In this memoir, singer-songwriter Patti Smith shares tales of New York City : the denizens of Max's Kansas City, the Hotel Chelsea, Scribner's, Brentano's and Strand bookstores and her new life in Brooklyn with a young man named Robert Mapplethorpe--the man who changed her life with his love, friendship, and genius.
I really enjoyed this one. I knew absolutely nothing about Robert Mapplethorpe, so it was interesting to learn about Patti Smith’s muse and the artist behind that iconic album cover.
The book is beautifully written, and reading about her accounts of casually hanging out with the likes of Janis Joplin and William Burroughs, the life at the Chelsea Hotel, or having Bob Dylan walk into her concert, makes you want to be there in that place and time
Smith writes with such a gentle, lyrical flow that doesn’t falter. Her overriding treatment of herself and the people she recalls is compassionate. I found it hard to put this one down.
“I stand naked when I draw. God holds my hand and we sing together.”
This memoir pulled me in from the first page with wonderful prose, as empathetic and musical as Patti Smith’s lyrics and poetry, and then kept my attention with a mixture of personal recollections, reminiscence on the nature of art, and an assortment of anecdotes that illustrate the epoch. At times, I felt a little lost when I didn’t immediately recognize a name or somesuch; this is definitely a book aimed at someone who already has an idea of the musical and art scene of the 70s, and while I’m decently familiar with the music parts, sometimes I had to stop reading and pull up Google.
Robert Mapplethorpe feels like the true main character, even when he isn’t directly appearing on the page. I don’t think I really fell under the charm of his personality, no matter …
“I stand naked when I draw. God holds my hand and we sing together.”
This memoir pulled me in from the first page with wonderful prose, as empathetic and musical as Patti Smith’s lyrics and poetry, and then kept my attention with a mixture of personal recollections, reminiscence on the nature of art, and an assortment of anecdotes that illustrate the epoch. At times, I felt a little lost when I didn’t immediately recognize a name or somesuch; this is definitely a book aimed at someone who already has an idea of the musical and art scene of the 70s, and while I’m decently familiar with the music parts, sometimes I had to stop reading and pull up Google.
Robert Mapplethorpe feels like the true main character, even when he isn’t directly appearing on the page. I don’t think I really fell under the charm of his personality, no matter how much the narrative tried to pull me under and how much I didn’t mind succumbing. But I really liked the depiction of the bond he and Patti shared, how tightly entwined their lives remained even as their relationship changed from lovers to friends to something family-like in ways that defy strict categorization. I think what they shared is as close as it gets to finding a soulmate.
I really enjoyed how the book was structured, the narrative kind of growing denser and more expansive as it progressed. First we get the daily existence of someone striving to find something *more*, something that will give their life meaning. Then comes the part about the young starving artists that feels both freeing and a tiny bit claustrophobic, that endless juxtaposition of unleashed creativity and struggling in small apartments with limited funds. And then by the time we get close to the Chelsea Hotel times, more and more actors keep entering the stage, and the kaleidoscope of names and events grows and grows, sweeping you away.
When it comes to flaws, I guess I didn’t really like how much the author put Robert on the pedestal. She didn’t exactly shy away from depicting his flaws, but she always hurried to make excuses for him or to downplay the extent of the objectively shitty things he did, like <spoiler>initiating sex when he knew he had an actively symptomatic STI</spoiler>. I can’t exactly fault her for it, given how important this man was for her and how much his loss hurt her. It’s kind of hard to be critical of someone in these circumstances! But still, I think the reason he was borderline my least favorite person to read about here was that the writing was pushing me to adore him no matter what, and I got kind of contrary.
A gorgeous book, and a very intimate way to get to know Patti Smith, up close and personal.
As poetic as prose gets: I was in awe with the way in which she writes. It's such a special moment, when you read something that could've been described so literally; and then a writer elevates it, does their magic with words and meaning and creates something that resonates with you, that touches you. A good writer oftentimes takes language - a most commonly used tool, so potentially banal - and warps it in such a way that it turns into art. And that's what Patti Smith can do.
