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| Jacopo Tintoretto Self Portrait ca. 1546-48 oil on canvas Philadelphia Museum of Art |
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| Alfonso Ruspagiari Self Portrait ca. 1560 lead medallion National Gallery of Art, Washington DC |
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| Bernard Lens after Peter Paul Rubens Self Portrait with his wife Helena Fourment and their son Frans 1721 watercolor miniature on vellum Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York |
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| Pierre Subleyras Head of an Apostle (Youthful Self Portrait) ca. 1730 oil on canvas Philadelphia Museum of Art |
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| Anton Graff Youthful Self Portrait 1765 oil on canvas Gemäldegalerie, Dresden |
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| Camille Pissarro Self Portrait ca. 1857-58 oil on canvas Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen |
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| Francisco Domingo Marqués Self Portrait 1865 oil on panel Museo del Prado, Madrid |
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| Antonio Mancini Self Portrait ca. 1883 pastel and gouache Philadelphia Museum of Art |
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| Theodor Kittelsen Self Portrait 1891 oil on canvas National Gallery of Norway, Oslo |
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| Wilhelmus Johannes Steenhoff Self Portrait ca. 1905 drawing Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam |
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| Lovis Corinth Self Portrait 1916 drypoint National Gallery of Art, Washington DC |
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| Abbott Handerson Thayer Self Portrait 1919 oil on panel National Gallery of Art, Washington DC |
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| Edvard Munch Self Portrait with the Spanish Flu 1919 oil on canvas National Gallery of Norway, Oslo |
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| Oskar Schlemmer Dancer (Self Portrait) 1923 oil paint and lacquer on canvas Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart |
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| Kurt Trampedach Self Portrait Walking 1970 oil on canvas Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen |
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| Angus Fairhurst Pietà (Self Portrait) 1996 C-print Tate Gallery |
from Grief
When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla
you must count yourself lucky.
You must offer her what's left
of your dinner, the book you were trying to finish
you must put aside
and make her a place to sit at the foot of your bed,
her eyes moving from the clock
to the television and back again.
I am not afraid. She has been here before
and now I can recognize her gait
as she approaches the house.
Some nights, when I know she's coming,
I unlock the door, lie down on my back,
and count her steps
from the street to the porch.
Tonight she brings a pencil and a ream of paper,
tells me to write down
everyone I have ever known,
and we separate them between the living and the dead
so she can pick each name at random.
– Matthew Dickman (2008)