Just a Really Good Book
Just Kids by Patti Smith is a really, really, good book. A really good book that I am over a decade late to. Although, I don’t think it would have been a good read for me at the age of 12, and I probably wouldn’t have even appreciated it as much at any point between 12 and now, so maybe I’m not late at all and should stop saying that in general. This book came to me (or I got around to it, whichever you prefer) right on time.
I had certainly heard of this book, but I had a limited conception of what exactly it was. I knew who Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe were on a very basic level - poet rockstar and photographer respectively. Just Kids seemed a little intimidating - like something that wasn’t for me, because I don’t know that much about rock and roll, or the history of photography, etc. With the poets, I fare a little bit better, but my Beat knowledge is far from comprehensive. I knew that Just Kids was about the artistic zeitgeist in New York in the late 1960’s and early 70’s, and I worried that reading it would equate to reading about people and places that I kind of vaguely knew but couldn’t confidently place. I thought that I might run the risk of opening it up on the subway and having the person across from me go, “Oh, you’re reading Just Kids? Name five Patti Smith songs.” And then the person next to them would turn around and say, “Five songs? Come on. Name five poems.” You know what I mean?
Delightfully, I was wrong! Well - mostly wrong. There were a lot of names on these pages that I kind of recognized but couldn’t really place, but the effect was more inclusive than it was exclusive. Before I get into that though, I have to say that Patti Smith is a deeply talented writer. Not a revolutionary statement I know, but I’m sure that whoever decides the winner of the National Book Award will be over the moon to finally get validation from me, on my passion project blog, that they were, in fact, correct in their estimation of this book. Everything else I want to say about Just Kids hinges pretty much entirely on Smith’s writing. It is poetic without losing its readability. Yes, the story is incredible, and the people that populate the pages are exciting and impressive, but it is the way that Smith writes her story that makes this book such a warm and pure and human thing.
The book is separated into five sections, the third of which is the longest and contains the bulk of the action - the years that Smith and Mapplethorpe spent living first in and then very near to the Hotel Chelsea. This is the meat of the story, filled with the most characters and the most action. In a way though, it feels like the most important parts of the story - as far as Patti and Robert’s relationship goes - happen in the bread pieces, the beginning and the end. It speaks to the dual purpose of the book - Smith is telling the story of her relationship with Robert, which is necessarily intertwined with the story of the entire pocket of New York that they inhabited during this time frame. She and Robert meet and attach themselves to each other. Then a lot happens - they do and create a lot, and meet a lot of other people who are doing and creating a lot. And then they part ways.
I say this not to illuminate the “plot” of what happens, because, although it’s a true story and therefore impossible to “spoil,” I don’t want to sully the reading experience by including too much detailed information. I mainly want to highlight the poetics of the way Smith chose to structure the book. In the beginning, it is about Patti and Robert. The reader gets to see their bond forming. Once they are bonded, it’s more about the things that happened to and around them. There’s an argument that could be made that the entire middle of this book, that’s supposed to be all about this incredible relationship, is taken up mostly by other things. To me though, Smith sufficiently shows how foundational the bond between herself and Robert was. Even when it’s not the main focus, it’s there underneath. And that’s how relationships work anyway, so it feels true to life. And, then in the end its all about them again - after everything that happens, their bond is still there. I’m bastardizing it, but it’s really beautifully done.
To hone in on a thought I have been skirting around, our two main characters (not sure if it’s right to call them characters since they’re real people, but I’m going to do it anyway), may have started out as nobodies, may have even been nobodies for a large chunk of this book. However, at a certain point (when they move to the Hotel Chelsea if you want to pinpoint it), they become nobodies in the frequent company of somebodies, and therefore cease to be nobodies. Patti and Robert’s increasing interaction with and closeness to the major players of the bustling art (music, poetry, photography, painting, performance, fashion, etc) scene of 1960’s/70’s New York comes about by chance and through meticulous planning in equal measure.
