Mark Kimber Mother in Backyard 1980 C-print Art Gallery of South Australia, Adelaide |
Mark Kimber Night Falls #1 2002 Polaroid National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
Mark Kimber Trevor's Flowers 1981 C-print Art Gallery of South Australia, Adelaide |
Mark Kimber Watertower, Airport 1980 C-print Art Gallery of South Australia, Adelaide |
Franz Kline Cupola ca. 1958-60 oil on canvas Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto |
Franz Kline The Ballantine 1958-60 oil on canvas Los Angeles County Museum of Art |
Franz Kline Untitled 1950 acrylic paint on newsprint National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
Franz Kline Untitled ca. 1961 oil on cardboard Huntington Museum of Art, Huntington, West Virginia |
Kusakabe Kimbei Chino-Taki, Asamayama ca. 1870-75 hand-colored albumen silver print National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
Kusakabe Kimbei Dressing: The Obi ca. 1870 hand-colored albumen silver print National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
Kusakabe Kimbei Models posing with Photograph (advertising image for Kimbei Studio) ca. 1885 hand-colored albumen silver print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
Kusakabe Kimbei The Toilette ca. 1870-75 hand-colored albumen silver print National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
Stephen Killick Wildlife Strategies 1980 etching National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
Stephen Killick Walking in the Wind 1978 etching National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
Stephen Killick Fish eating Rice 1978 etching and aquatint National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
Stephen Killick One of Two Drawings of a Similar Ilk 1987 felt pen and oil stick on paper National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
Another Time
For us like any other fugitive,
Like the numberless flowers that cannot number
And all the beasts that need not remember,
It is to-day in which we live.
So many try to say Not Now,
So many have forgotten how
To say I Am, and would be
Lost, if they could, in history.
Bowing, for instance, with such old-world grace
To a proper flag in a proper place,
Muttering like ancients as they stump upstairs
Of Mine and His or Ours and Theirs.
Just as if time were what they used to will
When it was gifted with possession still,
Just as if they were wrong
In no more wishing to belong.
No wonder then so many die of grief,
So many are so lonely as they die;
No one has yet believed or liked a lie:
Another time has other lives to live.
– W.H. Auden (1939)