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| Paul Feinberg Martin Puryear in the Studio 1969 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Untitled 1979 wood and concrete Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Bower 1980 wood and copper tacks Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Sanctuary 1982 wood Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Martin Puryear Seer 1984 painted wood and wire Guggenheim Museum, New York |
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| Martin Puryear Sanctum 1985 wood, wire mesh and tar Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Martin Puryear Timber's Turn 1987 mahogany, cedar and fir Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Gog and Magog 1987-88 granite Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
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| Martin Puryear Jug 2002 etching Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Profile 2002 etching Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Three Holes 2002 aquatint and etching Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Untitled 2002 aquatint and etching Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Untitled 2005 wood, rattan and wire Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
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| Martin Puryear Shoulders 2005 drypoint and etching Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Martin Puryear Untitled 2011 woodcut Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Martin Puryear Phrygian 2012 etching and aquatint Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Martin Puryear Phrygian Spirit 2012-14 wood and string Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
from From the Cupola
Thank you, Psyche. I should think those panes
Were just about as clear as they can be.
It's time I turned my light on. Child, leave me.
Here on the earth we loved alone remains
One shrunken amphitheater, look, to moon
Hugely above. Ranked glintings from within
Hint that a small articulate crowd has been
Gathered for days now, waiting. None too soon,
Whether in lower or in upper case,
Will come the Moment for the metal of each
To sally forth – once more into the breach!
Beyond it, glory lies, a virgin space
Acrackle in white hunger for the word.
We've seen what comes next. There is no pure deed.
A black-and-red enchanter, a deep-dyed
Coil of – No matter. One falls back, soiled, blurred.
And on the page, of course, black only. Damned
If I don't tire of the dark view of things.
I think of your "Greek colors" and it rings
A sweet bell. Time to live! Haven't I dimmed
That portion of the ribbon – whose red glows
Bright with disuse – sufficiently for a bit?
Tomorrow mayn't I start to pay my debt,
In wine, in heart's blood, to la vie en rose?
This evening it will do to be alone,
Here, with your girlish figures: parsnip, Eros,
Shadow, blossom, windowpane. The warehouse.
The lamp I smell in every other line.
Do you smell mine? From its rubbed brass a moth
Hurtles in motes and tatters of itself
– Be careful, tiny sister, drabbest sylph! –
Against the hot glare, the consuming myth,
Drops, and is still. My hands move. An intense,
Slow-paced, erratic dance goes on below.
I have received from whom I do not know
These letters. Show me, light, if they make sense.
– James Merrill (1966)