With this in mind, Just Kids is an ode to Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe’s relationship, but it’s also an ode to all of the people who came in and out of their lives in the period of intense development that takes up the majority of this book. There’s Jimi Hendrix who stops to exchange a quick word with Patti outside the opening party of Electric Lady Studios, shortly before his untimely death, and Allen Ginsberg who mistakes Patti for a “‘very pretty boy,’” and buys her a sandwich when she doesn’t have enough money to buy one herself. There’s Janis Joplin crying when her show gets rained out and Salvador Dali walking through the Hotel Chelsea lobby. Patti and Robert float around with Andy Warhol’s extended social circle, more for Robert’s sake than Patti’s, and Patti makes sure William Burroughs gets home when he’s had one too many at El Quixote. These are just a few of the instantly recognizable names that are scattered throughout the book, most of them only momentarily or peripherally. Many others like Harry Smith, Sam Wagstaff, Sandy Daley, and so many more whose names I didn’t immediately recognize, play an even larger role.
Essentially, when reading this book it sometimes feels like you meet someone new on every other page. Or maybe you’ll go a few pages without meeting anyone new and then meet fifteen new people all at once. I can see how some people might feel that it’s a whole lot of name dropping - Patti’s laundry list of impressive people she ran into or met or stood in the same room as. However - and that’s a big however - I did not feel that way. When there are really famous people on the scene young Patti is just as awestruck as the reader. As for the people who float in and out of the pages who became legends after the fact, who can blame her for writing about them casually? They were her friends and acquaintances and equals. None of them knew for sure that she was going to become Patti Smith at the time either. More than that, the people who ended up fading into obscurity - or dying before they made it big - are given equal treatment. Really, although she was in it, Smith makes it clear that she often felt like an outsider, so that’s how her reader feels - like an outsider who’s in it.
Finally - taking it all the way home for me (pun intended) - is the fact that this book is a love letter to New York. Of course, all of the events that are covered took place before my birth, and I am well aware that the New York of this book is not the New York I know. Many places are gone like CBGB’s and Max’s Kansas City, but others, like the Hotel Chelsea or Electric Lady Studios, are still standing. Washington Square Park is still there, the street signs still bare the same names. I think it’s easy to romanticize the past and denounce the present - particularly if you have a nostalgic temperament like me, and particularly if you read a book like this. I could sit here and lament the fact that New York doesn’t feel chaotic and wild and full of possibility the way it seems like it once did - the way that Smith describes it. Sometimes it feels like the number of places that have true personality is dwindling - the few spots cower in the looming shadow of places (bars, restaurants, parks, venues, even art exhibits) with no real foundation that are just meant to look good on Instagram or TikTok or whatever’s next. It’s easy to veer into that kind of pessimism, but it’s also unproductive and lame. No one wants to be the person who sits there saying “oh you think this is good, you should have seen what it was like 50 years ago,” in the face of someone’s joyful wonder over the miracle that is (yes still is) New York City.
And so, in reading this book, I was reminded of how important it is that I pay close attention to what’s going on around me. To the places and people that might one day be part of our collective cultural legend - I might be sitting mere feet away from our generation’s Robert Mapplethorpe - he couldn’t be further away than a few miles; this island isn’t very big. I realize that may sound cheesy but this book made me feel like it’s true. And on the smaller stage of my individual life, it made me realize how important the connections we make truly are. I don’t mean connections to fancy, important people - just the ones we make with each other on a daily basis. Some that stand the test of time, and others that don’t but are still worth something. We aren’t all destined to be innovators, revolutionaries, artists, etc. but we all can have true impact on the lives of those close to us. That’s all I got. This was a really, really good book.
Thank you to Spencer Stockton for suggesting that I read this book, even though he hasn’t read it yet. Spencer, you should read this book. Also, sorry that I wasn’t paying attention when you showed me where Electric Lady Studios is - now I know.