Recently, in conversation with another artist, it was brought to my attention that I use a Postmodernist aesthetic in my artwork, most notably in my use of text in art, which did not really start to happen until the 1960's. I was, admittedly, taken aback, but I had to agree with the facts. It is sometimes difficult to distinguish between the Modernist and Postmodernist aesthetic. Postmodernism does not believe in originality; instead it champions pastiche and cultural sampling . . . and Postmodernism has actively mined Modernist art for inspiration. Using Post-modern pastiche techniques can make for interesting results, but I stand firm in my belief, the Modernist belief, that originality is possible. In this regard, and in many others, I mostly subscribe to the Modernist philosophy. But I wonder, am I making a mistake?
Often, I am too much of a dinosaur, philosophically, to be accepted by Postmodernists, but too Postmodern in my aesthetic to be accepted by certain Re-modernists. Just like many other aspects of my life, I find myself without a home, left roaming the swamps like a monster on the outskirts of civilization. In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, we learn that Dr. Victor Frankenstein created his monster by merging the rational Enlightenment science of his day with the ancient, more mystical based science of the alchemists Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and others. His creation was deemed to be a monster and he was doomed to live a life of lonely exile, unloved by all. But Dr. Victor Frankenstein's monster (abandoned at birth, he was never given a name) was not born a monster, he was made out to be a monster the society that shunned him. The monster tried hard to be accepted by others, but after repeated rebuttals, ended up embracing his role as a scourge to mankind. I wonder, is this to be the fate of my work? When I attempt to make an artwork combining Modernist philosophy with Postmodern aesthetics, am I producing monsters? Because I love my work, what I do, does this make me a monster, too? Am I doomed to be forever an outcast? While I might revel in the thought of making monstrous artwork that might become a holy terror among the polite circles of the bourgeois and intelligentsia, I do not revel in the lonely existence it has thus far given me.