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| Willem van Mieris Self Portrait ca. 1705 oil on canvas Museum De Lakenhal, Leiden |
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| Frans van Mieris the Younger Self Portrait 1747 oil on panel Museum De Lakenhal, Leiden |
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| Joseph Roques Self Portrait 1783 oil on canvas Musée des Augustins de Toulouse |
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| Jean-François Lassave Self Portrait ca. 1787 oil on canvas Musée des Augustins de Toulouse |
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| Anton von Maron Self Portrait ca. 1789 oil on canvas Musée Fesch, Ajaccio, Corsica |
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| Antoine-Jean Gros Self Portrait (at age twenty) ca. 1791 oil on canvas Musée des Augustins de Toulouse |
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| Jean-François Lassave Self Portrait ca. 1795 oil on canvas Musée des Augustins de Toulouse |
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| Claudio Salvatore Balzari Self Portrait ca. 1800 oil on canvas Galleria Nazionale di Parma |
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| Maria Callani Self Portrait 1802 oil on panel Galleria Nazionale di Parma |
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| Bernardino Riccardi Self Portrait 1835 oil on panel Galleria Nazionale di Parma |
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| Deogratias Lasagna Self Portrait 1846 oil on canvas Galleria Nazionale di Parma |
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| Theo van Doesburg Self Portrait ca. 1907 oil on panel Museum De Lakenhal, Leiden |
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| George Washington Lambert The Shop (self portrait with models and lay figure in the studio) 1909 oil on canvas Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Theo van Doesburg Self Portrait ca. 1914 oil on canvas Museum De Lakenhal, Leiden |
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| Helmut Kolle Self Portrait 1930 oil on canvas Städel Museum, Frankfurt |
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| Brett Whiteley Self Portrait in the Studio 1976 oil on canvas Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
from After a Death
A little ash, a painted rose, a name.
A moonshell that the blinding sky
Puts out with winter blue, hangs
Fragile at the edge of visibility. That space
Drawing the eye up to its sudden frontier
Asks for a sense to read the whole
Reverted side of things. I wanted
That height and prospect such as music brings –
Music or memory. Neither brought me here.
This burial place straddles a green hill,
Chimneys and steeples plot the distances
Spread vague below: only the sky
In its upper reaches keeps
An untarnished January colour. Verse
Fronting that blue, that blade,
Turns to retrace the path of its dissatisfactions,
Thought coiled on thought, and only certain that
Whatever can make bearable or bridge
The waste of air, a poem cannot.
– Charles Tomlinson (1974)
Turns to retrace the path of its dissatisfactions,
Thought coiled on thought, and only certain that
Whatever can make bearable or bridge
The waste of air, a poem cannot.
– Charles Tomlinson (1974)