Thursday, August 28, 2025

Robert Kipniss

Robert Kipniss
Large Trees at Dusk
1962
oil on canvas
Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh


Robert Kipniss
Night Reflections
1969
lithograph
Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC

Robert Kipniss
Sheds and Fence
1969
lithograph
Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC

Robert Kipniss
Self Portrait
1969
drypoint
National Portrait Gallery, Washington DC

Robert Kipniss
Backyard
1972
lithograph
Art Institute of Chicago

Robert Kipniss
Interior with Suspended Plants
1975
lithograph
Art Institute of Chicago

Robert Kipniss
Landscape with Curved Road
1978-79
oil on canvas
Milwaukee Art Museum

Robert Kipniss
Window with Large Tree
1993
mezzotint
Tacoma Art Museum, Washington State

Robert Kipniss
Clear Vase and Landscape
1995
mezzotint
Tacoma Art Museum, Washington State

Robert Kipniss
Evening with White Porch
1996
mezzotint
Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC

Robert Kipniss
Appoggiatura
1999
mezzotint
Minneapolis Institute of Art

Robert Kipniss
Garden Shadows
2000
mezzotint
McNay Art Museum, San Antonio, Texas

Robert Kipniss
Without World
2000
mezzotint
Minneapolis Institute of Art

Robert Kipniss
Still LIfe with Dark Window
2001
mezzotint
Dallas Museum of Art

Robert Kipniss
Branches, Millerton
2003
mezzotint
Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC

Robert Kipniss
The Balanced Rock
2004
mezzotint
Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC

Robert Kipniss
Forest Murmurs II
2010
mezzotint
Dallas Museum of Art

Robert Kipniss
Hidden Trees
2018
mezzotint
Dallas Museum of Art

from Metamorphoses

In antient Times, as Story tells,
The Saints would often leave their Cells,
And strole about, but hide their Quality, 
To try good People's Hospitality.
    It happen'd on a Winter Night,
As Authors of the Legend write;
Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their Tour in Masquerade;
Disguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went
To a small Village down in Kent;
Where, in the Strolers Canting Strain,
They beg'd from Door to Door in vain;
Try'd ev'ry tone might Pity win,
But not a Soul would let them in.
    Our wand'ring Saints in woful State,
Treated at this ungodly Rate,
Having thro' all the Village pass'd,
To a small Cottage came at last;
Where dwelt a good old honest Yeoman,
Call'd, in the Neighbourhood, Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his Poor Hut to pass the Night;
And then the Hospitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire;
While He from out of Chimney took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook;
And freely from the fattest Side
Cut out large Slices to be fry'd:
Then stept aside to fetch em Drink,
Fill'd a large Jug up to the Brink;
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas all replenished to the Top,
As if they ne'er had toucht a Drop.
The good old Couple was amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And just began to cry; – What ar't!
Then softly turn'd aside to view,
Whether the Lights were burning blue.
The gentle Pilgrims soon aware on't,
Told 'em their Calling, and their Errant:
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints, the Hermits said;
No Hurt shall come to You or Yours;
But, for that Pack of churlish Boors,
Not fit to live on Christian Ground,
They and their Houses shall be drown'd:
Whilst you shall see your Cottage rise,
And grow a Church before your Eyes.

– Ovid (43 BC-AD 17), translated by Jonathan Swift (1709)