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| Jim Marshall Grace and Janis 1967 dye transfer print Portland Museum of Art, Maine |
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| Enrico Natali Office Workers 1967 gelatin silver print Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Emilio Sánchez Casa Vivienda 1967 lithograph Fralin Museum of Art, Charlottesville, Virginia |
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| Eduardo Paolozzi Callas Here 1967 screenprint Lowe Art Museum, University of Miami |
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| Ellsworth Kelly Study for White over Blue 1967 acrylic on newsprint Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, California |
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| Leon Golub Untitled 1967 lithograph Wichita Art Museum, Kansas |
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| Asger Jorn Untitled 1967 lithograph NSU Art Museum, Fort Lauderdale, Florida |
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| Anthony Scornavacca Untitled 1967 lithograph NSU Art Museum, Fort Lauderdale, Florida |
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| Henry Moore Torso 1967 bronze Henry Moore Foundation, Perry Green, Hertfordshire |
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| Andy Warhol Marilyn 1967 screenprint Wichita Art Museum, Kansas |
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| Andy Warhol Marilyn 1967 screenprint Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Andy Warhol Marilyn 1967 screenprint Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Mark Rothko Untitled 1967 oil on paper, mounted on canvas Menil Collection, Houston |
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| Wes Wilson Grateful Dead at the Fillmore 1967 lithograph (poster) Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington |
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| Bonnie MacLean Quicksilver Messenger Service at the Fillmore 1967 lithograph (poster) Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington |
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| Alice Neel Charlotte Willard 1967 oil on canvas Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
One Circumlocution
Sometimes we see astonishingly clearly
All its to-do is bound to re-occur,
Is nothing therefore that we need to say;
How then to make its compromise refer
To what could not be otherwise instead
And has its being as its own to be,
The once-for-all that is not seen nor said?
Tell for the power how to thunderclaps
The graves flew open, the rivers ran up-hill;
Such staged importance is at most perhaps.
Speak well of moonlight on a winding stair,
Of light-boned children under great green oaks:
The wonder, yes, but death should not be there.
One circumlocution as used as any
Depends, it seems, upon the joke of rhyme
For the pure joy; else why should so many
Poems which make us cry direct us to
Ourselves at our least apt, least kind, least true,
Where a blank I loves blankly a blank You?
– W.H. Auden (1949)