number of conflicts arising because of such different interests. As discussed with a mid-level administrator responsible for the process: Researcher: [Other administrator] was saying in the presentation [at the meeting] that preventing conflicts is one of the most important parts of this task. Do you share that opinion? Administrator: Yes, I do. Because, through, in a way, drawing all the interests onto a map, it becomes possible to channel, for example, the building of houses, or the areas of [the industry] to those areas where they are of least disadvantage for people. […] It is a way of attempting to get knowledge-based decisions, in way, so that you know what is what. If you know what all the interests are, then you can consider them.

By law, the process requires a large degree of both openness and citizen participation, and the open meetings arranged in different areas of the municipality were explained to me as part of the process of informing and gathering inputs. I attended two such meetings during fieldwork and had been warned by the administrators involved that these meetings could become somewhat “heated.” Both of the meetings I attended attracted between fifteen and thirty attendees, many of whom I recognized as being local politicians. The two meetings followed a similar pattern, starting with a thirty-minute presentation given by the two administrators who were mainly responsible for carrying out the process of the land-use plan. The presentation started with an explanation of the legal frameworks and intentions governing the processes of land-use planning, a timeline for the process and an explanation of what existing plans were to be replaced. After the introduction, the presenters explained the relevant legal frameworks in more detail. The presenters also discussed the goal of preventing conflicts, arguing that drawing different interests onto maps was an essential tool for realizing this goal. Toward the end, the presenters emphasized the importance of providing inputs to the plan, explaining that the plan had an expected lifespan of ten to twelve years and that it would not be easy to receive dispensations for projects that deviated from the plan. Before opening the floor for questions, they ended by repeating the time-frame and deadlines for delivering inputs to the plan. The questions following the presentations at both meetings were largely of a technical nature, for example concerning the frequency and organization of land-use planning. During the two meetings, only one person used the questionand-answer round to pose a concrete suggestion for the land-use plan. In this instance, the suggestion came from a former political figure in the municipality whose proposal concerned changing the regulation of the area’s roads by reducing the traffic through some of the densest residential areas. The person came well prepared, and the suggestion was coupled with a written note handed out to the attendees, who mostly seemed to approve of the suggestion.

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The meetings then went into a short recess, with coffee and waffles being served, before all attendees were asked to gather in groups of four to six persons. Each group was given a large map of the area and a set of colored markers with which to color it. The presenting administrators explained that each color should represent a particular purpose, such as a type of industry, commercial activities, residential areas, areas where cabins and holiday homes should be allowed and so on. Additionally, each group was asked to write a short memorandum detailing its work and to present its conclusions toward the end of the meeting. Following the group discussions, I was struck on both occasions by how the geographical map put in front of us was read in social terms. In both of the groups I joined at the different meetings, there was a high awareness of property lines and who lived where. The maps were read through their inhabitants, with the people in the group constantly referring to people: “That’s just past NN, below NN,” and so on. When they started to color the maps, again the interests of property owners and inhabitants were constantly brought up. Once, an administrator walking past our group broke in and asked that we “try to imagine that we do not know the property owners while doing this, just think about what should be placed where.” The comment seemed to fall on deaf ears, as one of the group’s attendees pointed at the map and responded, “This area here would be great for some cabins, but I do not think that he [the property owner] would be willing to sell.” Contradicting his own suggestion, the administrator replied, “Well, he might be, there has been some talk about [separating] a piece of property for a cabin.” However, the group attendee quickly remarked, “No, I think it is only the one cabin that he would like to build – I doubt that he would like to have so many people around him.” While detailed knowledge of individuals and interests seemed plentiful, there were few signs of any open discussions in which such interests were put up against each other. Mainly, the groups seemed to settle for uncontroversial matters, such as improvements of municipal and other publicly owned properties. To the extent that criticism and controversy were uttered, they were mainly directed at the municipality (for posing general limitations) or the state agencies (particularly the road authorities for imposing limitations on more particular building projects), and then the attendees mainly voiced frustration on behalf of either the entire community or other persons not present. However, more subtle remarks were also made about individuals and private interests, but they seldom developed into open discussions. For example, in one of the groups an attendee made somewhat cryptic remarks (at least for the unfamiliar observer) about a potential new residential area. With disapproval in her voice, she told the group that entrepreneurs had recently been doing some surveying. Another member of the group then added, “Yeah, and I wonder how they are going to get a road to that place,” and explained that there were pipelines in the ground where the road would have to be built, and the municipality would certainly not allow it. However,

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a passing administrator broke into the discussion and told the group that it was actually possible to build the road above the pipelines. With the issue of the road settled, the person bringing up the issue of the road then simply marked the area as a residential area, still seemingly disapproving of the project, and the group ventured without discussion onto the next issue on the map. Although several of the attendees subtly showed disapproval of the residential area, the incident displays how open critical discussions on the particular interests of other persons seemed improper during a meeting, despite the emphasis on discussing possible conflicts that framed the meeting. Yet even more improper was discussing one’s own interests. For example, in one of the groups I attended, an attendee had to leave before the meeting finished. When he excused himself and got out of his chair, the other members of the group asked him whether perhaps he had anything else he would like to add to the map before leaving. As he was throwing his jacket around his neck, the man told the group in an agitated manner that he had plans to build a dock on his property, and he cursed the municipality for potentially not allowing him to do this. The members of the group were somewhat baffled, possibly because of the sharp statements on a topic that the man had made no remarks about earlier, and there were a few moments of awkward silence as he finished getting dressed before someone asked if he could specify what he meant and if he would like the group to include this in the memorandum. Smiling, the man replied, “No, no” before turning around to leave, as if to suggest that he was just joking in his sharp comments. In a related matter, on another occasion, a member of a group owned property that she apparently wanted to sell for residential purposes, depending on how the planning process regulated the area. However, she did not comment about it until another member of the group brought it into discussion by mentioning, “You [the property owner] have some nice properties for housing over there,” before marking the area as a residential zone without further discussion. The group members’ reluctance to bring up their own interests was visible throughout the process of working through the map in the groups I attended, and it made me question in my field diaries how important these meetings were for the goal of providing actual discussions and inputs for the process. In retrospect, the aforementioned tendency to hide and disguise actual conflicts of interest may have been a reason why I, unfamiliar with the local community, failed to pick up on possible conflicts underpinning the discussions in the meeting. This latter possibility could also explain why I did not find these meetings as “heated” as many of the administrators did. However, more striking, and supportive of my initial notion, was the complete absence of any representatives from commercial or industrial interests expressing viewpoints during the meetings. While many of the attendees certainly had some kind of interest in the process, albeit undercommunicated, their stakes in the planning were probably minor in comparison to some of the major trade and industry actors in the municipality who were

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not present. One of the administrators present confirmed my impression during one of the meetings when he remarked that the people present were mainly representatives of volunteer associations, not people from the trade and industry organizations. He further told me that they were the “usual crowd” at such meetings, comprising “people who care.” I later asked some of the administrators responsible for the process about the absence of trade and industry representatives at the meetings. Concerning the largest companies with the largest stakes in the processes, I was told that they usually did not attend such public meetings, and that if they did, they would seldom voice any opinion anyway. Rather, commercial actors would contact the municipal organization directly with their concerns, and the administrators would also make sure to arrange separate meetings with the major local trade and industry actors. The administrators also emphasized that regarding the process of land-use planning, any inputs would have to be delivered in writing if they were to be formally logged and properly treated. Thus the meetings had the effect of informing people and interests about how to deliver inputs individually, rather than actually producing debate and inputs during the meetings themselves. Relations with trade and industry actors

Despite the normative emphasis on avoiding affiliations with particular interests of society, mentioned above, individualized contact and bilateral meetings characterized most of the municipal organizations’ contacts with commercial interests, as was confirmed by Vegard, the mid-level administrator discussed earlier in this chapter: To the extent that I need to consult with commercial actors, it is usual single matters, so then I have to speak with the company in question. Of course, if we need to discuss something general affecting trade and industry, then we contact the trade and industry panel. But most of the work I do is directed toward single companies, so most of the contact is with single companies.

