What’s in a Name?
by Rebecca S. Cohen
My
Aaron Karp paint-
ing, a recent wedding present, is named “Chameleon.” It’s a pretty
straightforward title, except that there aren’t any reptiles (hidden or
obvious) on the whole jewel-toned abstract painting. Karp, otherwise known as
my-cousin-Aaron-the-painter, layers a dozen acrylic paintings or more on each
canvas. He masks certain areas with tape, paints, removes the tape, masks other
sections, and so forth. Fragments of color and light are woven together in an
energetic pattern. In this particular work, a backward “c” arcs into a thick,
wiggly, dark-hued cord that barely contains a hot-colored center. But there’s
no chameleon.
The Karp painting my former husband got to keep is called “Aplomb for Pedro.”
The title is a play on words. “Plomb” is for plum, a nod to the color of the
piece, although I used to think it had something to do with aplomb (complete
composure or self-assurance). “Pedro” is Aaron’s friend who doesn’t appear in
this abstract painting any more than the chameleon does in mine. Aaron often
includes loved ones’ names in titles like “Spanish Rain Plane for Jane” (his
wife) and “Gentle Spirit,” which recalls his father who recently passed away.
Most titles reflect the artist as prodigious reader and would-be poet. Almost
all are in English, as he is reluctant to name things in a language he doesn’t
speak well.
We were talking about titles, Aaron and I, when I made my annual happy
birthday call to Albuquerque. I can never resist mining for insight into the
full-time, working artist’s mind. He has been my source for years. When I
inquire about how and what he has named his paintings, he says he has “so many
children [paintings]” he can’t keep them straight anymore. He has different
strategies for each series.
For instance, he was reading Science News about the time the
Schumaker-Levy comet was discovered, and found titles for
paintings-in-progress, “Galileo’s Glue” and “Comet Cluster.” He also reads art
criticism, borrowing colorful phrases employed by my colleagues in the Big Art
World to name paintings: “Poetic Alchemy,” “Playing With a Paradox,”
“Fluttering Recall,” and “Grafted Meanings.”
“Should we be able to look at a painting and its title and see their
relationship?” I ask.
“Sometimes, but not always,” he says.
Austin painter Michael Mogavero agrees with Aaron’s ambiguous response. “I
don’t see how you can not look for a relationship, with a label stuck
next to the painting. For the painter part of me, though, it’s not important. I
do look, but I don’t pay much attention.”
Mogavero also paints abstract canvases, rich with filigree and formal shapes.
He plays with spatial relationships. He is usually halfway through the painting
when titles begin to come to him. As he works, Mogavero jots them down in a
notebook he keeps for that purpose and, when the painting is done, he goes
through the list of titles, choosing the one that feels right. On occasion, a
specific title arrives early and can even direct the moves of the painting. The
words don’t describe the artist’s images literally, but attempt to get at the
spirit of the work. “Epitaph,” the painting that appeared on an invitation to a
show at Lyons-Matrix Gallery, was “emblematic,” says Mogavero. It “seemed like
a life summary.” “Fade to Black” from the same show was a moody, deep-blue
painting on wood. Like twilight, or the end of a screen play, the colors
deepened and darkened until forms became indistinguishable from each other.
Austin watercolorist Malou Flato is best known for painting landscapes, but
she says naming her work can still be a challenge. She remembers an early
painting she called “Blind Goats” at her husband’s suggestion. Although
uncomfortable with the title, she entered it in a Texas Fine Arts Association
competition, the work was accepted, and a reviewer wrote extensively about the
piece, repeating the title — which Flato had come to hate — over and over in
the article. Now, she says, she tries to be more direct and name her paintings
according to the way she herself refers to them in the studio, usually based on
the location where they were painted.
Personally, I’ve always been interested in titles, although I don’t like to
read them before looking at the art. My visual impression of the work itself
determines my appreciation (or lack thereof) for a particular painting or
exhibition. Good paintings don’t really need titles, except as a means of
identifying and cataloguing work. “I name work because it’s too confusing not
to,” Malou Flato says, and Mogavero agrees that it helps in referencing
paintings. As a former art dealer, I can testify that names, particularly
descriptive titles, make artwork easier to manage.
Titles make a particular difference with conceptual art, where the object (if
there is an object) provides little assistance in divining the artist’s intent.
The name of the work provides an important clue for the viewer who may, in
fact, still need the critic as interpreter in order to really “get it.” In that
case, volumes of critical analysis in art journals eventuallly tend to outweigh
the art itself. And then the words, carefully sorted through, can be plowed
back into the closed art system as titles for paintings.
In the old days, artists were more direct. There was Manet’s “Luncheon on the
Grass,” everybody’s “Madonna and Child,” Monet’s “Water Lilies.” It was Marcel
Duchamp (begining in the 1920’s), with his paintings and constructions and
ready-made objects mounted on the wall, who began to use titles that seemed to
be in opposition to his work. Where were his brides in “Bride” and “Bride
Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even”? Michael Mogavero suggests that
conceptual artists ask themselves “How ambiguous can I make the art — how
literal can I make the title?” as they begin to work. Perhaps the gap between
the two provides the energy and meaning (or intentional absence of meaning) in
the work.
The notion of naming things has been on my mind lately because of my recent
marriage, which used to imply an automatic name change. In the Sixties, I
willingly gave up “Schulman,” my maiden name — too many letters, too close to
the end of the alphabet — for “Levy.” Unlike a good friend who insisted — in
a New York Times “Hers” column — that she knew from the minute she said
“I do” that she didn’t really want to give up her name, I had no regrets. I
cast off all vestiges of my first life in favor of another. But that life is
over now, and I’m on to the next one. After some serious consideration, I am
once again ready for a new name.
“Leave your professional name alone,” suggests a friend. “Your husband will
understand.”
He understands. But I am tired of deciding which title I should use in social
situations. “Hello, I’m Rebecca…uh…” Life is complex enough without having
to think who I am before answering the phone. I am just no good at switching
back and forth from one guise to another like a chameleon. My new name,
therefore, is Rebecca S. Cohen. It’s a pretty straightforward decision. n If you haven’t figured out who the mystery girl is yet, art maven Rebecca Levy
has changed her name to Rebecca S. Cohen.
This article appears in December 22 • 1995 and December 22 • 1995 (Cover).