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Ad Reinhardt Untitled 1937 oil on panel Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Ad Reinhardt Number 30 1938 oil on linen Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt Paper Collage 1939 collage on paper Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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Ad Reinhardt Untitled (N.Y. World's Fair) 1939 gouache on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt Untitled 1940 oil on board Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Ad Reinhardt Composition 1940 gouache and ink on board Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Ad Reinhardt Red and Blue Composition 1941 oil on board Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Ad Reinhardt Untitled 1946 watercolor, gouache and ink on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt How To Look At a Spiral 1946 collage, ink and graphite on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt Black and White 1947 oil on canvas Art Institute of Chicago |
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Ad Reinhardt Untitled ca. 1950 gouache on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt Abstract Painting ca. 1951-52 oil on canvas Tate Modern, London |
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Ad Reinhardt Abstract Painting, Red 1952 oil on canvas Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt Abstract Painting, Blue 1953 oil on linen Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt Number 17 1953 oil and tempera on linen Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt FoundingFathersFollyDay 1954 collage, ink and graphite on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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Ad Reinhardt Postcard to Betty Parsons ca. 1960 ink on printed card Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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Ad Reinhardt Abstract Painting, Number 33 1963 oil on linen Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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John Loengard Ad Reinhardt 1966 gelatin silver print Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
from From the Cupola
I walk the length of our Greek Revival village
from library to old blind lighthouse
Like one entranced who talks as awake she cannot
a potpourri of dead chalkpetal dialects
dead anyhow all winter
lips caulked with faded pollen and dust of cloves
I find that I can break the cipher
come to light along certain humming branches
make out not only apple blossom and sun
but perfectly the dance of darker undertones
on pavement or white wall It is this dance I know
that cracks the pavement I do know
Finally I reach a graden where I am to uproot
the last parsnips for my sisters' dinner
Not parsnips mastodons But this year's greens
already frill them and they pull easily
from the soft ground Two of the finest
are tightly interlocked have grown that way They lie
united in the grave of sunny air
as in their breathing living dark
I look at them a long while
mealy and soiled in one another's arms
and blind full to the ivory marrow
with tender blindness Then I bury them
once more in memory of us
Back home Gold skies My basket full
Lifting it indoors I turn The little dock
It is out there still on stilts in freezing water
It must know by now
that no one is coming after it that it must wait
for morning for next week for summer
by which time it will have silvered and splintered
and the whitewinged boats and the bridegroom's burning sandals
will come too late
– James Merrill (1966)