Just kids (edition 2012)

The subject of Smith's evocative and quite wonderful memoir (which won the National Book Prize) is her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, and their development as artists.

There is much about the wild and gritty life in Manhattan during the last sixties and early seventies that makes present-day Manhattan look like a bland, glitzy shopping mall. Rock and roll, poetry (it's Patty Smith, so there is much Rimaud scattered throughout), drugs, sex, and everyone from Warhol to Jim Morrison to Jimi Hendix to Janis Joplin to Salvatore Dali to Sam Shephard to William Burroughs wanders through the pages, in various stages of poverty and inebriation.

I'm not sure I believe everything Smith tells us. For instance, the idea she learned of Mapplethorpe's death at the very moment the Tosca aria "Vissi d'arte," I have lived for love, I have lived for Art, plays on early morning public radio, is a tad hard to swallow. But who cares; if it didn't happen that way, it ought to have. And was she really the first person to call Janis Joplin "Pearl?"

There is much humour here, and astute observations about place and period. Her descriptions of living on the streets when she first arrived in NYC from New Jersey are frightening and one scene, in which she and a very ill Mapplethorpe find temporary refuge in a end-of-the-line flop house filled with junkie drag queens in various stages of dying, is harrowing, but never voyeuristic or self-pitying

Her portrait of the famous "doll’s house in the Twilight Zone”: the Chelsea Hotel, which boasted a now-legendary collection of eccentrics and cultural icons is terrific, as is that of Max's Kansas City.


One of my favorite vignettes was when Allen Ginsberg tried to pick her up in an automat. He paid for her sandwich, which cost ten cents more than she had, and then, after sitting at a table with her for several minutes, leaned in and asked if she was a girl. When she says yes and asks if that's a problem, does he want the sandwich back, he just laughs and says, no, she can keep the sandwich, but he had thought her a very pretty boy.


Mapplethorpe himself perhaps remains the most elusive figure. When he is closest to her, as her lover and artistic collaborator, he hasn't yet come out, even perhaps to himself, as a gay man, and this makes for an incomplete portrait, of course, even though Smith does spend a good deal of time on his conservative-Catholic upbringing as a reason for his inner conflicts. When he does begin to explore his sexuality, he does it away from her, as a street hustler and, of course, in the dark shadows of the extreme S&M world he photographed. He feels emotionally distant, a bit of a cipher. But, as elusive as he may be, their bonds to each other are never in question.


The youthful posturing and artistic grandiosity of these two is fascinating. They sometimes question their talent (who doesn't?) but never abandon the belief they will one day be famous, be Real Artists. When I hear most young people say such things, I have a tendency to shake my head knowingly, but this story reminds me that every once in a while, as with these two, maybe not all such dreams are delusion. ( )

Patti Smith moved to New York and soon met photographer and lost boy Robert Mapplethorpe. The two of them began an unlikely romance marked by innocence and enthusiasm for life and art. The two found in each other their muse to create art in its various forms. Because the two began their journey to becoming artist in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the two rubbed elbows with some of the most famous faces and voices of the time. While Smith’s memoir is partly a love story to Mapplethorpe, it is also partly a love story to the City of New York. The overall outcome, however, is the making of an extremely talented artist.

In the interest of full disclosure, I gave serious consideration to not reviewing this book. It’s not that I didn’t like it–I did–but I felt overwhelmed about how to even begin reviewing Smith’s poetic, lovely memoir of her relationship with Mapplethorpe and her awakening as an artist. I’m still not sure that I’m going to be able to do the book justice, but in the interest of reviewing nearly everything I read, I’m going to try.

Smith’s imagination is nearly limitless, and she demonstrates its powers again and again in this memoir. When she moved to New York in 1967, she wasn’t even 21 but had already suffered a great deal personally, having given up a baby for adoption. She was also demonstrating a natural proclivity for the arts, specifically with regard to reading, writing, and drawing. When she met Mapplethorpe one afternoon, it is clear that there was an instant connection. Despite the fact that the two had extremely different personal styles and outlooks on life, something between them clicked.

It helps that Smith is a gifted writer, and her detailed journals from the time period in question have helped her craft a rich, satisfying memoir. Smith succeeds in many aspects of this book, but she is most successful in describing their love affair: it is at times very tender and also painful. It is this relationship that drives the book: Smith’s naivete regarding Mapplethorpe’s homosexuality is both believable and hard to read about, but her unflinching support of him is amazing.

This is a book on becoming an artist, to be sure. The transformation from obscurity to stardom without compromise is well-traveled in the literary world, but Smith’s child-like innocence gives this story a refreshing feel to it. Despite being about the quest for art and success, the story is also largely universal: a struggle to survive while also struggling to figure out who you are within the context of the larger world.

Recommended for fans of Smith’s music especially, this book will also resonate with those who hold a fascination for the tumultuous 60s and 70s.

Just Kids by Patti Smith. Ecco: 2010. Library copy. ( )

Maybe I expected too much given the National Book Award.
Enjoyed parts of it immenselly. Smith is a talented storyteller. However, I never was able to get beyond the patronizing and sometimes pretentious overtones. ( )

Surprisingly good even though I'm not a Patti Smith fan (had barely heard of her) and still have trouble thinking of Mapplethorpe's male nude photos as anything but sick pornography. Still it's a very well-written book and good indepth study of some unique characters. Better than 80% of biographies, and that made it worth reading. ( )

I was quite pleasantly surprised by how sweet and touching Patti Smith's memoir of her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe is. ( )