Special mention to her queer-ass youth, at the fringes of society: this book was an immersive experience into the New York of beatniks, artists, queers, and all those who didn't (want to) fit in. Extra special mention to her nurturing, intense, beautiful, deeply …
A gorgeous book, and a very intimate way to get to know Patti Smith, up close and personal.
As poetic as prose gets: I was in awe with the way in which she writes. It's such a special moment, when you read something that could've been described so literally; and then a writer elevates it, does their magic with words and meaning and creates something that resonates with you, that touches you. A good writer oftentimes takes language - a most commonly used tool, so potentially banal - and warps it in such a way that it turns into art. And that's what Patti Smith can do.
Special mention to her queer-ass youth, at the fringes of society: this book was an immersive experience into the New York of beatniks, artists, queers, and all those who didn't (want to) fit in. Extra special mention to her nurturing, intense, beautiful, deeply spiritual relationship with Robert, which goes way beyond the romantic sphere. What a weird, intelligent, sensitive, quirky woman that she is - and again, what a sweet and intimate way to get to know her.
I enjoyed that this book painted a scene of NY in the late 60s that was similar to Paris of the 20s/30s. It seems you couldn't spit without hitting an artist or a singer. Patti Smith was right in the thick of it and this book reads like a who's who of the time. That's what I liked - the sense of place it conjured up. I also feel like I have a somewhat better understanding of Mapplethorpe's sexuality and his relationship with Smith, though to be fair, I knew little about either before reading this, so anything would've been an improvement. That said, I didn't find this book especially gripping, illuminating or otherwise provocative. It was something of a labor (rather than pleasure) to read. It felt like eating my peas.
Interesting account. I really love Mapplethorpe's work but never really knew much about Patti Smith. Parts of the book are wonderful - magical memories of their time as early starving artists and the wonder of the Chelsea. Other parts read like a person reviewing their diary and seeing all they had written was what they wore that day. Smith writes a lot about the clothes she wore and lists of things given to her. As annoying as that is throughout the book, the end is poignant and rich with emotion about the relationship she shared with Mapplethorpe.
This is a surprisingly coherent book from an acolyte of Arthur Rimbaud. That said, Patti is as lucid as she is vague, dim as she is bright and a little blue star in her own right.
The book starts with Robert Mapplethorpe, her muse in a way, dying. Her loss is quite unfathomable to the reader, especially if their connections are unbeknownst to you. To me, they were.
Patti writes of her growing up, of her parents, her siblings and early loss. And of sticking out, of dancing to Motown songs and discovering The Doors. But before that, discovering Rimbaud, a mind-bomb she'll (hopefully) never recover from.
She finds her way on a trip to New York and can by chance afford the ride, and upon arriving is almost instantly rendered homeless. She avoids her family, destined to find her living in the new city. Destitute? No. She describes the …
This is a surprisingly coherent book from an acolyte of Arthur Rimbaud. That said, Patti is as lucid as she is vague, dim as she is bright and a little blue star in her own right.
The book starts with Robert Mapplethorpe, her muse in a way, dying. Her loss is quite unfathomable to the reader, especially if their connections are unbeknownst to you. To me, they were.
Patti writes of her growing up, of her parents, her siblings and early loss. And of sticking out, of dancing to Motown songs and discovering The Doors. But before that, discovering Rimbaud, a mind-bomb she'll (hopefully) never recover from.
She finds her way on a trip to New York and can by chance afford the ride, and upon arriving is almost instantly rendered homeless. She avoids her family, destined to find her living in the new city. Destitute? No. She describes the new music coming from speakers as she meets people, especially a man who helps her along her way, guides her into ways of getting hold of food for next to nothing - and oftentimes for nothing, indeed.
He leaves her life. And she meets her Robert. Their lives are instantly connected by a sort of lovelorn poet's mist - could also be described as being in love - which is then translated. And deconstructed. And thrown back into the mist.
This is a masterfully written and typeset book, mixed with pictures from the days, both from Patti's and Robert's hands, drawings and photographs alike. Patti describes their relationship, how it unfolds and how they search for and/or make art, love, wisdom, escape, knowledge, friendship, work, food, money and travel.
It's really good, and a very worth-while read not only to Patti Smith fanatics, but to anybody who's ever wanted to find their own way in love, life and art.
