Giuseppe Torretti Head of Prophet ca. 1710 marble Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest |
Anthony van Dyck Portrait of art collector Jacomo de Cachiopin 1634 oil on canvas Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna |
Henrik Sørensen Gudrun in the Doorway 1917 oil on canvas National Gallery of Norway, Oslo |
Natale Schiavoni Grieving Widow 1841 oil on canvas Städtisches Museum, Braunschweig |
Paul-Ponce Antoine Robert Study of a Woman 1722 oil on canvas Palais des Beaux-Arts de Lille |
Jan Adam Jansz Kruseman Ada van Holland in exile on Texel ca. 1850 oil on canvas Teylers Museum, Haarlem |
Ludwig von Hofmann Reverie 1898 oil on panel Alte Nationalgalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin |
Charles Gleyre Head of a Woman ca. 1862 drawing National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne |
Magnus Enckell The Awakening 1894 oil on canvas Ateneum Art Museum, Helsinki |
Imogen Cunningham Claire 1910 gelatin silver print Museum Folkwang, Essen |
Giovanni Carnovali (il Piccio) Model posed as Antique Statue ca. 1820 drawing Museo Poldi Pezzoli, Milan |
Sandro Botticelli Venus ca. 1490 tempera on canvas Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin |
Simone Bianco Portrait of a Young Woman ca. 1520 marble Bode Museum, Berlin |
Anonymous Artist Bust of St Jerome ca. 1525 painted wood High Museum of Art, Atlanta |
Bertel Thorvaldsen Classical Shepherd Boy ca. 1819-22 marble Hermitage, Saint Petersburg |
Jan Sluijters Portrait of Greet van Cooten ca. 1927 oil on canvas Dordrechts Museum |
Tall Figure in Studio
I think I am as he wanted me –
the one upright amidst this studied dereliction,
the cobwebs choking on plaster-dust,
old splintered frames, stained mattresses and rubble.
I stand rigid, obsessed by my wire core
and the little else I am given,
this spoon-shaped pelvis, a suggestion of breasts –
the cobwebs choking on plaster-dust,
old splintered frames, stained mattresses and rubble.
I stand rigid, obsessed by my wire core
and the little else I am given,
this spoon-shaped pelvis, a suggestion of breasts –
in form an expression of all his withdrawals
through the days of my making,
or like a plucked string, remembering his fingers
as his final silence became proper sound.
through the days of my making,
or like a plucked string, remembering his fingers
as his final silence became proper sound.
– Caitríona O'Reilly, The Nowhere Birds (2001)