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| Anton Mirou Mountain Landscape with Figures ca. 1640 drawing, with watercolor Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio |
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| Cornelis van Poelenburgh Nudes in a Landscape ca. 1642 drawing Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio |
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| Herman Naiwincx Landscape with Waterfall before 1651 etching Yale University Art Gallery |
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| Pierre Patel Landscape with the Journey to Emmaus 1652 oil on canvas Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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| Onorio Marinari Landscape ca. 1680 drawing Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio |
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| Anthonie Waterloo Landscape with Mythological Figures before 1690 etching Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York |
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| Francis Towne Le Rêve 1781 watercolor Tate Gallery |
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| John Martin Figures seated by a Lake in a Wooded Landscape 1820 drawing Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio |
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| Cornelius Varley Landscape with Figure in Foreground ca. 1840 drawing Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio |
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| Théodore Rousseau Clearing in the Forest of Fontainebleau ca. 1860-62 oil on canvas Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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| Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot Willows and Poplars 1871 lithograph Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio |
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| Alfred Sisley Apple Trees in Flower 1880 oil on canvas Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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| Albert Pinkham Ryder The Temple of the Mind before 1885 oil on panel Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York |
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| John Piper Study for Shobdon Folly 1951 watercolor, gouache and collage on paper Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York |
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| Joan Mitchell Rosebud 1977 oil on canvas Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York |
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| Justine Kurland Buses on the Farm 2003 C-print Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York |
from Proust
It changes you. You're a different person by the end,
If only since it takes so long to read. I used to tell myself
I'd read it one more time before I died, but long ago
I realized I won't. And so the boxed three volume set
I got how many years ago? sits on the shelf, a mute reproach.
* * *
Time feels like a structure
Waiting to be filled with scenes from the generic lives
We all lead, interchangeable, yet every one a story to itself
Whose truth lies in its style, the passage of that life
From childhood to here, complete with names and places
Fleshing out a novel's worth of days. No matter how detailed,
They disappear, and nothing can convey the simple truth,
Of what each one was like, that sense of something now as
Indeterminate and fugitive, alas, as the years.
– John Koethe (2006)