The Philippine Online Chronicles

“I used to wonder what it would feel like to be a National Book Award winner, so thank you for letting me find out,” said Patti Smith, almost in tears, in a ceremony where her memoir “Just Kids” won National Book Award for nonfiction.

The sobbing didn't push through; Smith gushed and smiled like a little girl instead. The decades between this speech and the book's dawning felt like forever—in this acceptance speech, Smith is no longer young. Robert Mapplethorpe is dead. She has a medal, but one could see in her face the heavy labor she went through for this book to happen.

Raised Catholic in New Jersey, Smith grew up with a humble family, with loving parents and siblings teaching her how to read, pray, learn about art, write poetry, and dream. However, these were not enough, and as she evaluated her life, she decided it was time for her to go elsewhere.

Inspired by poet Arthur Rimbaud and wanting to see what more of life was out there, she headed out of familiar New Jersey and into where she was supposed to be.

Wanting to see how far her love for art and life would take her, Smith braved New York City, with a lot of hope but no money. But she had courage and a white waitress uniform given by her mother, who told her, “You'll never make it as a waitress...but I'll stake you anyway” -- this much was true. Perhaps her mother had an idea that there was something else for her.

Smith found her soul mate lying down in an apartment in New York in the summer of 1967—his name, Robert Mapplethorpe. “It was the summer Coltrane died,” Smith wrote. From here, their story began.

They found themselves sharing an apartment, eventually becoming a couple.

They went hungry but they overflowed with inspiration. They had enough things to keep them alive and happy, like day-old bread, records that played over and over again because they didn't have enough money to buy new ones, and little ornaments and accessories to share (“Ownership was based on who needed it most,” she recalled). They did not have enough money to go to museums, but on days when they had enough for one ticket—one of them would go inside and tell the other about what's inside. “We hadn't much money but we were happy,” she said.

They ended up where they were supposed to—what Smith described as “an energetic, desperate haven for scores of gifted hustling children from every rung of the ladder”–The Chelsea Hotel, where artists, poets, junkies, lovers, and dreamers such as Bob Dylan, Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, and Leonard Cohen lived; where Nancy Spungen was found dead, where Dylan Thomas was staying when he died. A place for creating and exchanging ideas, of life and death—a space where they belonged.

Smith's and Mapplethorpe's stories seamlessly weave into one as the book progresses. As she writes about her job at Scribner's, as she shares her and Mapplethorpe’s Catholic background, as she writes about how Mapplethorpe took the cover photo of her Horses album—her other half is there, always.

As their relationship grew, both of them discovered that Mapplethorpe was gay. This, however, did not keep them apart. If anything, it drew them closer. The development of Mapplethorpe's photography, which caused controversy for years because of their homoerotic and sadomasochistic styles, was told by Smith clearly and honestly, even though she admitted that she never fully understood it. As Smith molded poems to songs and toured with her band, Mapplethorpe continued his art and photography. Theirs were two completely different styles and politics, but they shared creative union set against the backdrop of the wild and crazy late 60s/70s New York City.

But dark days began to unfold, as Mapplethorpe was slowly eaten up by illness. Smith flew to New York to see him, and what welcomed her were images that neither of them ever wanted to see—a wheelchair, a nurse, emptiness, pain. “Patti, did art get us?” the dying man asked. Smith looked away as she told him “I don’t know, Robert. I don’t know.” Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t. Mapplethorpe died of AIDS in 1989.

Whether you’re a fan of Smith’s music or not, you will see this book as a great piece of art, which will most likely tear you apart, and leave you wanting to read more of her work. The storytelling, as heartbreaking as it is beautiful, shows Smith’s journey - before she became the rock star that most of the world knows, when she was an artist who struggled and literally starved, perpetually laboring heavily to find herself, and meeting the person who’s the main reason behind this book.

It is never easy when a book starts with “I was asleep when he died,” but it is completely, utterly necessary. This memoir is something that both old and young readers will understand. Smith and Mapplethorpe's journey is like no other, but the general ideas of love and friendship cannot be missed. Smith speaks a humble language, and no matter how she shakes and nearly bursts into tears for this book, she always remains calm and brave, just like that fateful day when she headed for New York City, and met the man who lucidly molded and changed her life forever.

Book cover used here for purposes of review. Copyright is believed to belong to the graphic artist or distributor.