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| Seymour Fogel Louise Nevelson 1933 drawing National Portrait Gallery, Washington DC |
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| Louise Nevelson Cube Plus One 1946 oil on canvas Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Louise Nevelson Dawn's Archaic Figure with Star on her Head 1949-50 painted terracotta Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Louise Nevelson Column 1958 painted wood Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Louise Nevelson Dawn's Wedding Chapel II 1959 painted wood Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Louise Nevelson Royal Tide II 1961-63 painted wood Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Louise Nevelson Black Wall 1964 painted wood Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Lewis Brown Louise Nevelson's Hands at Work ca. 1964 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Ugo Mulas Corner of Studio - Louise Nevelson ca. 1965 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Louise Nevelson Untitled 1967 lithograph Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Louise Nevelson Dawn's Presence 1969-75 painted wood Blanton Museum of Art, Austin, Texas |
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| Louise Nevelson Small Model VII 1972 painted wood Guggenheim Museum, New York |
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| Louise Nevelson White Vertical Water 1972 painted wood Guggenheim Museum, New York |
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| Arnold Newman Louise Nevelson 1972 gelatin silver print National Portrait Gallery, Washington DC |
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| Louise Nevelson Untitled #1 1973 aquatint and collage Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Louise Nevelson Moon Passage 1976 lithograph, etching and collage Reynolda House Museum of American Art, Winston-Salem, North Carolina |
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| Hans Namuth Louise Nevelson 1977 C-print National Portrait Gallery, Washington DC |
from The Diary of the duc de L***
On such a day even the sun stops, even
The leaves hang white as powdered eyelids, even
The queen snores at her pale embroidery.
I watch my hand as it writes. From England, news:
My childhood love, Mme. de V., is dead.
Man of all parasites most excellent
Clings to the world as on a flower's leaf
An insect that devours the tenderest fringes
Is flicked with a grimace off and trodden quite
By the red heel of an aging botanist.
So she is dead, the lips yellowed, hair in lockets,
Hands folded like the dusty wings of a moth.
I am unmoved; and shall in a moment rise
To greet the young ambassador from the East
Who with what daring flits to our dry court . . .
– James Merrill (1947)