Untitled

Before you lies a fence of glass doors that extend for half a block. Each one has a neat hand-lettered sign that reads "Please use other door." When you finally find an unlocked door you are convinced that Rubic was one of the consulting architects. Your ordeal is hardly over for now you face a crystal sentinel upon a velvet pedestal awaiting your tribute. Above this container is another meticulously lettered sign:

To your left an axe-nosed receptionist is perched like a vulture behind the five-foot tall desk. You feel her Nazi eyes cut your back into strips of bacon as you reach into your pocket. You rattle the change impressively then swiftly pour the mass down the mouth of the box before her rat eyes can sum their value. The silver and copper shower (mostly copper) ends with a metallic giggle and you quickly shuffle offstage right.

Your safari begins with an encounter of the third kind: Frida and Electric Symposiums with Elementary Soup Roads. The storm of oil colors reminds you of a childhood tragedy that involved the family dog and a large truck. The next work is a result of a magazine-food processor conflict: a collage dubbed Untitled.

You continue your odyssey, meeting representations of familiar objects, familiar objects in unfamiliar ways, and unfamiliar objects in totally unfamiliar ways! Still, some of these non-objective works seem to please you despite their alien qualities.

One nagging thought taps your shoulder: "Why are so many pieces labeled Untitled?" A search of your mental banks fails to reveal a symphony, novel, ballet, or play that bears the name Untitled. Perhaps this graphic arts plague is caused by laziness. Picking a title is hard work — it's easier to be obscure. Maybe those works of art are aimless endeavors that hide behind a pretentious Untitled. This would explain the foggy comments of artists and art critics.

Titled works can be just as deceptive. The title Banana Pudding Under London Rain Beyond Brittle Ants Humming Dixie does little to aid your understanding of a field of flat green with a yellow triangle sneaking in from the right margin. How can you determine if this is a title contrived to keep a worthless piece of work in world acclaim?

If a spectator asks for clarification the artist barricades his disaster with phrases like "It's up to the viewer to draw out their own interpretation." Or "Those who don't understand my work are uncultured hicks." When you do get an explanation they are often wordy palaces of syntax shrouded in vague and polysyllabic terms of misty definition.

A craftsman knows that, regardless of the art form, the thesis comes before the title. The title is like the lightning rod that tops off the main building. If you don't have a ground for your lightning rod (the thesis), then you have a worthless piece of metal attracting destruction. The thesis doesn't have to be complex or dynamic. It only needs to have enough strength to motivate the artist through the tedious task of mechanical execution of the idea. The thesis gives you a reason to create and gives you the right to call your work inspired art.

A sudden inspiration strikes you and you switch all the nameplates. A gastric petition interrupts your work and you speed home for lunch. No one ever corrects the arrangement and so you decide to grind out an essay on your moving experience. With a flourish you crown it Untitled.