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| Agnes Martin The Book 1959 gouache and ink on paper, mounted on canvas Menil Collection, Houston |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled 1960 drawing Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Agnes Martin The Cry 1962 drawing Seattle Art Museum |
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| Agnes Martin Waters 1962 drawing Seattle Art Museum |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled 1963 drawing Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled 1964 watercolor and ink on paper Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Agnes Martin Not The One 1966 drawing Los Angeles County Museum of Art |
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| Agnes Martin On a Clear Day 1973 arrangement of 30 screenprints Tate Modern, London |
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| Agnes Martin Praise 1976 rubber stamps on paper Princeton University Art Museum |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled 1978 watercolor, ink and graphite on paper National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled #2 1985 acrylic on canvas Seattle Art Museum |
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| Agnes Martin White Flower II 1985 acrylic and graphite on canvas Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, Missouri |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled 1991 lithograph McNay Art Museum, San Antonio, Texas |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled #5 1991 acrylic and graphite on canvas Tate Modern, London |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled 1998 lithograph McNay Art Museum, San Antonio, Texas |
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| Agnes Martin Happy Holiday 1999 acrylic and graphite on canvas Tate Modern, London |
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| Agnes Martin Untitled #22 2002 acrylic and graphite on canvas Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
from The White Series
When I returned, Harry was with me.
He is, I believe, a gentle boy
with a taste for domesticity.
In fact, he has taught himself to cook
despite the pressures of his academic schedule.
We suit each other. Often he sings as he goes about his work.
So my mother sang (or, more likely, so my aunt reported).
I request, often, some particular song to which I am attached,
and he goes about learning it. He is, as I say,
an obliging boy. The hills are alive, he sings,
over and over. And sometimes, in my darker moods,
the Jacques Brel which has haunted me.
The little cat is dead, meaning, I suppose,
one's last hope.
The cat is dead, Harry sings,
he will be pointless without his body.
In Harry's voice, it is deeply soothing.
Sometimes his voice shakes, as with great emotion,
and then for a while the hills are alive overwhelms
the cat is dead.
But we do not, in the main, need to chose between them.
Still, the darker songs inspire him; each verse acquires variations.
The cat is dead: who will press, now,
his heart over my heart to warm me?
The end of hope, I think it means,
and yet in Harry's voice it seems a great door is swinging open –
The snow-covered cat disappears in the high branches;
O what will I see when I follow?
– Louise Glück (2014)