i just finished reading patti smith’s just kids–a memoir of her relationship with robert mapplethorpe. although it is so much more than a love story–it’s a snapshot of a city, a diary of an artist, and a tribute to love, life and art. simply, it’s amazing. smith’s words are beautifully poetic. sweet and raw. she is honest, unapologetic and passionate. you can feel the love they felt for each other, the inspiration they drew from each other, and the mutual dependence they had in order to succeed, to prosper–in order to live.
he always wanted me to write a song he could dance to.
there were days, rainy gray days, when the streets of brooklyn were worthy of a photograph, every window the lens of a leica, the view grainy and immobile. we gathered our colored pencils and sheets of paper and drew like wild, feral children into the night, until, exhausted, we fell into bed. we lay in each other’s arms, still awkward but happy, exchanging breathless kisses into sleep.
where does it all lead? what will become of us? these were our young questions, and young answers were to be revealed.
it leads to each other. we become ourselves.
…of all your work, you are still your most beautiful. the most beautiful work of all.
within a few days he showed me the contact sheet [of photographs for the horses album cover]. ‘this one has the magic,’ he said.
when i look at it now, i never see me. i see us.
will you write our story? do you want me to? you have to he said no one but you can write it. i will do it, i promised, though i knew it would be a difficult vow to keep.
i love you patti. i love you robert.
..artist and muse, a role that for both of us was interchangeable.