Thursday, October 15, 2026

Slice

Samuel Cotes
Miniature Portrait of a Lady
1766
watercolor on ivory
Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

Cornelis Cort
The Spinario
(antique bronze preserved in Rome)
ca. 1575
engraving
Herzog August Bibliothek, Wulfenbüttel

Peter Cornelius
Place de La Bastille, Paris
ca. 1957
C-print
Museum Folkwang, Essen

Lovis Corinth
Self Portrait with Model
(model is the artist's wife, Charlotte Berend)
1903
oil on canvas
Kunsthaus Zürich

Cornelis van Haarlem
St Sebastian
ca. 1591
oil on canvas
Liechtenstein Museum, Vienna

Pietro da Cortona (Pietro Berrettini)
Punishment of Hercules
before 1669
oil on canvas
Liechtenstein Museum, Vienna

Lorenzo Costa the Elder
Portrait of a Lady
ca. 1485-95
oil on panel
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

Gustave Courbet
Blossoming Branches
1855
oil on canvas
Hamburger Kunsthalle

Francesco del Cossa
St Peter
ca. 1470-73
tempera on panel
(altarpiece fragment)
Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan

Jan Cossiers
Supper at Emmaus
ca. 1650
oil on canvas
Rhode Island School of Design, Providence

Carlo Crivelli
St Francis collecting the Blood of Christ
ca. 1490-95
tempera on panel
Museo Poldi Pezzoli, Milan

Francesco Curradi
Triumph of Judith
ca. 1630
oil on canvas
Musée des Augustins de Toulouse

Pierre Courteys
Flight of Aeneas from Troy
before 1586
enamel on copper
Liechtenstein Museum, Vienna

Antoine Coysevox
Louis of France, the Grand Dauphin
(son of Louis XIV, grandfather of Louis XV)
ca. 1698-99
marble
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC

Gabriel Cualladó
Clemente with Three-Wheeled Bike
1958
gelatin silver print
Institut Valencià d'Art Modern

Carl Curman
Statue of Diomedes by Johan Tobias Sergel
ca. 1880
albumen silver print
Moderna Museet, Stockholm

Antony                         Take heed, young man,
     How thou upbraid'st my love: the Queen has eyes,
     And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember
     When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first,
     As accessory to thy brother's death? 

Dollabella
     Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day,
     And still the blush hangs here.

Antony                                          To clear herself
     For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt.
     Her galley down the silver Cydnos rowed,
     The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold;
     The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails;
     Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed,
     Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.

Dollabella
     No more; I would not hear it.

Antony                                        Oh, you must!
     She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,
     And cast a look so languishingly sweet
     As if, secure of all beholders' hearts,
     Neglecting she could take 'em. Boys like Cupids
     Stood fanning with their painted wings the winds
     That played about her face; but if she smiled,
     A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad,
     That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,
     But hung upon the object. To soft flutes
     The silver oars kept time; and while they played,
     The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight,
     And both to thought. 'Twas Heaven, or somewhat more,
     For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds
     Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath
     To give their welcome voice.
     Then, Dollabella, where was then thy soul?
     Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder?
     Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes,
     And whisper in my ear, 'Oh, tell her not
     That I accused her of my brother's death'?

Dollabella
     And should my weakness be a plea for yours?
     Mine was an age when love might be excused, 
     When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth
     Made it a debt to Nature. Yours –

Ventidius                                          Speak boldly.
     Yours, he would say, in your declining age,
     When no more heat was left but what you forced,
     When all the sap was needful for the trunk,
     When it went down, then you constrained the course,
     And robbed from Nature to supply desire;
     In you, I would not use so hard a word.
     But 'tis plain dotage.

– John Dryden, All for Love (1677)