To Julius Orlovsky 

New York, November 2015


Dear Julius, 

Since I first saw you on the screen at Anthology eight years ago, my creative process changed unwittingly. 

The questions I had about truth were agitated as you walked in and out of scenes and were eventually replaced by an "actor". 

Toward the end of the film, after coming out of a catatonic state, caused by shock therapy, you were standing in nature, on the other side of a glass window collecting raindrops, and spoke... 

It altered my attention, every hair on my body stood up straight and I heard a ringing in my ear. 

Do you remember what you said? 

Now of course, memory is unreliable, which is why we make films.

So for the sake of reflection... or recollection, or for the sake of experiencing an occurrence of possible truth in one form or another, your exchange with Robert Frank in Me and My Brother is in this open letter. It is still as meaningful to me today as it was the first time I experienced it.


Robert: Say something to the camera.


Julius: Well, the camera is a …seems like a—a—a—a—a—a—a—reflection of disapproval or disgust or—disappointment or unhelpfulness—ness, or …unexplainability—to disclose any real, real truth that might possibly exist.


Robert: Where does truth exist?


Julius: Inside and outside—the world. Outside the world is—well—I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a theory, an idea or a theory is all we can arrive at—a theory or an explanation—to the matter—whatever you concern yourself with.


I hope that you are always well, Julius.





Fern Silva