-for-Ballets-Russes-c1916-silk-with-lam%C3%A9-appliqu%C3%A9-National-Gallery-of-Australia-Canberra.jpg) |
| Natalia Goncharova for Ballets Russes Squid Costume ca. 1916 silk with lamé appliqué National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Natalia Goncharova for Maison Myrbor Cocktail Dress ca. 1924 silk crêpe de Chine and silk velvet National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Natalia Goncharova Red House ca. 1904 oil on canvas Mead Art Museum, Amherst College, Massachusetts |
 |
| Natalia Goncharova The Bridge ca. 1914 oil on canvas Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto |
 |
| Nan Goldin J. and C.Z. in the Car, New York City 1984 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Nan Goldin Dieter and Wolfgang at O-Bar, West Berlin 1984 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Nan Goldin Mark in the Red Car, Lexington, Mass. 1979 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Nan Goldin Roommate as Napoleon, New Year's Eve, New York City 1980 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Michael Powolny Tazza ca. 1915 glass National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Michael Powolny Bowl ca. 1914-15 glass National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Michael Powolny Bowl ca. 1923-24 glass National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Michael Powolny Vase ca. 1923-24 glass National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Hugh Ramsay Self Portrait ca. 1901 drawing National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Hugh Ramsay Self Portrait at the Easel ca. 1901-1902 oil on canvas National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne |
 |
| Hugh Ramsay Self Portrait ca. 1902 oil on canvas National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
 |
| Hugh Ramsay Self Portrait ca. 1904 (Ramsay died of TB in 1906 at age 29) drawing National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
from The Sea and the Mirror
Caliban to the Audience:
If now, having dismissed your hired impersonators with verdicts ranging from the laudatory orchid to the disgusted and disgusting egg, you ask and, of course, notwithstanding the conscious fact of his irrevocable absence, you instinctively do ask for our so good, so great, so dead author to stand before the finally lowered curtain and take his shyly responsible bow for this, his latest, ripest production, it is I – my reluctance is, I can assure you, co-equal with your dismay – who will always loom thus wretchedly into your confused picture, for, in default of the all-wise, all-explaining master you would speak to, who else at least can, who else indeed must respond to your bewildered cry, but its very echo, the begged question you would speak to him about.
– W.H. Auden (1942-44)