Let’s start with an embarrassing confession: Yes, I only read this book because Taylor Swift mentioned Patti Smith in the title track of her new album, The Tortured Poets Department. Essentially, the Swiftian shoutout made me realize that Patti Smith has been a cultural blindspot for me. I never had the phase where I got really into ’70s punk and bought a CBGB’s t-shirt. I wasn’t cool enough.
Just Kids is not primarily focused on Smith’s rock-and-roll career, though. It is mainly about her early days starting out, trying to ingratiate her way into the New York art scene, caring less about the medium that would get her there then she was about the there there was to be go to, if you catch my drift. Smith’s partner in crime was Robert Mapplethorpe, who would go on to become one of the most influential and controversial photographers of the 20th century. Smith and Mapplethorpe lived together and were great friends, and at times were romantic partners despite both of their growing awareness that Mapplethorpe was gay.
Smith and Mapplethorpe seemingly knew everyone who was everyone at the time. Andy Warhol had largely retreated from public life, but they befriended most of the other people involved with the Factory. Smith is a pro at name-dropping, relaying encounters with Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix without flinching. Their early passings, as well as those of friends whose names are not as well-known today, had a tremendous effect on Smith.
Just Kids is a book to warn people off the pursuit of a career in the arts. Smith and Mapplethorpe really struggled, with her resorting to shoplifting for food and he turning to street hustling (aka male prostitution, think Midnight Cowboy) to scrape together money for their rent. I lost track of how often Smith mentioned contracting lice. They both struggled to hold down regular jobs long enough to pay for their art supplies. Mapplethorpe’s photography was severely hampered by the fact the he couldn’t afford film.
On the plus side, they sure did seem to have fun. Smith recounts the numerous nights out at the legendary Max’s Kansas City, mixing with painters, playwrights, novelists, drag queens, photographers, singers, actors, and assorted eccentrics. Smith writes movingly about her struggles to feel like she belonged among the in-crowd.
While there is a lively energy to Smith’s recounting of the early period of her career, she sometimes gets a little too bogged down in detail. There is an endless parade of names to keep track of, and it’s easy for the reader to lose track of who’s who. Smith also falls prey to purple prose from time to time. Her exploration of poetry and philosophy is interesting to a point, but I feel like I heard way more about Arthur Rimbaud than I was prepared for.
Just Kids is probably the perfect book to give to your wannabe-artist nephew or niece as a graduation present. Reading it at some remove from my more idealistic youth, I couldn’t imagine going through what Smith and Mapplethorpe did so willingly in the name of art. But in the bloom of youth, who knows? It might have made me search out the seediest loft space I could find and start painting.