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| Jay van Everen Untitled ca. 1920 hand-colored stencil print Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Oskar Fischinger Untitled 1942 oil on canvas Guggenheim Museum, New York |
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| Elaine De Kooning Untitled ca. 1947 drawing Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Herbert Ferber Untitled 1950 drawing Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Beauford Delaney Untitled 1950 pastel on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Burhan Dogançay Untitled 1969 lithograph Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth, Texas |
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| Margaret Ponce Israel Untitled ca. 1970 pastel on paper Racine Art Museum, Wisconsin |
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| Menashe Kadishman Untitled 1970 screenprint Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Nancy Drosd Untitled 1971 lithograph Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum |
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| León Ferrari Untitled 1976 drawing Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Geoffrey Legge Untitled 1976 collage and gouache on postcard National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Larry Fink Untitled 1980 gelatin silver print Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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| Elisabeth Kruger Untitled 1987 lithograph National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| Laura Owens Untitled 1997 acrylic and modeling paste on canvas Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Chris Dorland Untitled 2006 mixed media on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
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| Michel Delgado Untitled 2019 oil and enamel on panel NSU Art Museum, Fort Lauderdale, Florida |
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| Ralph Lemon Untitled 2021 oil and acrylic on paper Whitney Museum of American Art, New York |
First Death in Nova Scotia
In the cold, cold parlor
my mother laid out Arthur
beneath the chromographs:
Edward, Prince of Wales,
with Princess Alexandra,
and King George with Queen Mary.
Below them on the table
stood a stuffed loon
shot and stuffed by Uncle
Arthur, Arthur's father.
Since Uncle Arthur fired
a bullet into him,
he hadn't said a word.
He kept his own counsel
on his white, frozen lake,
the marble-topped table.
His breast was deep and white,
cold and caressable;
his eyes were red glass,
much to be desired.
"Come," said my mother,
"Come and say good-bye
to your little cousin Arthur."
I was lifted up and given
one lily of the valley
to put in Arthur's hand.
Arthur's coffin was
a little frosted cake,
and the red-eyed loon eyed it
from his white, frozen lake.
Arthur was very small.
He was all white, like a doll
that hadn't been painted yet.
Jack Frost had started to paint him
the way he always painted
the Maple Leaf (Forever).
He had just begun on his hair,
a few red strokes, and then
Jack Frost had dropped his brush
and left him white forever.
The gracious royal couples
were warm in red and ermine;
their feet were well wrapped up
in the ladies' ermine trains.
They invited Arthur to be
the smallest page at court.
But how could Arthur go,
clutching his tiny lily,
with his eyes shut up so tight
and the roads deep in snow?
– Elizabeth Bishop (1965)