Discussing one of the major industry actors (in the following referred to as “Acme Inc”) in the municipality, with whom Vegard and others in the municipality kept close relations through frequent meetings, I asked Vegard to what extent Acme Inc was involved in municipal policy decisions. Vegard: Of course, major companies spend a lot of time trying to influence public decision processes, there is no doubt about that. But that is not something I encounter a lot at my level, I do not get any cognac at Christmas [smiling]. Researcher: But do you think there is largely an increased acceptance for having such close relations, or having such big actors as participants in decisions?

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Vegard: Well, you mean Acme Inc? Well, you know, they are not participating in decisions. They are, I would say on the level that we listen to them a lot and apply their views. But it is we that at the end sort them out for the politicians. I think you are asking whether Acme Inc has us at both ends, but they do absolutely not. We serve Acme Inc very well, but it is within the lines of the law, and within ethical lines. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no dirt there at all. But of course, we are interested in having that company develop here, and try to accommodate this. So we ask them to provide us with inputs [naming a specific example]. They deliver these inputs, and we sort them and use what we find valuable. I think that’s a good way of working. […] But the inputs they provide us with, of course, they are put up against [the interests of others]. Then we assess them and lay them out as case for the politicians.

In this excerpt, Vegard argued that having Acme Inc as a provider of inputs to policy processes was not equal to having it actually participate in political decisionmaking. He interpreted my question as to whether they were actually part of the decision-making processes as implying that Acme Inc exercised an unacceptable control over the municipal organization, an implication of corruption. The municipal organization’s strong commitment to its role as community developer entailed a close collaboration with commercial actors, both small and large. Besides larger processes like land-use planning and providing infrastructure, such services also included things like giving grants and providing loans, selling off property at affordable prices and functioning as advisors and providing guidance in applications for grants administered by other governmental bodies. In some cases, providing such services certainly entailed favoring some actors above others, and there were even examples of the municipal organization effectively blocking the establishment of businesses that would potentially compete with their major actors within the municipality’s borders. However, this only made it more important for the administrators to emphasize that such decisions were made by the municipal organization’s formal command chain, in essence meaning the municipal council, and not in collaborative decision-making with the commercial actors themselves. While inputs were sought and valued, bringing commercial actors into the political decision-making process itself was not viewed as legitimate. In a normative sense, the inputs from such particular interests of society were thus understood as belonging to the administrative sphere of providing factually based information that would be objectively assessed before being subjected to political treatment. In practice, relations with commercial actors during policy processes are individualized and carry the same potential for pragmatic policy alliances that, I have argued, characterizes other relations both within and beyond the formal municipal organization. An example is again provided by the case of the sporting arena, where the protagonists of the project aligned themselves with several of

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the key commercial actors of the municipality to win what was still a political fight in the municipal organization. In the case of the HSC, private building entrepreneurs were also brought in at the brainstorming meeting to help envision the project. The DHP, described earlier in this chapter, is also an illuminating example. As has been mentioned, the DHP was realized against the wishes of the CME by a pragmatic policy alliance between mid-level administrators and politicians and also, vitally, commercial actors. During a general discussion about the influence of the CME in policy processes, I asked the same CME for his view of the process: CME: Ha! It is funny that you should ask about that particular process. Yes, I can [say something about that]. I do not think that was a good process. I was in fact against it. But then an act of fate happened […] while this was being processed I fell and broke a leg! [laughing]. So I was not present physically at the time, but I told them that I did not believe that this project was good for us in economic terms. […] But while I was away, the deal was signed, without the municipal council actually having decided it. Researcher: On what level was the deal signed? CME: The mayor signed a deal with the building entrepreneurs of the project, that the municipality would buy power and such. […] There was some criticism voiced afterwards, some criticism in the municipal council, rightly. This had been launched without their knowledge, they were not informed, and the mayor had to take the criticism – and he did. […] Researcher: But do you have any thoughts on how such a project could pass? CME: What we had were strong persons in the administration who may have been very eager about the project. It created new commercial activity, and it was new thinking. Not revolutionary, there are others that have such projects, but it was good from an environmental viewpoint. It may have been the right thing, I do not know, time will show.

Apart from the reference to the broken leg (which only the CME mentioned to me), the CME’s description of the process is consistent with how the protagonists among the mid-level administrators described the process. While the exact sequence of events is unclear in the accounts I gathered, all the accounts argue that the project was realized through a broad collaboration between the initiating administrators, commercial actors and several state agencies providing funding. As Espen, one of the initiating administrators, put it when I asked about the very beginning, “I simply started calling people that I knew might be interested in the case.” With the CME known to be against the project, the administrative command chain was bypassed by seeking political support for the project directly; in this

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case, that support was found with the mayor. While the CME emphasizes that the deal committing the municipality to buy power from the DHP was signed without due processing in the municipal council, indicating that the mayor had overstepped his role and pushed the matter singlehandedly, this deal was just one of the major stepping-stones toward the project, which also included a number of formal political decisions. While the DHP project had been a continuous political struggle, its proponents had been able to gain considerable political support from their relations with commercial interests and state funders as the main movers, rather than from the formal command chain. The pragmatic alliances forged between administrators and commercial actors were, like other relations, related to the individualization of such contacts, in which the administrators in a sense become mediators with – rather than representatives of – the municipal organization. This is illustrated in the excerpt below, from an interview with Vegard, the aforementioned mid-level administrator who collaborated extensively with commercial actors in his municipality through his daily tasks: Researcher: In your work, you represent the municipality a lot. Do you have any general thoughts on the extent of the authorization you have to do this? Vegard: What do you mean? Researcher: To what extent can you speak on behalf of the municipality? Vegard: I am not sure if that is a relevant question. Because if I feel that, or if a company tells me that they need help from the municipality, [for example] “We need a property developed,” or “We need a loan, can the municipality help us with that?” then it is seldom possible for me to say “Yes, I can hand it to you right here.” Usually, I will say “Yes, we can work with this, and I can discuss it with the mayor or bring it up at [a municipal committee],” or whatever. But if it is a matter of urgency, and I believe in it, then I will say that it sounds reasonable and that I will bring it home [to the municipal organization] and discuss it, if it’s urgent.

