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| Jack Tworkov Study for Sirens ca. 1949-51 drawing Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Jack Tworkov Sirens ca. 1950-52 oil on canvas Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
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| Jack Tworkov The Bridge 1951 oil on paper Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Jack Tworkov Duo I 1956 oil on canvas Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Jack Tworkov Duo II 1956 oil on linen Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Jack Tworkov Height 1958-59 oil on canvas Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Jack Tworkov Highland 1959 oil on canvas Phillips Collection, Washington DC |
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| Jack Tworkov Red Lode 1959-60 oil on canvas Guggenheim Museum, New York |
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| Jack Tworkov Thursday 1960 oil on canvas Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Jack Tworkov Friday 1960 oil on canvas Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Jack Tworkov Abstract II 1961 acrylic on paper Dallas Museum of Art |
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| Jack Tworkov No. 1 Spring Weather 1962 oil on canvas Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
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| Howard Wise Jack Tworkov's Studio, Provincetown 1974 gelatin silver print Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Jack Tworkov L SF ES #3 1979 aquatint Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Jack Tworkov Q3 81 OP #10 1981 oil on paper Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Jack Tworkov KTL #1 1982 lithograph Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
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| Jack Tworkov Chicago International Art Exhibition 1982 lithograph (poster) Art Institute of Chicago |
The Mad Scene
Again last night I dreamed the dream called Laundry.
In it, the sheets and towels of a life we were going to share,
The milk-stiff bibs, the shroud, each rag to be ever
Trampled or soiled, bled on or groped for blindly,
Came swooning out of an enormous willow hamper
Onto moon-marbly boards. We had just met. I watched
From outer darkness. I had dreamed myself in clothes
Of a new fiber that never stains or wrinkles, never
Wears thin. The opera house sparkled with tiers
And tiers of eyes, like mine enlarged by belladonna,
Trained inward. There I saw the cloud-clot, gust by gust,
Form, and the lightning bite, and the roan mane unloosen.
Fingers were running in panic over the flute's nine gates.
Why did I flinch? I loved you. And in the downpour laughed
To have us wrung white, gnarled together, one
Topmost mordent of wisteria,
As the lean tree burst into grief.
– James Merrill (1966)