TOW #4 - Just Kids (Part One)

"To be an artist was to see what others could not."

     Just Kids, a memoir by poet-rocker Patti Smith, revisits her life as a young adult on the streets of Brooklyn, specifically her time with artist and photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Published in 2010, the book is said to fulfill a promise Smith made to Mapplethorpe, who passed away in 1989. Through its honest storytelling and stylistic approach, I can imagine how some people would fall in love with this book, but I can just as easily see how it will fail to connect with others.

     Both artists rejected a family environment described as "a safe existence but not a fairy-tale one" (17). The word choice immediately establishes ideas of rock 'n' roll and hunger - they didn't dream of safety and comfort, but of challenge and inspiration. Instead of hoping for a fairy godmother, Smith was "Wendy entertaining the lost children of Neverland. We were a crew of misfits" (57-58). An allusion that perfectly describes their roles in society, it also reveals their innate innocence. Though holding down jobs and digging for rent, they were "just kids." They did as they liked and went after what they wanted, often leaning on the possibility that everything would work itself out. 

     One analogy captures the off-beat emotions of the book: "I imagined myself as Frida to Diego, both muse and maker" (12). Though the statement appears innocently romantic to some, a reader who knows the insanity contained within Kahlo and Rivera's story views it differently. It foreshadows Smith and Mapplethorpe's relationship, passionate but restless. This ongoing off-beat tone fits the book well, but it also cuts off a large potential audience. I chose this book expecting its style, but there are just a few too many names I don't recognize, metaphors that frustrate me, anecdotes whose purpose I don't understand. The abstract style fails to meld well with the methodical way in which each period of time is described.

     I do understand that this is a memoir, and not an earth-shaking argument. I also still have 142 pages left to read. Perhaps the end will reveal the philosophical ponderings I was expecting, or perhaps the book is  written like this to let readers form their own conclusions. I look forward to discovering which it will be.