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Anonymous Artist after Francis Hayman The Wrestlers ca. 1750 oil on canvas National Trust, Bradley Manor, Newton Abbot, Devon |
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Battista Franco (il Semolei) Bacchantes with Apollo and Daphne (based on antique carved gem) before 1561 etching and engraving Philadelphia Museum of Art |
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Wilhelm von Gloeden Sicilian Youths ca. 1890 albumen silver print National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
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Oluf Hartmann Joseph wrestling with the Angel 1907 oil on canvas Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen |
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Carl Mager Wrestlers 1933 oil on linen Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Reginald Marsh George Tilyou's Steeplechase 1932 oil and tempera on linen Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Tod Papageorge Central Park 1978 gelatin silver print Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Philip Pearlstein Male and Female Models on Greek Revival Sofa 1976 watercolor and ink on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Reynaldo Rivera Untitled 1992 gelatin silver print Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Wendy Sharpe Study of Models 1993 ink and colored chalks on paper Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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Harry Sternberg Wrestlers #4 1930 etching and aquatint Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Salman Toor Bar Boy 2019 oil on panel Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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John Flaxman (designer) for Wedgwood Dancing Hours ca. 1778 jasperware plaque Victoria & Albert Museum, London |
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Gustav Wertheimer The Siren's Kiss 1882 oil on canvas Indianapolis Museum of Art |
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Claggett Wilson Underground Dressing Station cs. 1919 watercolor on paper Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
Mitosis
No one actually remembers them
as not divided. Whoever says he does –
that person is lying.
No one remembers. And somehow
everyone knows:
they had to be, in the beginning, equally straightforward,
committed to a direct path.
In the end, only the body continued
implacably moving ahead, as it had to,
to stay alive.
But at some point the mind lingered.
It wanted more time by the sea, more time in the fields
gathering wildflowers. It wanted
more nights sleeping in its own bed; it wanted
its own nightlight, its favorite drink.
And more mornings – it was these
possibly most of all. More
of the first light, the penstemon blooming, the alchemilla
still covered with its evening jewels, the night rain
still clinging to it.
And then, more radically, it wanted to go back.
It wished simply to repeat the whole passage,
like the exultant conductor, who feels only that
the violin might have been a little softer, more plangent.
And through all this, the body
continues like the path of an arrow
as it has to, to live.
And if that means to get to the end
(the mind buried like an arrowhead), what choice does it have,
what dream except the dream of the future?
Limitless world! The vistas clear, the clouds risen.
The water azure, the sea plants bending and sighing
among the coral reefs, the sullen mermaids
all suddenly angels, or like angels. And music
rising over the open sea –
Exactly like the dream of the mind.
The same sea, the same shimmering fields.
The plate of fruit, the identical
violin (in the past and the future) but
softer now, finally
sufficiently sad.
– Louise Glück (2001)