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| Rupert Bunny Nocturne ca. 1908 oil on canvas National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Rupert Bunny Returning from the Garden ca. 1906 oil on board Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Rupert Bunny In the Luxembourg Gardens ca. 1909 oil on canvas Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Rupert Bunny Saltimbanques ca. 1926-30 oil on canvas Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Edgar Degas Actress in Dressing Room ca. 1875-80 oil on canvas Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, California |
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| Edgar Degas Study after a Florentine Renaissance drawing formerly attributed to Leonardo ca. 1858-59 oil on canvas National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
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| Edgar Degas Portrait of dancer Joséphine Gaujelin 1867 oil on canvas Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston |
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| Edgar Degas Pauline et Virginie Cardinal bavardant avec des Admirateurs ca. 1876-77 monotype National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Käthe Kollwitz Help Russia 1921 lithograph (poster) National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Käthe Kollwitz Mary and Elizabeth 1929 woodcut Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto |
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| Käthe Kollwitz Self Portrait 1934 lithograph National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
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| Käthe Kollwitz The Last Act 1925 woodcut National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Janet Burchill and Jennifer McCamley #5 (series, Freiland) 1992 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Janet Burchill and Jennifer McCamley #6 (series, Freiland) 1992 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Janet Burchill and Jennifer McCamley #11 (series, Freiland) 1992 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Janet Burchill and Jennifer McCamley #18 (series, Freiland) 1992 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
At the Grave of Henry James
The snow, less intransigeant than their marble,
Has left the defence of whiteness to these tombs,
And all the pools at my feet
Accommodate blue now, echo such clouds as occur
To the sky, and whatever bird or mourner the passing
Moment remarks they repeat.
Has left the defence of whiteness to these tombs,
And all the pools at my feet
Accommodate blue now, echo such clouds as occur
To the sky, and whatever bird or mourner the passing
Moment remarks they repeat.
While rocks, named after singular spaces
Within which images wandered once that caused
All to tremble and offend,
Stand here in an innocent stillness, each marking the spot
Where one more series of errors lost its uniqueness
Within which images wandered once that caused
All to tremble and offend,
Stand here in an innocent stillness, each marking the spot
Where one more series of errors lost its uniqueness
And novelty came to an end.
To whose real advantage were such transactions,
When worlds of reflection were exchanged for trees?
What living occasion can
Be just to the absent? Noon but reflects on itself,
When worlds of reflection were exchanged for trees?
What living occasion can
Be just to the absent? Noon but reflects on itself,
And the small taciturn stone, that is the only witness
To a great and talkative man,
To a great and talkative man,
Has no more judgement than my ignorant shadow
Of odious comparisons or distant clocks
Which challenge and interfere
With the heart's instantaneous reading of time, time that is
A warm enigma no longer to you for whom I
Of odious comparisons or distant clocks
Which challenge and interfere
With the heart's instantaneous reading of time, time that is
A warm enigma no longer to you for whom I
Surrender my private cheer,
As I stand awake on our solar fabric,
That primary machine, the earth, which gendarmes, banks
And aspirin pre-suppose,
On which the clumsy and sad may all sit down, and any who will
Say their a-ha to the beautiful, the common locus
Of the Master and the rose,
Shall I not especially bless you as, vexed with
My little inferior questions, I stand
Above the bed where you rest,
Who opened such passionate arms to your Bon when It ran
Towards you with Its overwhelming reasons pleading
That primary machine, the earth, which gendarmes, banks
And aspirin pre-suppose,
On which the clumsy and sad may all sit down, and any who will
Say their a-ha to the beautiful, the common locus
Of the Master and the rose,
Shall I not especially bless you as, vexed with
My little inferior questions, I stand
Above the bed where you rest,
Who opened such passionate arms to your Bon when It ran
Towards you with Its overwhelming reasons pleading
All beautifully in Its breast?
With what an innocence your hand submitted
To those formal rules that help a child to play,
While your heart, fastidious as
A delicate nun, remained true to the rare noblesse
With what an innocence your hand submitted
To those formal rules that help a child to play,
While your heart, fastidious as
A delicate nun, remained true to the rare noblesse
Of your lucid gift and, for its love, ignored the
Resentful muttering Mass,
Whose ruminant hatred of all that cannot
Whose ruminant hatred of all that cannot
Be simplified or stolen is yet at large:
No death can assuage its lust
To vilify the landscape of Distinction and see
The heart of the Personal brought to a systolic standstill,
The Tall to diminished dust.
No death can assuage its lust
To vilify the landscape of Distinction and see
The heart of the Personal brought to a systolic standstill,
The Tall to diminished dust.
Preserve me, Master, from its vague incitement;
Yours be the disciplinary image that holds
Me back from agreeable wrong
And the clutch of eddying Muddle, lest Proportion shed
The alpine chill of her shrugging editorial shoulder
Me back from agreeable wrong
And the clutch of eddying Muddle, lest Proportion shed
The alpine chill of her shrugging editorial shoulder
On my loose impromptu song.
All will be judged. Master of nuance and scruple,
Pray for me and for all writers, living or dead:
Because there are many whose works
Are in better taste than their lives, because there is no end
To the vanity of our calling, make intercession
All will be judged. Master of nuance and scruple,
Pray for me and for all writers, living or dead:
Because there are many whose works
Are in better taste than their lives, because there is no end
To the vanity of our calling, make intercession
For the treason of all clerks.
– W.H. Auden (1941)