Vegard’s point was that in practice, representing the municipality seldom entailed representing the whole of the municipal organization; instead, he conceived his role as that of a mediator. Again, like other relations, meetings and contacts with commercial actors entail agreeing on goals and strategically coordinating action rather than decision-making. In regard to commercial interests, Vegard also reflected on a tension caused by working between the ideally universalism of bureaucracy and the more pragmatic premises of commercial life. In a recent case, he had been working with a private entrepreneur who was looking for an industrial property in the municipality to establish a new business. Vegard had found a suitable property owned by the municipality and had been working within the municipal organization to sell off the land at relatively low and acceptable cost to the entrepreneur. While he managed to push the sale through, he had

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received criticism afterwards because the sale became, in his own choice of words, “politically wrong.” As he elaborated on the term:

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The politicians, they are concerned with everything having to be 100 percent fair, and such. But you also have to follow the premises of commercial life, and improvise somehow [mekke ting til]. The property was just lying there.

In another example, Vegard mentioned a case in which a local entrepreneur urgently need money to invest in vital equipment, and he sought a guarantee from the municipality that was necessary for obtaining a loan: He had most of it sorted and contacted the municipality to get the guarantee […]. This is the sort of thing that the municipality can agree to do, but the processing takes time, and he only had three days to do it. I took a couple of phone calls, and I was able to do it within the deadline, but there was criticism afterwards. [Others in the municipal organization were saying,] “That is not how we process cases.” […] I do not want to complain about the municipality, but they have to understand that we need to work within the premises of commercial life if we are going to achieve integration of commercial life. We are constantly falling behind because of the slowness of the municipal system. We have to apply rules like rubber bands.

In other words, working on the borderlines between the municipal organization and commercial life, Vegard describes a tension between a pragmatic need to get things done quickly and the normative, universalistic procedures characterizing the bureaucratic municipal organization. Note that in dealing with this tension, Vegard applies the same metaphor of treating rules like “rubber bands” as Erik applied when describing relations with the county authorities and the use of incentive funding. Summary: normative bureaucracy and pragmatic alliances

While Vegard was speaking explicitly in the last excerpt above about working as an administrative entrepreneur on the borderlines between the municipal organization and commercial actors, I find significant the similarities between his descriptions and the descriptions reproduced in this chapter of how other relations within and beyond the municipal organization are conceived and applied in policy processes. In all relations, there is a conceived tension between the pragmatic need to get things done and the normative rules of universalistic procedures that characterize the bureaucratic organization; that is, between personal relations and the formal command chain, between forming alliances outside the formal organization and representing the totality of the municipality, and between the particular interests of society and universalistic bureaucratic procedures. In essence, I argue that this tension is understood by my informants

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as a relationship between the pragmatic needs of (the local) society and the need to also anchor policy processes in the democratic legitimacy of the municipal organization. In conceptual terms, this tension can be understood as the relationship between the pragmatic and normative rules of political struggle (Bailey 1969). In practical terms, the tensions and relationships involved also strongly echo Britan and Cohen’s (1980) descriptions of a tension between flexibility and the discipline of Weberian bureaucracy, as discussed earlier in this chapter. In the municipal organizations I studied, following the Weberian set of operations was conceived as lacking the necessary flexibility and adaptiveness required in municipal entrepreneurship. However, I would not draw the conclusion that the pragmatic alternative to Weberian procedures is unmonitored autonomy and freedom. As the examples show, informal procedures and alignments are also carefully monitored and gossiped about, and may even be the cause of sanctions on formal and public stages. In other words, there are both formal and informal rules guiding behavior and, following Sørhaug (1984), the logic of the egalitarian “village” also provides a competing legitimacy to that derived from the universalistic state. Upon finishing my fieldwork, I was puzzled by the apparent difference between how my informants initially described their own roles and actions in accordance with formalized and normative roles, and how both my observation and in-depth accounts of past processes revealed far more pragmatic strategies and approaches to policy processes. The analytical enquiry concluded in this chapter provides some insights into this division between what people say and what people do. Holding on to the normative and formal roles of politician or administrator, in theory and/or practice, is vital for symbolically vesting policy processes in the legitimacy of democratic procedures. However, following Vike’s (2012) notion of “bureaucratic individualism,” formalizing relations through formal role handling can, in both practical and symbolic terms, also enable personal autonomy by providing an exit from the numerous ties and commitments characterizing both the local community and the individualized relations to other organizations and governmental bodies. As a result, the pragmatic choice between loyalty to bureaucratic command chains and the numerous available ties and relations comprising everyday life in the municipal organization creates an autonomous space of opportunity for the municipal entrepreneur. Finally, the system of horizontal and overlapping ties created by the individualization of relations discussed in this chapter constitutes a balancing of the vertical institutional logic of governmental bodies, possibly averting the danger of clientelist ties (Vike 2015). Understood in the terms of Rokkan’s (1987) notion of cross-cutting cleavages, the local politics I encountered can, therefore, despite stark opposition and long-lasting political struggles, be characterized by a certain

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stability, vested in “the peace of the feud” (Gluckman 1955) and “hostile coexistence” (Haukelien 2011). However, the trade-off is an emphasis on social cohesion that tends to disguise actual political struggle and conflicts between the particular interests of society (Larsen 1984, Sørensen 1984).

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Note 1 The political processes of the sporting arena and the HSC are both described in Chapter 4.

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Conclusions: between government and governance

In a discussion of James Frazer’s distinctions between the “primitive” and the “modern,” Mary Douglas notes that: Binary distinctions are an analytical procedure, but their usefulness does not guarantee that existence divides like that. We should look with suspicion on anyone who declared that there are two kinds of people, or two kinds of reality or process. (1978: 161)

Douglas’s choice of words provides a fitting background for concluding many of the discussions presented in the previous chapters of this book. Grand dichotomies hold a pivotal role in the structure of Western thought, and political thought and studies of political institutions are no exception. Dichotomies such as state–civil, public–private, domination–emancipation, coercion–freedom and so on comprise a philosophical and sociological language that structures not only political thought but also how we imagine politics (Rose 1999). While they are valuable as analytical tools, reality seldom conforms to such binary forms. It is with respect to the latter that I argue that the conceptual pair of government and governance are best applied and understood as concept-metaphors (Moore 1997, 2004), signifying different institutional logics at play in policy processes. As my own account of attempting to tie these theoretical concepts to my real-world encounters with policy processes suggests (Chapters 2 and 4), treating such concepts as predefined essential properties would only serve to reify abstract theory by omitting or reducing the diversity of policy practices at play (see also Bevir and Rhodes 2010:92–93). Although concept-metaphors can be defined in specific contexts, their main purpose is to maintain ambiguity and thus to enable a more productive “tension between pretentious universal claims and particular contexts and specifics” (Moore 2004:74). As discussed in Chapter 2, my own application of the two terms was developed to encompass the intertwinement of government and governance that characterized the processes of policy development I encountered during fieldwork. Therefore my somewhat heuristic application of the terms understands the relationship between government and governance as a tension between the hierarchical command chain of the municipal organization,

