Untitled (Eternity)
(Nameless Art Then Naming Something Anyway)
I recently mentioned I was at the Passport DC events of the embassy open houses. It was so much fun. I was surprised and enlivened to see how many people were rolling around solo and chatting people up, or how pleasant it was to just chat with someone in line. It was a beautiful day.
So, inspired by this, I decided I would go to a street fair and see if I could meet people and also be cool and fun. It was the Fiesta Asia event this weekend (I don’t understand the use of Fiesta here, but that’s different).
I walked round the stages, saw some dances and performances, and figured out what the massive lines were for: food. The main event was food; specifically, the main event was waiting in line for the food. So I participated. I stopped there for an hour with the others, and I eventually got to the front of the line. Unlike the hour it took to get the food, I wolfed that bbq down real quick in the shade.
It became clear this was the end of the event for me. I did not strike up conversations like I wanted but that’s ok. However, I was close to one of my favorite places again. Before heading home, I dropped by the NGA.
(I’ve been walking slower recently. I want the slowness. I need more of it. I need more of the tenderness into the world that slow-moving invites to me. I adore it.)
I drifted to the mezzanine and found myself pulled to a piece. It was this one:
CY TWOMBLY, American, 1928-2011
If nothing else, every art work is a beginning. It is the beginning to a unique trend of thought. Embracing the image of it, I let it conjure up questions and remarks in my mind. How should I understand this thing? What is the relevance of these numbers? Is 2014 a year? When did the artist die? I noted the card on the wall: this piece was named: Untitled (Bolsena). And immediately, I thought: “OH, COM’ON.”
One of the strangest things of art is leaving things unnamed. And then naming it. In parenthesis.
It reminded me of a TikTok I once saw about contemporary art. I sometimes leave funny comments, and this one still gets likes, so the video resurfaces for me.
You should watch it. (For those of you without accounts my comment was “IT’S CALLED UNTITLED 4” with 4k+ likes, so decently funny) Not only is my comment funny, but this whole moment brings something to mind: what even is art right now? That post is a great joke about how utterly bizarre contemporary art is. How are we supposed to experience this? And how are they getting away with just “putting something out there” and still not even naming it?
Back at the NGA, I was still taken aback by this work on the wall. It was holding; it kept me. I stayed to stare. The parenthesis is the point that locked me in. My sense of language tells me that it is the parenthetical that really wants to be said. It is the thing finally able to be expressed after the “business” of the official preamble is over with.
Naming
Clearly, this piece is titled. So why not just say it?
Are there times when I also cannot describe what I’m experiencing? It seemed understandable that there might not always be a way to name things. There is already a struggle to think of the right word for a thing or to truly name something. I can relate. There exist these moments, something so fragile that even a name would break it. It's the thinnest difference between the thing itself and its synecdoche.
If I were going to make a nameless piece of art it might be this:
I hold in me a far away memory. Thinking of it, I still have the impression of the small of rain and quiet-light sky.
I don’t really member how this moment arrived. I do know that I was little. I was a boy, and I was with my dad. We were in the middle of Utah, and a storm was arriving. We sped through the long plains of Utah, the clouds darkening quickly and deeply. The rain was over there. It was visible in its fall farther down the valley. When the rain hit our windshield, it was sudden. Heavy. It seemed that our little car was only surviving for the speed we held moving though this storm. Then I saw it; the lightning ripped through the sky and threw its arm to the ground. It separated from the earth and then struck thrice more. I remember the rush of feeling small, of feeling scared, feeling safe with my dad, and feeling still and pulled to the window for the next strike.
This moment is nameless (eternity). It is too deep to fully recall, but it is too potent to forget. It feels important, and I cannot yet fully understand what it means in my life. It is beyond the taste of words.
As frustrating as it is, as confusing as it is, it is appropriate to not name things sometimes. Some things are best preserved in namelessness.
More soon,
Trevor
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