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| Werner Bischof Kathakali Dance Rehearsal 1952 gelatin silver print Minneapolis Institute of Art |
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| Alexey Brodovitch Untitled (from Ballet Series) ca. 1933-35 gelatin silver print Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, Missouri |
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| Alan Davie Ballet Set No. 2 1974 oil on canvas Milwaukee Art Museum |
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| Harold Edgerton Gus Solomons Dancing 1960 gelatin silver print Princeton University Art Museum |
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| Anthony Fry Group of Dancing Figures ca. 1961 oil on canvas Yale Center for British Art |
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| Kenji Ishiguro A Neo-Dadaist at a Studio 1960 gelatin silver print Princeton University Art Museum |
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| Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Nudes dancing around a Shadow 1936 woodcut National Gallery of Art, Washington DC |
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| Charles Meynier Terpsichore, the Muse of Dance before 1832 drawing National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh |
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| Barbara Morgan Children Dancing by a Lake 1940 gelatin silver print Princeton University Art Museum |
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| Ludovic-Rodolphe Pissarro Danseuses Roses caa. 1911 oil on canvas Ashmolean Museum, Oxford |
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| Feliks Topolski Rudolf Nureyev in The Ropes of Time at Covent Garden 1970 drawing Victoria & Albert Museum, London |
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| Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec Marcelle Lender dancing the Bolero in Chilpéric ca. 1895-96 oil on canvas National Gallery of Art, Washington DC |
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| Albert Tucker Joie de Mort 1988 acrylic on board National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne |
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| Max Waldman Paradise Now, Living Theatre, New York 1968 gelatin silver print Princeton University Art Museum |
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| Horst Weber Ballet Requiem (John Neumeier) 1995 drawing (colored pencils) Gemäldegalerie, Dresden |
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| Garry Winogrand Houston, Texas 1977 gelatin silver print Princeton University Art Museum |
from A Wreath for John Wheelwright
"That clacissicm had no hammers, no
fat to cook the workers' hands in, no rod for the wasters.
As I go up like a lily, they'll come down like lightning,"
but the critics all thought he'd besmirch his vocables
in the futuristic flatness of the nasal earth which, a bowl
of dust, seemed to ruminate ironically. "Ascension," they
hawed, "is for virgins uneasy at our green cultural sociables,
not for the rancid potpourri which is statues of gardens,
vended to suburbia by helicopter at a commission."
Yet, "Ave!" cried the poet, tearing his junk-hung breast
to the mist and its embracing rust, the dawn that smelled
like an orangery. Those faces were medals, chained permission
on the fierce twin glare of his swan-muscled throat.
– Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)