Judgement is a monster more frightening than Frankenstein
A brief history of artist pseudonyms, the scandals they were hiding from and how creatives aren't safe from ridicule
Somewhere on the internet there’s a clip giving credit to Edgar Allan Poe for writing the first piece of science fiction–a genre that had not entirely existed before the 19th century. Poe was not, however, the first science fiction author. Perhaps he was for his gender, but not of the genre. That title belongs to Mary Shelley for her masterpiece: Frankenstein.
Shelley, only 19-years-old when she wrote the story, didn’t get credit for the novel until 1921–three years after it was first published. The novel was marketed as written by an ‘anonymous’ author. Shocked, I’m sure, to hear that this horror novel was written by a young woman, people accused Shelley of stealing the novel from her husband, writer Percy Shelley, and claiming it as her own. There is still debate around what drove Shelley to create Frankenstein–childhood trauma, the haunting death of her own baby, no one is absolutely sure. But beyond the bewilderment that she was the writer of this great monster, there was a scandal attached to the Shelley name.
It’s no secret now, but Mary Shelley and Percy Shelley had an affair. She was 16, he was 21 and married with a child. Neither seemed to care as they went about their romance, consummating their love on her mother’s grave. Or so the story goes. All of this happened before she penned Frankenstein to life. As she brought Frankenstein into the world, she also gave birth to two babies. It’s said she left her name off the novel so her children–three of the four she gave birth to by 1923 would be buried–wouldn’t be taken away from her. A woman capable of writing such horrors was not of sound mind to raise children.
Shelley was certainly not the first, nor would she be the last woman to omit her name from her artistic work. Some of literature’s greatest writers didn’t initially, and in some cases would never, attach their given female names to their work. Louisa May Alcott, now well known for Little Women, originally published more fiery novels under the name A M Barnard. It wasn’t until Alcott died that the identity of A M Barnard was revealed. All three Bronte sisters–now famously known for classics like Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre–used pseudonyms for their first publications. Charlotte Bronte is quoted in biographical notes explaining the decision: “We did not like to declare ourselves women, because we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice.”
She’s not wrong. Women are, and always have been (as far as the records show), judged for their work because they are women. There are cases where female authors use pen names to hide their gender, other times because they don’t want everyone to know their baggage. There are modern authors who use pseudonyms to seal away their identity for gender and political reasons. The memoir Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H., a queer, Muslim writer, is an example of an author using a pseudonym to protect themselves from cultural and religious backlash. Their author photo is a deliberate declaration of anonymity–facing away from the camera, only a sliver of their cheek is shown of their face beyond their hijab. The rest of the photo is shoulders and back.
There are roughly 200 years between Shelley, Alcott, the Bronte sisters and modern writers like Lamya. Yet all of these authors wanted to keep their privacy. They didn’t–and don’t–want their life choices added to their literary work as if it’s meant to be another element of the story for the reader to consider.
A name for accountability or death threat addressee?
We are now witness to the repercussions of having names on everything we do. Journalists receive death threats, are stalked and harassed. Influencers and high school students are bullied online for no reason but showing their faces.
It’s akin to running for office. In Parks & Recreation, Leslie is forced to end her secret relationship with Ben when she decides to run for city council. Ben is her boss. They both work in city government. It wouldn’t look good. He would be accused of playing favourites. She would be accused of being a tramp, trying to sleep her way to a promotion, be played political favourite–the list is endless.
Politics is its own game, though. Or so it used to be. But smear campaigns plastered around town in an effort to make an opponent look bad isn’t far off from the speculative nature of tabloids, a medium that has bled off market shelves and onto our phones. I cannot open a social app without seeing new photos of what the month’s hottest celebrity couples are doing. It matters more, it seems, what’s happening in their relationships than in the movies or songs or books these artists are creating.
Here for the art or the drama?
An artist releases a new album and it’s immediately scoured for clues as to who it’s written about. We attach value to a piece of art if we can also label it with an element of the artist’s personal life. It’s as if we care less about how the art makes us feel, how we interpret it for ourselves and give it meaning in relation to our personal experiences. What matters now is whether we were right about which Taylor Swift song is about Joe Alwyn, Travis Kelce or Matty Healy.
Attaching elements of an artist’s personal life to their art does nothing but take away from its original meaning. We strip ourselves of the opportunity to experience its innate beauty. Part of that is accepting it for what it is. We are so desperate to throw a meaning onto it that we bury all meaning it came with. And in doing so, we blind ourselves from seeing the gift the artist is giving us. A piece of themselves.
Art is reflective of the artist’s experiences. There is no denying that. There is no way around it. That is part of the experience and what makes artistic work so beautiful. But as the audience, the reader, the listener, we don’t need a front row seat to the show that brought this work to life. Knowing that, too, can taint our interpretation, take away the power of what it means to us.
You know when you hear a song for the first time and it feels like you are completely understood? That what the singer is belting out is what you weren’t able to put into words for yourself. The song gets you through a breakup, a hard move, and acts as a friend when you’re grieving. Years later, you hear an interview with the artist. They tell the story of that song and how it came to be. Their story can’t be true, you think. It’s on another wavelength from what it means to you. And you will never hear the song the same again. Now, it is ruined.
Art isn’t complicated. We complicate it.
Art is subjective, yes. It can be tainted or adorned by our perceptions and interpretations. I can’t say whether it’s better to use a pseudonym or not. But I can say this: Please be aware of the weight of your judgements and don’t let them be so heavy that they bury the artist rendering them incapable of creating ever again.