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| Liz Deschenes Green Screen #4 2001 double-laminated inkjet print on Duratrans Institute of Contemporary Art, Boston |
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| Evergon (Albert Lunt) Cerise - Helsinki 2001 C-print Ottawa Art Gallery, Ontario |
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| Rossella Jardini Jacket 2001 hand-painted wool Phoenix Art Museum, Arizona |
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| Margaret Woodward Francisco Lezcano riding the Unicycle 2001 drawing Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Roxy Paine Scumak: from Sculpture Machine S2-P2 2001 polyethylene Denver Art Museum |
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| Erwin Olaf Mieke 2001 C-print Kunstmuseum, The Hague |
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| Nina Katchadourian Primitive Art from the Akron Stacks 2001 C-print Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington |
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| Timothy Horn Glass Slipper 2001 lead crystal, nickel-plated bronze, silicon, foil National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Eric Fischl Untitled 2001 watercolor on paper San Jose Museum of Art, California |
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| Tom Druecker Unnatural Acts #2 - The Grapplers 2001 lithograph New Britain Museum of American Art, Connecticut |
 Thomas Demand Gangway 2001 C-print Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney |
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| Michaël Borremans The Covering 2001 oil on canvas Los Angeles County Museum of Art |
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| Janet Deboos Large Vase 2001 porcelain National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Melinda Harper Untitled 2001 oil on canvas National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Andrew Lichtenstein Ash-Covered Man with Cigarette, New York 2001 inkjet print Loeb Art Center, Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, New York |
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| Melissa Ann Pinney Ice Cream Social, Evanston 2001 C-print Art Institute of Chicago |
Detective Story
Who is ever quite without his landscape,
The straggling village street, the house in trees,
All near the church? Or else, the gloomy town-house,
The one with the Corinthian pillars, or
The tiny workmanlike flat, in any case
A home, a centre where the three or four things
That happen to a man do happen?
Who cannot draw the map of his life, shade in
The country station where he meets his loves
And says good-bye continually, mark the spot
Where the body of his happiness was first discovered?
An unknown tramp? A magnate? An enigma always,
With a well-buried past: and when the truth,
The truth about our happiness comes out,
How much it owed to blackmail and philandering.
What follows is habitual. All goes to plan:
The feud between the local common sense
And intuition, that exasperating amateur
Who's always on the spot by chance before us;
All goes to plan, both lying and confession,
Down to the thrilling final chase, the kill.
Yet, on the last page, a lingering doubt:
The verdict, was it just? The judge's nerves,
That clue, that protestation from the gallows,
And our own smile . . . why, yes . . .
But time is always guilty. Someone must pay for
Our loss of happiness, our happiness itself.
– W.H. Auden (1936)