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David Park Two Violinists 1938-39 oil on canvas Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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David Park Two Flutists 1938-39 oil on canvas Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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David Park Bus Stop 1952 oil on canvas North Carolina Museum of Arts, Raleigh |
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David Park Beach Profile 1953 oil on canvas Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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David Park Flower Market 1955 oil on canvas Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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David Park Two Women 1957 oil on canvas Los Angeles County Museum of Art |
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David Park Study for Daphne ca. 1959 ink on paper North Carolina Museum of Arts, Raleigh |
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David Park Two Heads 1960 gouache on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Bruce Davidson Untitled (Circus Series) 1958 gelatin silver print Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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Bruce Davidson The Misfits 1960 gelatin silver print Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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Bruce Davidson Untitled (West Virginia Series) ca. 1964 gelatin silver print Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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Bruce Davidson Untitled (West Virginia Series) ca. 1964 gelatin silver print Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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Bruce Davidson Untitled (West Virginia Series) ca. 1964 gelatin silver print Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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Bruce Davidson Portrait of Joan Kennedy with children Kara and Edward Jr. 1965 gelatin silver print Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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Bruce Davidson Bow Bridge, Central Park ca. 1991 gelatin silver print Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Bruce Davidson Along the Pool near the Glen Span Arch, Central Park 1992 gelatin silver print Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
from Walking All Night
I, I know only that when the dawn mist
Discourages one bare gold dome like rust,
When stones fume I shall rest,
Loving my neighbor as I love myself,
No more, no less, for I do not love myself . . .
But something stirs, stirs now. At love's name? No,
No apparition, neither any abrupt gust
Of roses' fragrance, here where none grow:
The hair rises almost
The throat just tries to close, so quietly do
You find me, topple at my feet, poor ghost,
Sung to sleep by a first and faraway cockcrow.
You I forget, you whom the immemorial
Wraps round with many a foolish vow,
Hush! all at once our graying prospects billow
Like cloths, a canvas town.
My eyes fill with a seeing not their own,
Those cloths aside, your sleep is what I know.
– James Merrill (1959)