For years a title was just a label to me. Then a gallerist told me, plainly, that I needed to do it properly — and sent me looking at Monet, Cézanne and the Dadaists to understand why.

There was a time I never asked myself this question. It seemed obvious: the title would simply say what was in the painting. A woman sitting on a chair became “Woman Sitting.” A woman lying down became “Woman Lying.” When a series began, it got trickier — I could vary it slightly, “The Woman Who Lies,” “The Woman Who Sits” — and once the series had grown, I would give it one title, “Woman Lying,” and number the paintings after it: from the series “Woman Lying,” 1, 2, 3…

A landscape carried the word “landscape” in its title too, of course, with an adjective added where needed: autumn, spring, magical, green.

This way of titling felt logical, natural. A title was a label, and not a very significant one — in keeping with the belief that a painting speaks for itself, that as a visual medium it doesn’t need words.

Maybe painting is enough

In an earlier piece, I asked whether a visual artist should write about their own work. One artist left a comment I keep thinking about: “I think my painting is my way of writing.” I believe many artists share that view — they focus on painting and don’t trouble themselves with writing. I suspect titling doesn’t take up much of their time either.

My own thinking changed when a gallerist, Maria, told me plainly that I needed to title my paintings well. She proposed new versions — poetic ones, suggesting more than the painting itself, reaching even beyond the thoughts that had accompanied me while I painted.

Maria, on the other side

Maria was standing on the other side — the side of the person receiving the work. She understood what a viewer needs, and she knew that a buyer needs help at the moment of deciding to purchase. Buying a painting isn’t only a transaction. It’s a decision to live with that painting, to keep it close for a long time.

Is the title of any consequence, at the moment that decision is made?

What museums still do

When I walk through museums, I notice that most titles are still built to announce what a painting shows — not unlike my old “women sitting.” With a famous artist, we tend to admire the work and barely register the title at all. Take Claude Monet’s series of Rouen Cathedral — twenty-five paintings, every one titled “Cathédrale de Rouen,” differing only in a descriptive note. Or Mont Sainte-Victoire, the motif Paul Cézanne painted more than eighty times. Could he really have invented eighty different titles?

For both artists, history has shown the title to be a secondary matter.

What the Dadaists understood

It was the Dadaists who found the real potential in titling a work. They saw in it a chance to overturn meaning, to play with the viewer. Above all, they stripped the title of its “titular” role. A work’s name became an autonomous element — it no longer had to announce anything. At most, it could intrigue, or surprise.

Take “L.H.O.O.Q.” — a title that gives you no way to guess it names a portrait of the Mona Lisa with a moustache. Marcel Duchamp, its author, liked to play with the viewer’s imagination through his titles too. His readymade urinal, named “Fountain,” already has its place in art history.

I could go on multiplying examples from the Dadaists’ work.

A contemporary artist — who often has to be the manager of their own art — can see, in this short piece of text, a chance to name a work in keeping with their own intentions, but also to hold something more. A few words, maybe even a single word, can carry the power to invite communication not only on the visual level, but into the artist’s own world of imagination and intent.

If I had to answer the question in this article’s title, I wouldn’t offer a simple recipe. What I want, by asking it, is to draw attention to this small piece of text — and to invite you to notice the role it plays, between an artist and the person standing in front of the work.

When you stand in front of a painting, does its title change what you see — or do you look past it entirely?

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