Rabbit with its head ripped off

I'm reading that massive biography of Georgia O'Keeffe, A Life, by Roxana Robinson. Can you tell?
And I'm thinking that I've been born into the wrong generation, way way too late. The ideas that preoccupy me, the quest for something more substantial in my world, the desire to simplify and let go of materialism, the need to find a place in the world not separate from all other existence, the insistence on spirit and meaning in art ... I find that it all was defined by, oh, about 1912 (Kandinsky, Dow etc.).
Have I never had an original idea? Have I never made work that hasn't been made before? Bah.
I am just another artist seeking meaning and balance in the physical world by looking inward. We need it now as they needed it in 1912. Georgia worked hard, says Robinson, to finally find her own way, her own voice in response.
Where is my way? Where is yours?