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and alternative alignments found both within and outside the formal borders of the municipal organization. This, in turn, enabled an analysis of what I found to be a central tension regulating relations in municipal policy development, while also allowing a conversation with the wider literature on governance. In what follows, I summarize the main points of this conversation and discuss the implications of this tension in municipal policy development. Government and governance

In Chapter 2, I discussed how the distinction between government and governance is treated in the network governance literature. Within both the first and second “waves” of network governance theory, I argued, there is a tendency to overemphasize the distinction between the two as separate modes of governing. In both waves of theory, the dichotomy of government and governance is further enforced by aligning itself with another grand dichotomy, namely the traditional and the modern. Through the transformation thesis, hierarchical government is constructed and portrayed as an obsolete form of governing, incapable of managing the complexity of the modern society. The emergence of governance thus becomes both a product of the diminishing government and an axiomatic solution for governing the complexity of modern society, providing governance with both normative and deterministic flavors. In its long-term development, the Norwegian case seems to provide a counternarrative to both attempts at comprehensive accounts, of going from government to governance in the first wave of theory and a shift toward metagovernance in the second wave of theory. Considering state–municipality relations, historical accounts instead suggest an opposite movement in the long-term development of local government in Norway, as discussed in Chapter 3, with the relationship between state and local government arguably turning toward increased state dominance through hierarchical control. Past ethnographic accounts also give one a reason to question the relevance of the transformation thesis within local government itself – or, perhaps more importantly, they demonstrate how the novelty of present-day governance practices that is claimed hinges on a distortion of the past (see Davies 2011). Rather than political systems founded on the hierarchal command chain of government, the past accounts of both Barnes (1954) and Park (1998) describe pluricentric systems of local government founded on an egalitarian political culture. Indeed, Barnes’s account of “governing by committee” from the early 1950s seems to approach an ideal-type description of the governance practices claimed as novel by the transformation thesis during the 1990s. Furthermore, an opposite version of the transformation thesis can be traced in Park’s longitudinal account, in his suggestion that the early 1970s probably represented the height of the political system of wide participation that he describes,

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leading to his (quite normative) conclusion that “even the most solid successes in political work do not outlast the generation that made them” (1998:12). One important reason for the change, according to Park, was the rise of a professionalized administrative machinery that has gradually took over responsibilities from the dedicated amateurs who characterized the enactment of local government in the decades preceding his final fieldwork in the early 1990s. When compared with the accounts of Park (1998) and Barnes (1954), my own account finds some support for a notion that an increasingly professionalized administration, influenced by the doctrines of New Public Management (NPM) that revived the Weberian separation between politics and administration, may cause an increased emphasis on the municipal organizations’ hierarchical command chain. Rather than the frequently told tale of going from government to governance through an intermediate phase of NPM reforms (Røiseland and Vabo 2012), an opposite movement of NPM reforms that causes an increased emphasis on hierarchical government may, thus, seem equally plausible. The normative emphasis on the hierarchical “hourglass” model, I believe, represents an expression of such an alternative transformation. There are also signs that my informants themselves interpreted the increased emphasis on the “hourglass” model as a recent development. One example is the mayor quoted in Chapter 5, who argued that there was “almost a systematic split in generations” with his elder party comrades, who wanted him to pursue a more active approach in investigating the ongoing issues of the municipal organization, thereby bypassing the “hourglass” model. The mayor, however, objected to such a crossover of roles; along with most of my informants, he understood the adherence to the hierarchical command chain as an expression of professionalism. The term “New Public Management” largely carried negative connotations among most of the people I encountered. However, ideas such as “hands-off” and “strategic” political leadership, as well as a strong separation between politics and administration, dominated the normative notion of the political role among many in the municipal organizations. Importantly, others also objected to such ideas of political leadership, and advocated more direct approaches and a greater emphasis on the political role as ombudsmen for the municipalities’ citizens. In other words, a mix of traditions seemed to inform the political and administrative roles. The point here is, however, not to replace the transformation thesis with the notion of an alternative transformation from governance to government. Rather, my intention here is, first, to provide a warning against uncritically transporting theoretical conceptualizations as comprehensive explanatory devices across contexts. While the concepts of government and governance may prove useful as analytical tools across different contexts, their historical pathways, practices and effects require case-by-case examination. Second, while I do suggest that there may have been a development toward increased emphasis on the hierarchal command chain within the municipal

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organizations I studied, my findings most of all support the notion put forward by Davies (2011) that a mix of hierarchy and networks, as well as interdependence between governmental and non-governmental actors, is axiomatic to any system of governing. As Chapter 4 demonstrated, hierarchal and networked relations are intertwined in most processes of municipal policy development and, indeed, in the very fabric of the “open-system” municipal organization. Moreover, the cases of the sporting arena and the Health Service Center (HSC) show how enacting government and governance in careful combination becomes increasingly important in controversial policy processes. Working on the borders of the formal municipal organization and in a balance between the hierarchy of municipal organization and alternative alignments through pragmatic policy alliances seems, thus, an essential characteristic of successful municipal entrepreneurship, regardless of whether it originates from the political or the administrative side of the organization. Moreover, my findings also support the notion that the increased deployment of intermunicipal collaboration has led to an increased emphasis on steering through networks, which, as discussed in Chapter 6, was conceived quite differently among my informants in the two municipalities studied. However, the understanding of a potential democratic deficit and lack of control (i.e., the lack of government) in intermunicipal collaborations is telling in relation to how the legitimacy of such governance arrangements is regulated through their intertwinement with the structures of government. I will go on to discuss this intertwinement further below. The critical point here is, as assertively suggested by Rhodes, that such shifts in the patterns of rule take many diverse forms; they are a contingent mix (paraphrased from Rhodes 2017b:223). Rather than elaborating on the nature of government and governance as modes of governing, the key to understanding such patterns is in understanding this mix of institutional logics. I am therefore in agreement with the proponents of second-wave governance theory in arguing that one mode of governing does not simply replace the other. However, the concept of metagovernance, the key conceptualization of this mix within of second-wave theory, has not been applied in the empirical analysis of this volume. There are reasons for this neglect. When applied in a perspective emphasizing thick description of individual action, metagovernance takes a quite different form from that resulting from the attempts to theoretically construct comprehensive accounts of transformations (discussed in Chapter 2). Understanding it as a description of an emerging role of the state, I agree with Rhodes (2017b), who argues, from a decentered perspective, that there can be no such comprehensive account of the diversity of practices, actions and strategies making up the role of the state (or, in my case, the municipality). Alternatively, perhaps more in line with a decentered perspective, understanding metagovernance as a steering technique that emphasizes the framing and manipulation of self-governed networks seems to reduce it to an instrument of hierarchical control (see also Bevir and

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Rhodes 2010). The latter point is perhaps best illustrated by the converse example provided by Jim, the chief municipal executive (CME) quoted in Chapter 4, and his attempt to frame and manipulate the decisions of the municipal council. In such a view, his description of “a process running a process” can well be understood as a strategic attempt to exercise metagovernance from below.

