Untitled Project (For Carl)
Video, 8:04min, 2025. Made with, and for, Carl.
Please email me if you’d like to see the film.
In the Summer 2020, Carl and I called one another with the purposeful intention of letting the call go to voicemail. In the voicemail, we would recite a selected Frank O'Hara poem from The Collected Poems of Frank O'Hara. I saved the voicemails as a record of our experiment and our friendship.
After visiting Carl in October 2024, I went to CVS to purchase manila folders. Every Monday, I would send a letter to him, along with an O'Hara poem. The manila folders were so the letter would not get creased (an uncreased letter was a shared value). At the CVS, the manila folders were sold in packs of 4, 7, or 20. I bought a pack of 20, although I was not sure we had 20 weeks left with one another.
The day I found out Carl died, I received the first letter back to me as undeliverable. Over the next several weeks, I received back 4 of the 7 letters I sent. The remaining, unused, manila envelopes remained in my car. For many weeks after, I could not bring them inside the apartment. To move the envelopes was to accept that the letter writing process was over.
Untitled Project (for Carl) is a documentation of grief, the retrieval of the envelopes, and the sinking reality of a world without Carl. Each empty folder holds the weight of unwritten words, unheld conversations, undelivered mail, unspoken poems, and untitled, unfinished projects cut off too soon by death.
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Ode to Joy
by Frank O’Hara
We shall have everything we want and there’ll be no more dying
on the pretty plains or in the supper clubs
for our symbol we’ll acknowledge vulgar materialistic laughter
over an insatiable sexual appetite
and the streets will be filled with racing forms
and the photographs of murderers and narcissists and movie stars
will swell from the walls and books alive in steaming rooms
to press against our burning flesh not once but interminably
as water flows down hill into the full-lipped basin
and the adder dives for the ultimate ostrich egg
and the feather cushion preens beneath a reclining monolith
that’s sweating with post-exertion visibility and sweetness
near the grave of love
No more dying
We shall see the grave of love as a lovely sight and temporary
near the elm that spells the lovers’ names in roots
and there’ll be no more music but the ears in lips and no more wit
but tongues in ears and no more drums but ears to thighs
as evening signals nudities unknown to ancestors’ imaginations
and the imagination itself will stagger like a tired paramour of ivory
under the sculptural necessities of lust that never falters
like a six-mile runner from Sweden or Liberia covered with gold
as lava flows up and over the far-down somnolent city’s abdication
and the hermit always wanting to be lone is lone at last
and the weight of external heat crushes the heat-hating Puritan
whose self-defeating vice becomes a proper sepulcher at last
that love may live
Buildings will go up into the dizzy air as love itself goes in
and up the reeling life that it has chosen for once or all
while in the sky a feeling of intemperate fondness will excite the birds
to swoop and veer like flies crawling across absorbed limbs
that weep a pearly perspiration on the sheets of brief attention
and the hairs dry out that summon anxious declaration of the organs
as they rise like buildings to the needs of temporary neighbors
pouring hunger through the heart to feed desire in intravenous ways
like the ways of gods with humans in the innocent combination of light
and flesh or as the legends ride their heroes through the dark to found
great cities where all life is possible to maintain as long as time
which wants us to remain for cocktails in a bar and after dinner
lets us live with it
No more dying