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| Joshua Reynolds Portrait of Francis Hayman 1756 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| James Northcote Portrait of Thomas Banks 1792 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| Benjamin West Self Portrait 1793 oil on panel Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| John Francis Rigaud Portrait of Joseph Bonomi 1794 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| William Owen Self Portrait ca. 1795-1805 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| John Opie Self Portrait 1801-1802 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| Samuel Woodforde Self Portrait 1805 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| Thomas Phillips Self Portrait ca. 1820-30 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| Edward Hodges Baily Bust of Thomas Stothard 1826 marble Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| Charles Robert Leslie Portrait of John Constable ca. 1830 oil on panel Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| John Prescott Knight Portrait of Charles Lock Eastlake 1857 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| Henry Tanworth Wells Portrait of Charles West Cope 1879 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| John Pettie Portrait of Thomas Faed 1887 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| George Frederic Watts Portrait of Frederic, Lord Leighton 1888 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| George Frampton Bust of William Strang 1903 bronze Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| George Clausen Portrait of Stanhope Forbes 1915 oil on canvas Royal Academy of Arts, London |
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| William McMillan J.M.W. Turner 1936 bronze statue Royal Academy of Arts, London |
Waste
One of the geese, stereotypically silly,
has left an egg in plain sight at the edge
of the silty pond that only days ago
swallowed the last of its ice: the paper-white
shell against the new green of the grass tuft
she thought would do for a nest is almost
shouting for notice. Which it soon will get,
poised keen for calamity between
the bike path and the water's tarnished mirror.
Midnight snack for a skunk or a raccoon,
or handful for some unreflective child
to clamp and heave, it has already had
its future signed away by what appears
the unembarrassed absentmindedness
of Nature. Nothing to do, it's cold already,
just as null as that antique darning egg
that used to pop up as an annual joke
in an Easter basket, unfunny even then.
Tantalized by its tactility,
I scan it one last time and do not touch.
Here where I see it I will see it gone
tomorrow, having done with its poor docile
journey back to the heedlessness it never
adequately escaped. If keeping track
of things were something I were better at,
I might adopt it as a white reminder,
something of worth abandoned that I ought
to pledge allegiance to even as I
in turn desert it, turning to walk on.
But could I fairly promise to remember?
Who am I to arraign the Great Carelessness,
given those hosts of tender true beginnings
molded in mind, each perfect as that oval
and pulsing with incipience, brought to light
only to pass through dormancy to doom,
finished by this brisk air I seem to thrive on?
– Robert B. Shaw (2002)