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Normative hierarchy and pragmatic egalitarianism

Bailey’s (1969) distinction between the normative and pragmatic rules of political struggle provides a valuable analytical vantage point to understand how different institutional logics coexist in the enactment of municipal policy processes. With their outspoken Weberian content, the normative rules at play in the municipal organization emphasized an adherence to the hierarchical command chain of government. During controversial policy processes, this adherence to the hierarchical command chain was enforced particularly through a normative division between political and administrative roles (see Chapter 5). While the two roles are understood to be in hierarchical opposition to each other, both roles are also understood in opposition to the role of the personal being attached to the surrounding community through multiplex relations. Thus enforcing and conforming to the roles becomes a way to legitimate political processes by vesting them in the democratic legitimacy municipal organization (i.e., government), paralleling what Sørhaug (1984) labels as a legitimacy drawn from the logic of the state. However, more than confining administrative and political actors to their demarked roles, this must also be understood as a way to create individual autonomy by insisting on these roles as separated from alternative ties and commitments (Vike 2015). As discussed in Chapter 5, my informants strongly emphasized a strict adherence to the hierarchical command chain in their own normative accounts of the two roles. Accordingly, most would also prescribe a role of administrators as loyal followers of political decisions. Most importantly, this also meant refraining from doing politics by engaging in political fights. However, most of the cases of policy processes explored in this study testify to the fact that the pragmatic rules of political struggle lead to a constant renegotiation of these terms. The cases of the HSC and the sporting arena demonstrate how the pragmatic rules of political struggle (in controversial matters) depict an interplay between political and administrative actors in which the enactments of the different roles in opposition to each other provide politically potent alignments. For example, Raymond, the mayor acting as prime mover for the sporting arena, emphasized the importance of rallying support from the administrative side of the organization and, most importantly, from the initially skeptical CME, thus testifying to how the administrative side of the municipal organization becomes a political arena in (rather than a passive follower of ) political struggles.

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Similarly, Jim, the CME acting as prime mover in the case of the HSC, also found it necessary to gain support from political actors in order to succeed in that project. In this case, faced with a reluctant mayor, soliciting political support entailed omitting the normative “hourglass” model by both “planting” the idea (through an open meeting) and contacting a politician who opposed the mayor on the issue. Both cases also highlight the interplay and division of roles between political and administrative actors in political struggles. While political actors may publicly solicit support and engage in open political struggles, the administrative actors can engage in political fights more subtly, as for example in the creation of the sort of tactical path-dependency described by Jim in the HSC case. Similarly, the case of the sporting arena displays how Raymond worked closely with administrative actors to secure the funding necessary to win the political struggle. In the latter case the CME’s approval of the project from his factual assessment proved vital in securing the vote of the municipal council. These differences in available tactics, resources, legitimacy and factual credibility are what give alliances that cross the borders between politics and administration their political potency and make the creation of such alliances an essential tool in political struggles. As I discussed in Chapter 6, the common view of a systematic conflict in political views between political and administrative actors is highly oversimplified. Rather than administrators pushing for particular administrative interests, and in line with Jacobsen (2002), I found a complex municipal organization in which both politicians and administrators were pursuing diversified political goals in less stable coalitions. As the case of the district heating plant (DHP) demonstrated, administrative entrepreneurship did not necessarily depend on complete alignment within the administrative organization’s command chain. Rather, both the DHP and the other cases explored show how the municipal administration itself can become an arena of political discourse and struggle during controversial policy developments. There were diverse motivations for pursuing political goals among my administrative informants. But while some stated personal reasons (such as Trond receiving a “message” and Espen’s professional interest in bio-energy), feelings of moral or professional obligation to act on opportunities for the common good of the municipality were the common denominator in all stories of municipal entrepreneurship. Cases such as the initiation of the HSC by administrative actors also demonstrate the tensions and paradoxes caused by the problematic normative status of administrative entrepreneurship. On the one hand, administrators feel a moral and professional obligation to initiate and support policy developments they deem necessary for the common good, even when such developments lack political initiatives and support. On the other hand, the normative emphasis on the hierarchical relationship between politics and administration imposes heavy restrictions on the administrator’s ability to (successfully) introduce controversial policy processes. Therefore understanding the strategies

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and tactics employed in administrative entrepreneurship requires an understanding of the normative rules regulating policy processes. Through processes such as “planting” ideas, arranging open meetings and involving external stakeholders (as in the sewer facility case), administrative entrepreneurs were effectively omitting the normative rules against introducing political fights by shaping their own orders to act as loyal and objective administrators. As such tactics often involved creating pragmatic policy alliances that cross-cut the municipal organization’s hierarchical command chain and often, also, the borders of the formal organization, they are examples of how government and governance are intertwined during policy processes. While the tactics applied in policy struggles often involve favoring pragmatic rules, with a consequent bending or breaking of the Weberian-based rules described in Chapter 5, I disagree with the understanding that the alternative to Weberian procedures is unmonitored autonomy and freedom (Britan and Cohens 1980). Rather, my findings suggest that policy processes and the creation of pragmatic policy alliances both in and out of alignment with the hierarchical command chain are carefully monitored and controlled by informal exchanges of information, gossip and social control. My informants’ statements and descriptions of policy processes also indicate a high awareness of how their actions were interpreted and judged by others. Simultaneously, their discussions and reflections on policy processes display a high degree of ambiguity regarding normative rules, and often a negotiation between normative and pragmatic rules. Raymond’s reflections on the criticism raised against the “open” meeting during the sporting arena process is not only an example of an awareness of how his actions are controlled, but also an example of a weighing between pragmatic and normative rules. As he stated, there was no point in inviting people who were strongly opposed when trying to realize such a project. Similarly, Tom’s more general reflections on his dual role as both a political and an administrative actor also displayed an awareness of and balancing between pragmatic and normative rules. While Tom emphasized the importance of publicly and formally making a separation between his many roles, he expressed a pragmatic need to occasionally step out of such normative constraints: when done with the formalities, Tom argued, there needed to be room for pragmatic action. Otherwise, as he stated, “we will not get far in life.” Alternative legitimacies

The relative openness to discussing normative breaches during policy developments in informal settings testifies to how this sense of pragmatism in municipal policy developments relates to more than cheating and dirty tricks performed to achieve political goals. For example, Jim’s tactics during the political struggle for the HSC, often constituting normative breaches of the hierarchical relationship between politics and administration, were a frequent theme of cheerful anecdotes

