Just Kids - Patti Smith

Patti Smith’s memoir - the story of her coming of age in New York in the late 1960s and early 1970s - is perfectly titled: Just Kids. The plural noun is the tell: this in not just Patti’s story, it is also the story of her artistic soulmate, photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Indeed the story begins at the end of their relationship and loops back to the start, with their first encounter in New York City, in 1967. Smith moves chronologically though the years, tracing their steps, all the milestones, as a mother might recount the life of a newborn in a diary - and that is just how this book feels, as if we are living through the detailed account of a mother, who feels she must capture every moment of her darling’s life for posterity.  Indeed, Smith reveals close to the end of the book, that Robert asked her to write their story - his and hers - because no one but Patti can tell it.  

As such, this book is a love song to Robert, by the woman who adored him, who always championed his art, who protected him and cared for him, when no one else did. She saw in Robert a real artist, as much as she knew that she was an artist. And the style of the book reflects this adoration. It is written with the intensity of the young - those late night conversations, too earnest to be pretentious, but pretentious all the same. And even though Smith is no longer that teenager, the book’s prose reflects the language of teenagers- sweeping, hyperbolic, dramatic, epic.  Everything is momentous, worthy of note, unique and profound - which, on reflection, it probably was at the time when they lived it. This was THE most interesting aspect of the book for me - how Smith, the narrator in 2010, remained true to her young self in 1967.  The youthful prose style and tone was entirely captivating. 

When Mapplethorpe rips the sheets from their bed, dyes them purple and hangs them on the wall, to signify repentance and penance, it is easy to roll one’s eyes and smirk.  But Mattlethorpe was dealing with deeply felt shame and guilt about his religious upbringing as a Catholic, and his homosexuality. In short, he was going through some things, and Just Kids deals with this head on.  Smith’s honesty is unflinching, brutal and simultaneously heartbreaking. 

She gives something of herself to the reader on every page, relentlessly ploughing up her past to present us with moments that shock and compels the reader. One such moment was when she gave birth to her first child, while still a teenager, knowing that she would give the baby up for adoption. She describes being admonished by the midwives, who left her without proper care, as a punishment for her becoming pregnant out of wedlock. This story is told in the same matter of fact, plain speaking way as the rest of the book, but it is especially moving because the unkindness of these women was acceptable at the time, and Smith herself seemed to let it wash over her.  

Indeed, the world that she lived in could be unspeakably cruel. She finds herself alone, with nowhere to stay in New York City, yet somehow she survived. Running parallel to the cruelty, the books describes the numerous acts of kindness that helped Smith to survive in the city the never sleeps.  She met countless people who gave her a helping hand, the first of those being Robert Mapplethorpe.  

Perhaps this book is a thank you to him, for sharing what little food he had with her when first they met back in 1967.  Just Kids is a testament to two incredible, interesting people; artists, lovers, friends, who were there for one another through the high and lows of life in New York, at an incredibly exciting time for music and art. I read the illustrated version of the book, which I highly recommend, as it is full of Robert’s photographs, Patti’s drawings and personal momentoes.  However, Smith’s Didionesque prose more than suffices in that regard.

If you are music fan, or if love to read about New York in the ‘70s, if you like Joan Didion, or are just a Patti Smith fan, this book should not be missed.