Just Kids by Patti Smith

 This is the story of singer Patti Smith’s and controversial photographer Robert Mapplethorpe’s struggles to get ahead in the New York art world, and of their sometime romance in the ‘60s and ‘70s when they were ‘just kids’.  It’s almost impossibly bohemian and ‘arty,’ with lots of name-dropping, and discussion of French poetry, but surprisingly not pretentious. Be warned, it’s not the happiest book around — there’s a lot of drug-taking, and suicides. Their tale really is the very epitomy of suffering for one’s art!

Even by the time that she arrived in New York, Smith had had a hard life. She’d given up a child for adoption at only 19. Homeless and struggling, the angelic Mapplethorpe helped her, and together they embarked on their artistic journey. It was remarkably tough. At one stage, they were living in a flat surrounded by starving and dying drug-addicts. Even on her trip to Paris with her sister, she stayed in deadbeat hotels, and contracted lice. All the while, they worked at their art though, with Patti writing and drawing, and Robert drawing and making necklaces from flotsam and interesting objects.

Life improves for them somewhat when they’re admitted to the storied Chelsea Hotel, where Mapplethorpe starts chasing his idol Andy Warhol. They go to Max’s at night, where Warhol has a table in the back room, and artists, such as Bob Dylan hang out. Janis Joplin calls her a poet, and Jimi Hendrix tells her that he wants to create a universal language of peace.

I’m only a vague fan of Patti Smith, and I certainly didn’t know much about Robert Mapplethorpe, except that his photos were terrifically controversial. However, you don’t have to be a big fan to enjoy this book, but some interest in the artistic world of New York in the ‘60s and ‘70s helps.