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in informal settings in his municipal organization. I tend to believe that this openness may have been caused by the HSC being mostly viewed as a huge success within the municipal organization at the time of my fieldwork, although it had been a cause of great controversy during its forging. Jim’s application of pragmatic tactics could, thus, be considered acceptable as they worked toward achieving a common good for the municipality. Similarly, Johannes’s reflections on the politician interviewing her staff (Chapter 5), as well as Lisa’s reflections on the informal linkages in policy processes (Chapter 6), display how such normative breaches are also partly accepted by the opposite side in political struggles. Going beyond Bailey’s (1969) depictions of how normative rules were bent as pragmatic rules proved successful in changing the playing field, the sense of pragmatism displayed in these cases of municipal policy development seems to have rested on an alternative source of political legitimacy. To me, Sørhaug’s (1984) observation of a coexistence between the legitimacy derived from the logic of the state and a contrasting source of legitimacy derived from the logic of the village seems to provide a suitable set of metaphors for explaining this alternative institutional logic that produces political legitimacy. In line with Sørhaug’s observations, I argue that this alternative source of legitimacy can be understood in relation to an egalitarian sense of trust (rooted in the social relations of the village) and in a pragmatic understanding that complete compliance with the normative rules derived from the universal procedures of the state is often deemed undesirable, or even impossible. The latter divides into two related notions of pragmatism. The first is the pragmatic need “to get things done” for the common good. The HSC is one such example. Jim (and later most of his municipal organization) understood the controversial centralizing of services as necessary and felt an obligation to agree to the process, which was deemed impossible by following the normative procedure of passively awaiting a political initiative. This pragmatic need to “get things done” was also clearly expressed by Vegard, who found the municipal organization’s universalistic procedures to be in high tension with the pragmatic premises entailed in collaborating with local trade and industry (Chapter 6). The second sense of pragmatism departs from the understanding that the state (or in this case, the municipal organization) can never be completely separated from the multiplex relations of the village. This notion was expressed through variations of the statement “That’s how it is in a small community,” such as Lisa’s acceptance of informal linkages and multiple roles among actors in policy processes as an unavoidable premise of her job. The emphasis on confining the flow of information between the spheres of politics and administration to the “hourglass” model represents another example of a normative ideal that is hardly enforceable in practice. While enforcing a strict control of information was understood to contradict the idea of living in “an open and democratic” society, I also argue that the ambiguity of this norm

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was partly caused by the difficulties in enforcing it. With informal relations crossing the spheres in multiple ways, with many individuals having dual roles as both politicians and administrators, and with gossip serving as a strategic and regulating tool in political struggles, the efforts to control informational flow in the municipal organization seemed futile. Furthermore, the flow of information also served important functions. Social control and the morals of membership

The latter point relates to the nature of the “egalitarian” trust that is claimed to underpin the logic of the village (Sørhaug 1984), discussed in Chapter 3. As Vike (2012) suggests, the sense of trust characterizing the Nordic form of “formally organized egalitarianism” does not necessarily rest on an enduring faith in the integrity of leaders and other members. Rather, it can rest on the belief that the actors in policy struggles are carefully monitored and controlled, and will face consequences if they stray too far from the group’s moral rules of conduct. These rules of conduct put normative emphasis on acts that benefit the common good, making it improper to voice one’s own interest in public (see Chapter 6). Conformity, enforced by an intense exchange of information and gossip about the conduct of others (leaders in particular), becomes a central component of this egalitarian dynamic (Vike 2012). Consequently, informal and formal processes – the logic of the village and the logic of the state – become highly intertwined and embedded in the social control regulating policy processes. The example of the municipal council’s reactions to Astri’s provocation is one of the most pointed displays of the latter point. To the observer, and possibly most of the participants, the formal criticism stated publicly (for contacting the county governor) and the informal, unvoiced criticism (for speaking on behalf of a particular person) become almost impossible to distinguish when trying to interpret the situation. Accordingly, politics and social life risk becoming intertwined to such an extent that “everything,” and simultaneously “nothing,” becomes politics (Larsen 1984). The specific conditions enabling the embedding of such seemingly contradicting logics can be related to the cultural and historical conditions that Vike (2013) traces in his concept of bureaucratic individualism. As discussed in Chapter 3, Vike argues that the particular form of egalitarian individualism that is claimed to characterize Nordic countries can be traced to the early importance of formalized (proto-bureaucratic) social relations as a means to protect individual autonomy. Formalized relations were, therefore, culturally embedded into social practices at an early stage, and were institutionalized through the formalized institutions of governing in processes carrying the “morals of membership” into the moldings of the welfare state (Vike 2012, 2013). From early on, the tradition of dividing political representation into multiple associations created a system characterized

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by multiple roles and shifting alliances in local politics that made the boundaries of the formal municipal organization hard to maintain (Vike 2015). In this light, the inseparable intertwinement of government and governance that I found to characterize municipal policy development has been embedded into the practices of local government at least since the formal institutionalization of the Norwegian municipal organization that began in 1837. The ambiguity of normative rules can be understood as an expression of the constant negotiation and control of how the formal legitimacy of the state and the informal legitimacy of the village are interpreted and applied during policy processes. The long-lasting traditions of culturally embedding formalized relations in social interactions makes such negotiations and translations between the normative and pragmatic rules run relatively smoothly. While conflicts do occur, they are contained before they can threaten the unity of the village (Sørhaug 1984). Moreover, negotiations and quarrels over the roles of politicians and administrators, usually confined to factual terms and seldom allowed to escalate into damaging climaxes, serve to strengthen, rather than undermine, the importance of normative rules regulating the enactment of these roles. In classical anthropological terms, quarrels over the enactment of these roles remain “rebellions” challenging the power distributed through the enactment of the roles, rather than “revolutions” challenging the system (Gluckman 1963a). Attacking the person in an institutional role for not fulfilling the role accurately in accordance with the norms remains a defense of these norms and the institution. Such quarrels may involve personal attacks. However, the avoidance of damaging climaxes prevents conflicts from turning into personal tragedy. Thus, rather than threatening the unity of the system, the dialectic interplay between politics and administration in policy processes produces a constantly renewed emphasis on the two roles through the social control involved in their enactment. As Chapter 3 discussed, the notions of cross-cutting cleavages (Vike 2015) and contextual barriers (Barnes 1954) are important in understanding the conditions in which such “hostile coexistence” (Haukelien et al. 2011) can occur. By dividing political representation through multiple associations, cross-cutting patterns emerge with a stabilizing effect that prevents conflicts from escalating into damaging climaxes (Archetti 1984, Gluckman 1955, Sørhaug 1984). Pragmatic policy alliances

As demonstrated by Barnes (1954) in his description of a “government by committee” in Bremnes, and more recently by Vike (2015), cross-cutting alliances can create horizontal ties capable of balancing and modifying the vertical institutional logic of governmental bodies. The examples of relations in policy processes discussed in Chapter 6 demonstrate how alignments that cross-cut the hierarchical command chain develop through strategic coordination of efforts

