Words. Other people’s words used to describe a public figure. Words I took to be fact whenever I heard the name Patti Smith. Then I read Just Kids and recognized myself in this young woman, a kindred spirit unconsciously allowing me—and other creatives like me—permission to work and play and hope the way we do. Casually mentioning the piss cups and papers strewn about her work space—mentioning—not apologizing for, she describes the shortness of breath I feel when I have too many ideas and too little time (aka: the day job downer blues).
Though I’ve never gone as far as peeing in a cup because I can’t leave the space I’m in (mental or otherwise), I’ve also never lived in a room where the nearest toilet is 2 blocks away on foot—in the Chelsea hotel, mind you—. In winter, especially, I may have done the same.
And she worked. Burned the candle at both ends, going to a regular job during the day and playing muse all night to Mapplethorpe as he slowly penetrated the all-important scene at Max’s Kansas City. Dating, writing, drawing—not a lot of sleep was mentioned. No complaining existed. She wore the burdens of her life like a badge of honor, proud to be creative, not stifled by the inconveniences it imparted when the “regular world” showed up and wanted a piece of her.
The relevance of the muse sketched out in Just Kids made the biggest impression on me. One can be inspired by a lover, a friend, a building, a celebrity—all of which she writes about in Just Kids, as she was moved by each of these at times. But the muse goes beyond friendship or admiration, providing a sense of confidence and affection (for your friend as well as yourself) that kicks you into art mode and keeps you there for extended stays. This facet of the book has made me see the value of the muses I have had the luck of experiencing.
The only way to judge an artist—in any medium—is to experience his or her work and listen to your soul—not worrying if it’s acceptable to society or even to your parents or your spouse. Patti’s decision to downplay the most familiar references of Mapplethorpe—his S&M photography, his death from AIDS—gently reminds her audience why art stands alone…why it is immortal.
I judged Patti Smith unfairly by not judging her at all and simply assuming the pop culture juggernaut VH1 Hollywood story stereotype sensationalized behemoth was, well, accurate. I thought nothing specific about her…and my airy images of her were wrong in the most base way…The way cigarette smoke and steam can be confused…or fog versus forest fire. My Patti Smith walked like a duck and looked like a raven, but turned out to be a crossbred peacock and phoenix—a phoe-cock.
A poet.
A muse.
