I went to art school during the waning days of modernism. During the 1980s, new design luminaries like April Greiman and Wolfgang Weingart appeared on the scene. They were espousing the latest movements in graphic design, and all under the auspices of postmodernism. And though unspoken, each of my fellow students sensed a challenge to choose between the rigors of modernism or the dismantlement of postmodernism.
Could art and design really save the world? The modernists thought so, and when I was 20 years old, so did I.
I remember when Wolfgang Weingart visited our school as a guest lecturer. He was on the faculty of the renowned Basel School of Design, which, ironically, had been a long-time bastion of modern design. He presented his work as a continuation of those pioneering ideas, and I remember sitting in the dark, watching each slide click by, completely transfixed.
His work was overwhelming and beautiful, distortions and fragments of typography and form, somehow held together by a structure that was barely there. He introduced me to the concept of deconstruction, the disassembly of form and content toward a whole new way of seeing, and I was mesmerized.
But in the spring of 1984, I chose modernism.
It seems silly now, that back then my classmates and I tended to fall into one clique or another. The talented and stylish Asian guy? Postmodernist. The soft-spoken redheaded girl from the South? Modernist.
Why did I choose modernism? Well, besides the fact that the redheaded girl was really cute, there were at least three reasons:
I was struck by a desire to know the source of an art movement before embracing it. So I wanted to study and learn modernist design theory before I tackled its reactionary counterpart.
I came to see that modernism embraced a spirit of protest but also of utopia, and I was drawn to these ideals. Could art and design really save the world? The modernists thought so, and when I was 20 years old, so did I.
What I still believe is that you should know the rules before you break them. There is some arrogance in that idea, but also a belief that design principles matter, that we should respect the lessons from the past. When we break new ground — and we must — we should do so with purpose. That’s why they call it design.
Postmodernism felt like peeling back the layers to reveal what’s behind the mask, and that made me uncomfortable. Much like the character Neo in The Matrix, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to see what the real world was like. The power of deconstruction to subvert cultural norms was both compelling and frightening.
When I was 20, I was completely risk-averse. But now I see that most growth comes from taking risks, from trying something entirely new. In its day, and with some irony, modernism was just that: the answer to an apathetic and self-satisfied world. And I continue to revel in the idea that design can wake up the slumbering and make a difference in our culture.
Our culture is already a bombardment of ideas and images and information. Why add to the noise? Even in the 1980s, postmodern design shouted for attention and contributed to the chaos of the age, rather than providing order and meaning. Modernism, as taught and experienced, felt like the antidote.
Several years ago, my wife and I took dance lessons. The six-step formula of east coast swing was simple enough, but the music was a cacophony of up-tempo gyrations. Big bands like the Count Basie Orchestra led the way, with full blasts of sound and fury, motivating every muscle, stimulating every sensation.
But recently I was exposed to the music of Miles Davis. Here was a sound I had never heard before, original and fresh, but also simple and sparse. The album was Kind of Blue, and many regard it as the defining jazz album of the 20th century. For me it was clean, restrained and deeply human. And like cool jazz, it was the bracing clarity of modernism that gave me life.
It is now some 25 years since those defining moments in art school, and I think it’s safe to say that we live in a postmodern world. I have lost, and the cool Asian guy has won. Today, modern design is but a style, one of an inexhaustible array of choices to solve a visual problem. But I am not convinced. The world is overwhelming.
Less is indeed more.
Greg Breeding knows your type. And wants to kern it.
