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Frank O’Hara

AS VIEWED FROM THE VANTAGE POINT of our empire’s continued obsession with health, Frank O’Hara (1926–1966), the poet and Museum of Modern Art curator, looks, if not like death, then the very body of ill health. In the photographs and paintings of the poet at the center of “In Memory of My Feelings: Frank O’Hara and American Art,” an exhibition of 102 (as often as not collaborative) works by O’Hara and his painter friends, on view at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles through November 14, there is O’Hara’s too-thin human form, gay and white and plucky or sad, seen by this camera or that, some painter or another, lens and hand all too happy to memorialize “their” Frank, made famous as much by his wit, his cock-sucking, and his knowing “everyone” as by his poetry. A cynosure in the world where high and low art, fag hags and scared, boozy butch painters—male and female—converged in

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