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and resources among actors with agreed policy goals. Such alignments can recruit allies both within and across the municipal organization’s borders and have the potential to also challenge the vertical logic of the municipal organization in controversial issues. I describe these alignments as pragmatic policy alliances that exist in a troublesome normative tension that depends on how their relation to the municipal organization’s hierarchical command chain is constructed. This tension can be understood as a tension between collaborative relations where participants represent the municipal organization, and those relations that become conspiring arenas for the pursuit of individual political goals that undermine the same command chain of the municipal organization. As the successful achievement of policy goals often depends on a negotiation between the terms of legitimacy derived from the universalistic procedures of the hierarchical command chain (of the state) and the sense of pragmatism based on egalitarian trust and social control (of the village), pragmatic policy alliances can seldom be confined to one of the two extremes. Rather, actors of pragmatic policy alliances in practice act more as mediators between organizational standpoints and different policy goals who simultaneously work within the hierarchical command chain of government and in alternative alignments (through practices of governance) to achieve political goals. The latter notion is evident in the policy processes explored in this volume, whereby networked resources sourced outside the municipal organization (for example, external funding or authoritative expert opinions) become vital elements in an internal political struggle within the municipal organization where the council retains its monopoly on decision-making. As the administrator quoted in Chapter 6 explained, “decisions” made in the expert network he participated in were not decisions made on behalf of the municipality, but rather “agreement on the guidelines for how we present things back in the municipalities, they remain strategies.” Similarly, in our discussions about his collaborative relations with actors of trade and industry, Vegard emphasized that these relations (and associated meetings) were not arenas where policy decisions were made. Rather, he maintained that they were used to gather “inputs” that were carried back to the municipal organization’s hierarchical command chain and then subjected to a factual assessment before finally being subjected to political decision-making. During the discussion with Vegard, my questions implying that actors from trade and industry participated in the municipal organization’s actual decision-making were met with agitated responses, as they were interpreted to imply that commercial actors had an unacceptable influence over municipal policy development. Vegard’s account represented a normative ideal-type description of such relations. Nevertheless, his and similar notions point to an important observation regarding the normative status of collaborative relations and how government and governance practices are intertwined in policy processes. While understood as important arenas of coordination and opinion gathering, collaborative arenas were seldom

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understood as arenas of decision-making in municipal policy processes, as the actual decision-making remained in the realm of government. Despite the intertwinement between formal and informal processes, decision-making remains the essential political act, with the municipal council (or its formally delegated authority) as the proper forum. This observation poses important questions to the assumption made in large parts of the network governance literature that suggest that governance, and particularly the involvement of private interests in policy development, has undergone a normative change toward increasingly being viewed among practitioners as a normative ideal and a legitimate way to govern (e.g., Torfing et al. 2012, Røiseland and Vabo 2012). While my observation does not in any way falsify this assumption in other contexts, I argue that the notion of a possible normative change toward increasingly involving private actors in policy processes should not be confused with legitimizing non-governmental hands in policy decisions. Rather, my observation suggests that government’s continued monopoly in actual decision-making is vital to legitimize the involvement of private interests in processes leading up to such decisions. In a similar vein, the notion of a democratic deficit (i.e., a lack of government) in intermunicipal cooperation that many of my informants expressed also testifies to a similar normative emphasis that decision-making authority should remain in government hands. While politicians and administrators saw that such authority was often removed from the hierarchical command chain when they engaged in such collaborative efforts, this was normatively viewed as an unwanted and often unintended trade-off (for example, as in the case of the intermunicipal fire department), rather than as the introduction of a new more effective and legitimate way to govern. However, more than just providing objective inputs to political decisions, pragmatic policy alliances in practice also strategically attempt to influence such decisions. As discussed, networked resources, such as external funding and expert opinions, often provided crucial political capital in policy struggles within the hierarchical command chain of government. Gaining access to such resources when pursuing policy goals often entailed what some informants described with the metaphor “applying rules like rubber bands.” In essence, such practices entailed selecting, stretching and redefining existing organizational decisions and policy goals to bring them into alignment with the individual policy goals of pragmatic policy alliances. As mediators between organizations, the proponents of the sporting arena worked to influence political decisions within the municipal organization by simultaneously influencing decisions in other organizations. For example, by recruiting allies within the county authorities, they were able to stretch the county-administered TID funding scheme to fit the project. This “fitting,” however, also entailed partially redefining the sporting arena project itself into a trade and industry project, requiring further alignment with the municipality’s actors in trade and industry. Erik’s comparison of the process for

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securing TID funding with his own efforts to fit the guidelines of a municipalityadministered funding scheme to suit a particular project on a prior matter is telling in terms of how actors in the municipal organization perceived their role as mediators between organizations. Through such meditation and negotiation, incentives and guidelines could be partly detached from their intended political agendas and aligned with alternative agendas and, ultimately, become sources of autonomy rather than of control and unwanted influence. As discussed by both Erik and Raymond, such accommodation between political agendas required a more active approach than moving through formal procedures, such as the failed first attempt at applying for TID funding using administrative procedures. In the case of TID funding, it required working through both political and administrative means and recruiting actors from the county authorities (and their resources) into the pragmatic policy alliance to work for the sporting arena project. The TID funding was eventually secured by simultaneously applying (for a second time) through formal procedures and informally working with political and administrative actors to fit the project into the formal guidelines, thus providing a vital piece of the puzzle that eventually turned their own municipal council in favor of the project. The notion that relations crossing the borders of the municipal organization can potentially be utilized as pragmatic policy alliances in internal policy struggles is, I believe, important for an understanding of how relations between the municipal organization and other levels of governing were perceived. While my informants expressed a notion of a long-term development characterized by increasing control by the state – frequently labeled “the central authorities” – through earmarked grants and detailed legislation, the concrete relations with state and county actors were described in very different terms. As Chapter 6 discussed, such relations were more often described in more personalized terms, as relations that enabled rather than limited the scope of municipal entrepreneurship. I argue that this is telling as to how pragmatic policy alliances vested in egalitarian trust and the personalized relations of the village extend into the arenas of relations between the state and the municipalities. My informants’ notions of formal structures confirmed the notion of them developing into “state servants”; however, the notion that steering from a complex and often contradictory system of state agendas could also be strategically selected, negotiated and transformed through pragmatic policy alliances also allowed the state to be perceived as a tool for municipal entrepreneurship. In other words, the meetings between the decentered state and the decentered municipality reveal a complex picture where individualized relations produce a potential leeway for municipal autonomy. My observation therefore suggests that more than modifying the hierarchical logic within the municipal organization, the tradition of cross-cutting political alignments also modifies the hierarchical logic of relationships between the state and the municipalities.

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Relations in municipal policy development

Besides the objection to state-centric views, another widely shared commitment among the different strains of network governance theory is an attention to both the formal and informal linkages tying actors together during policy processes (see e.g. Rhodes 2017b:37–56, Torfing et al. 2012). The idea of society as an integrated system brings the governance perspective very much into line with fundamental ideas in anthropology. Because of its origins in the study of political phenomena almost incidentally to other interests, early political anthropology was famously criticized by the political scientist David Easton: One of the major consequences of the relegating of political data to accessory status has been that ambiguity, not to say confusion, continues to obscure the analytic distinction between political and other forms of social behavior. And this has meant in turn that in spite of the increasing volume of research touching on primitive political life, we are left with no reliable test to tell us what is to be included in or excluded from that set of political relationships we call a political system. (Easton 1959:212–213)

