Thursday, July 11, 2024

Cossington Smith - Armstrong - Nicholas - Nicholson

Grace Cossington Smith
The Window
1956
oil on board
Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney

Grace Cossington Smith
Interior
ca, 1949-50
drawing (colored pencils)
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Grace Cossington Smith
Landscape at Pentecost
1929
oil on board
Art Gallery of South Australia, Adelaide

Grace Cossington Smith
The Reader
1916
oil on canvas
Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney

Benjamin Armstrong
Embedded
2018
hand-colored linocut
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Benjamin Armstrong
Leichhardt's Arrival
2018
hand-colored linocut
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Benjamin Armstrong
Planning
2018
hand-colored linocut
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Benjamin Armstrong
World's End
2018
hand-colored linocut
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Hilda Rix Nicholas
Italian Sculptress
ca. 1916
drawing
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Hilda Rix Nicholas
Les Fleurs Dédaignées
1925
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Hilda Rix Nicholas
The Mirror: Dorothy Richmond
1924
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

Hilda Rix Nicholas
Une Australienne
1926
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

William Nicholson
Portrait of J.W. Simpson
1892
lithograph
Art Gallery of Greater Victoria, British Columbia

William Nicholson
Portrait of James McNeill Whistler
1898
lithograph
National Gallery of Australia, Canberra

William Nicholson
Roses and Poppies in Silver Jug
1938
oil on canvas
Beaverbrook Art Gallery, Fredericton, New Brunswick

William Nicholson
The Poet at Annecy (Geoffrey Taylor)
1932
oil on canvas
Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney

Voltaire at Ferney 

Almost happy now, he looked at his estate,
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

Far-off in Paris, where his enemies
Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write
"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise. 

Cajoling, scolding, scheming, cleverest of them all,
He'd led the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly
And humble when there was occasion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best,
Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in. 

So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead.
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them. He must go on working. Overhead
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.

– W.H. Auden (1939)