Loving in the post-modern world
Jeff and I once had a long discussion about "post-modern" in which he told me (if I remember correctly) that such a term is strange, if not impossible, because of what the term "modern" means.
But I (probably unsuccessfully) argued that in the art/literature world, there is a era called "modernism" which is a movement in which artists began to think about art for its own sake, to paint colors (single primary ones) so that we might think about colors, to write words so that we might think about words. Art was no longer only the means of telling/showing stories.
So, a "post-modern" era might, on one hand, be the era after the "modern" era. And, it is. But it is also something else. Once artists moved through art for itself, they found themselves asking, why bother anyway? I mean, if we've told all of our stories, and we've highlighted the tools with which we make the art, what is left to tell? What is now called post-modern art/literature is a piece that considers that there is not only one way to look at the world; there may be many ways to experience time, and space, and even a single moment. The post-modern view is splintered, fragmented. It is cubist without a sense that cubism could matter. It is a human being with no sense of assurance that anything exists or matters.
I am a post-modern girl. My point of view is one (or two or three or...) among all of the points of view of all of the people out there.
Yet I laugh sometimes. Sometimes I hit the dashboard of my car when a person cuts me off.
And I love.
I love it when Tyson writes a poem. I love it when I see that I am not alone in my sense of embarrassment about my words or my choices. I love Tyson because he usually doesn't make as many mistakes as he thinks he does.
I love it when Jeff includes quotes from Ani and Fiona and I know them without their citations. I love that I am part of a group of people that have certain knowledge in common. I love Jeff because he jumps into the deep end of the pool without worrying about the tempature.
I love it when Angela posts. I love that a little push from her friends and she's trying to do something that she doesn't really want to do. I love Angela because she listens to the people around her and really does care about what they say.
What I see in people changes moment to moment, day to day. That's the post-modern me. But, I cannot help but think that there is more to us than that. Love is a funny thing in a post-modern world. But it is still love.
But I (probably unsuccessfully) argued that in the art/literature world, there is a era called "modernism" which is a movement in which artists began to think about art for its own sake, to paint colors (single primary ones) so that we might think about colors, to write words so that we might think about words. Art was no longer only the means of telling/showing stories.
So, a "post-modern" era might, on one hand, be the era after the "modern" era. And, it is. But it is also something else. Once artists moved through art for itself, they found themselves asking, why bother anyway? I mean, if we've told all of our stories, and we've highlighted the tools with which we make the art, what is left to tell? What is now called post-modern art/literature is a piece that considers that there is not only one way to look at the world; there may be many ways to experience time, and space, and even a single moment. The post-modern view is splintered, fragmented. It is cubist without a sense that cubism could matter. It is a human being with no sense of assurance that anything exists or matters.
I am a post-modern girl. My point of view is one (or two or three or...) among all of the points of view of all of the people out there.
Yet I laugh sometimes. Sometimes I hit the dashboard of my car when a person cuts me off.
And I love.
I love it when Tyson writes a poem. I love it when I see that I am not alone in my sense of embarrassment about my words or my choices. I love Tyson because he usually doesn't make as many mistakes as he thinks he does.
I love it when Jeff includes quotes from Ani and Fiona and I know them without their citations. I love that I am part of a group of people that have certain knowledge in common. I love Jeff because he jumps into the deep end of the pool without worrying about the tempature.
I love it when Angela posts. I love that a little push from her friends and she's trying to do something that she doesn't really want to do. I love Angela because she listens to the people around her and really does care about what they say.
What I see in people changes moment to moment, day to day. That's the post-modern me. But, I cannot help but think that there is more to us than that. Love is a funny thing in a post-modern world. But it is still love.
posted by perrykat at
3:49 PM
1 Comments:
(To the tune of "I get by with a little help from my friends")
Do I get to be first to say why we love Katherine?
I do remember that discussion, and my objection to the term postmodern (which is now I think about it really more an objection to the appropriation of the term modern to describe any particular era). But as interesting and tempting as it is to deconstruct postmodernism (is that redundant or an oxymoron?), it's much more fulfilling and necessary to get to the point.
What I love so much and take so much strength from, from all of you, is the small everyday acts of bravery -- especially the kind of bravery that it takes to love fiercely those ideas and dreams and people that our modern world often seems determined to convince us to forget.
We don't know if our thoughts make any sense, we don't know if anyone is interested in them, we don't know if we will regret them in the morning. But we know that right now they matter, at least to us.
Maybe somewhere in there is an answer to the postmodern dilemma; small acts of unrequited love for a country, a world, and all the people in it who, like us, we often aren't sure deserve them.
I have a feeling that Mary, MaryEtta & Co. would have something to say about that, that would include the word Grace.
I can't help but think, too, of a certain Lebanese-American who seemed to understand all of this almost 100 years ago:
You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving." The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you. And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
-- September 1923
Thanks, and I love you Katherine, I love you Tyson, I love you Angela.
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