Just Kids

Posted on | January 30, 2010 |

I just  finished reading Patti Smith’s memoir.  It’s the story of the very early days of her adult life when she was exploring her devotion to writing and art with a fervor that had a lot of flair to it.

The story takes off when Patti leaves a factory job in Camden, N.J. and heads into New York City at the age of 19 after giving birth to a baby out of wedlock that she gives up for adoption.  It was tough back then for girls who got pregnant but I believe the universe supports a bold step in the direction of salvation.  Patti soon met a young man named Robert Mapplethorpe who shared her intense devotion to being an artist and writer. It reminds me of the friendships of Picasso and Matisse, of Gauguin and Van Gogh. They weren’t always smooth and the latter didn’t last but the friendships were so key.

The raw, revelatory truth of an un-cushioned life shines through Patti’s art and music, and through the book. She shows us devotion is the foundation of art, even the purpose of the artist’s life.  She didn’t waver through all the tests that come to every artist—the rejections, the financial hardships, the uncertainties.  She just kept at it. We’ll all do it differently but it’s been a real treat for me to read how she did it—the tales of the Chelsea Hotel and people like Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, Janis Joplin and the other writers and artists she came to know well. Robert Mapplethorpe comes across as rather unattractive. There’s no indication that he reflects very deeply on anything and I was a bit disappointed at how he let Patti work while he stayed home to make art.  But here’s to Patti for looking on the bright side.  She felt she was stronger and, curiously, she hit her stride before he hit his.  It was an amazing time, a brief shining moment when art seemed to reign, and she evokes it with real clarity and wit.  We can see the beginning of the end of it here also.  Just a great, riveting, and surprisingly fun read.

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