By all means, rush to the library or bookstore and get yourself a copy of Patti Smith’s memoir Just Kids. Long before she was dubbed the “godmother of punk,” Smith spent years climbing her way to success in New York with renowned photographer Robert Mapplethorpe—her sometimes-lover, muse, and confidante. Before Mapplethorpe’s death, Smith promised him that she would commit their unique adventure to paper, and her tenderness and love for the controversial artist resonates through the pages.
In retrospect, it would be easy for Smith to blow up her life and relationship with Mapplethorpe to enormous proportions: wild, young bohemians destined for wealth and success; a cast of characters ranging from artist Andy Warhol to writer William S. Burroughs.
Instead, Smith delivers a humble story, emphasizing the hard work and creative processes that ultimately made both of them famous. With a few precious exceptions (an excursion to the poet Rimbaud’s birthplace, a proposed journey to Rimbaud’s Abyssinia), Smith’s account of her life seems unaffected and down to earth. Readers will enjoy rooting for Smith and Mapplethorpe as they inch slowly toward recognition, and fellow writers and artists will relate to the anxiety and perpetual state of hope related to such a tenuous calling.
Knowing all along of Mapplethorpe’s AIDS-related fate fails to soften the blow of his death. By the end, the bittersweet nature of Smith’s memories is palpable.
After finishing the book, I dragged out my copy of Horses, Smith’s famous album, with a cover portrait shot by Mapplethorpe. When she looks at the iconic photo, Smith reveals in the memoir, she doesn’t see herself. She sees the two of them together. As I gazed at the photo, this made perfect sense.