From its origin in studying the political in societies where politics could hardly be analytically isolated from other systems (e.g., kinship, religion, associations, etc.), political anthropology has since made these blurred distinctions its very strengths when applied by demonstrating the importance of informal organizations and relations also in modern governments (see Lewellen 1992). In this way, political anthropology has also contributed to blurring the dichotomy between the traditional and the modern by demonstrating how the real world is characterized by a mixture of the practices represented through such concepts (e.g., Bailey 1969). My early notion of cross-cutting pragmatic policy alliances as characteristic of the cases of municipal policy development that I investigated led to an early emphasis on exploring the meaning of informal relationships. Admittedly, in the early stages of fieldwork, I may have had some expectations of finding an underlying system of more permanent alignments based on conspiring interests and personal loyalties informing the execution of formal political processes. Instead, what gradually emerged was a more complex system of temporary alliances based on a multitude of different roles and relations that often seemed to blur the distinction between the formal and the informal. In the following paragraphs, I will summarize some of my final thoughts and reflections on the nature of the social relations that I encountered during fieldwork. As previously discussed, the concept of proto-bureaucratic social forms (Vike 2013) is important for an understanding of the conditions that enable the universalistic logic of the state and the personalized relations of the village to become embedded in the social practices described in the previous chapters. Through the early tradition of dividing political participation into multiple associations, formalized relations gained great significance at a relatively early

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stage in the local communities of the Nordic countries (Vike 2015). Later, this locally derived tradition would also inform the intertwinement between the state and civil society that characterizes the Nordic welfare state (Vike 2018). On a local level, more than facilitating wide participation and commitment to local government (Park 1998) and a system of “governing by committee” (Barnes 1954), the tradition of dividing political interests into various associations created a complex pattern of cross-cutting conflicts and temporary political alignments. While providing stability, dividing political participation into various cross-cutting alignments also has the effect of limiting personal dependencies by providing an easy exit from former commitments and allowing the strategic choice of alternative alignments (Barnes 1954, Vike 2013). The latter point is important for explaining why personalized relations in municipal policy development seldom develop into personalized dependencies and clientelism. While personalized relations of the village and formal relations of the state are embedded in social practices, the tension between the two secures the possibility of withdrawing from commitments based on either of the two. The possibility of “switching hats” between formal roles serves important functions, as it allows detachment from ties, commitments and power discrepancies from other social contexts involving the same persons. More than confining personnel within roles, the normative emphasis on differentiating roles must also be understood as a way to organize personal autonomy. While normative rules prescribe certain roles and alignments in certain situations, the cases of policy development in this book display how pragmatic policy alliances can also choose alternative alignments based on strategic and pragmatic needs. Meanwhile, the relative transparency of the cross-cutting alignments allows a social control that intertwines both formal and informal ties and actions in an effort to ensure that municipal policy development remains disinterested and focused on the community’s common good. Rather than being lasting reciprocal relations under the constant threat of becoming asymmetrical, relations in pragmatic policy alliances are characterized by the possibility of withdrawing from commitments while still maintaining social cohesion and relations with the same persons in other arenas. Relations in pragmatic policy alliances must thus be understood primarily as temporary alliances, informing and intertwining the enactment of government and governance in municipal policy development.

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Index

administrative entrepreneurship 6, 124–129, 135, 175–176 Bailey, F. G. 3, 6, 8, 12, 25–27, 92–93, 121, 122, 174, 177 Barnes, J. A. 22, 52–56, 171–172, 179 bureaucratic individualism 61, 64, 168, 178 bureaucratic organizations 1–2, 29, 33, 92 cheating 3, 12, 26, 176 command chain 3, 22, 27, 105, 107, 130, 133–135, 139, 164, 170–172, 174, 179–180 concept-metaphors 12, 28, 170 conformity 5–6, 60, 62, 157, 159, 178 county authorities 41, 44, 70, 78, 108, 136, 145–149, 181–182 county governor 90–91, 108, 118, 120 cross-cutting cleavages 63–64, 168, 179 Davies, J. S. 11–12, 16–17, 19, 173 decentered approach 13–14, 21 DHP see district heating plant district heating plant 127, 165–166, 175 egalitarian 2, 5, 17, 52, 55–58, 62, 64, 177–178, 180 individualism 5, 39, 60, 178 logic 58, 60 executive board 40–41 factual assessment 97–99, 102, 117, 130, 132, 134–135, 159, 175, 180 first wave of governance theory 17, 20 Formannskapet see executive board Formannskaps Acts 40, 61 gossip 57–58, 104, 128, 152–154, 176, 178 grendepolitikk 79–80, 102, 153–154

Health Service Center 84–88, 125, 128–130, 173, 175–177 hierarchical logic 2, 58, 182 hourglass 94–95, 105, 107, 130–131, 133–134, 172, 177 HSC see Health Service Center institutional logics 3, 11–12, 23, 27, 56, 58, 170, 173–174 interdisciplinary research 23 intermunicipal collaborations 31, 116–117, 140–144, 173 legitimacy 2–3, 6, 12, 16, 23, 27–28, 56–58, 120–121, 129, 136, 154–158, 168, 173–174, 177, 179–180 logic of the state 57–58, 156, 174, 177–178, 183 logic of the village 57–58, 156, 177–178 metagovernance 17–20, 22, 24, 173–174 morals of membership 62, 178 multi-sited 3, 29–31 municipal council 41, 46, 54–55, 72, 81–84, 90–92, 94–97, 128, 132–133, 141, 144, 164–166, 181 municipal entrepreneurship 3, 6, 67, 124–125, 168, 173, 175, 182 network governance 3, 5, 13–16, 18, 19, 21, 24, 31, 49–51, 71 literature 5, 10–13, 28, 34, 171 theory 2–3, 12, 14–15, 37, 171, 183 normative rules 3, 6, 26, 64, 88–89, 92–93, 98, 103–106, 108–110, 115–116, 119, 121, 128, 156, 167–168, 174, 176–177, 179, 184 Norwegian municipalities 1, 42–43, 45, 48, 51, 67

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194 Index Park, G. 8, 22, 51–52, 56, 171–172 personal autonomy 62, 168, 184 personal dependencies 2, 62, 284 planting 129–132, 134, 156, 175–176 political anthropology 3, 22–23, 25, 28, 63, 183 political culture 5–6, 22, 28, 39, 51–52, 56, 58, 64, 155 pragmatic policy alliances 6, 88, 121, 122, 133, 164, 173, 176, 179–184 pragmatic rules 3, 6, 12, 25–27, 89, 92–93, 106, 122, 174, 176–177 pragmatism 6, 58, 152, 176–177, 180 process running a process 88, 134, 174 regional council 113–115, 141 representing 64, 94, 112–114, 116, 121, 139, 151, 166–167 Rhodes, R. A. W. 14–15, 173 and Bevir, M. 20–21 rubber bands 149, 167, 181

second wave of governance theory 17, 19, 20, 24 social control 3, 57, 62, 107, 120, 154, 156, 178–180 sporting arena 10, 71–84, 133, 135, 145, 148–149, 154, 156, 173–176, 181–182 tactical path-dependency 175 see also process running a process thick descriptions 21 transformation thesis 11–12, 15–20, 22, 49, 171–172 Vike, H. 2, 60–64, 178–179 Weber, M. 23, 93–94, 97, 100–101, 120, 168