“I stand naked when I draw. God holds my hand and we sing together.”

This memoir pulled me in from the first page with wonderful prose, as empathetic and musical as Patti Smith’s lyrics and poetry, and then kept my attention with a mixture of personal recollections, reminiscence on the nature of art, and an assortment of anecdotes that illustrate the epoch. At times, I felt a little lost when I didn’t immediately recognize a name or somesuch; this is definitely a book aimed at someone who already has an idea of the musical and art scene of the 70s, and while I’m decently familiar with the music parts, sometimes I had to stop reading and pull up Google. 

Robert Mapplethorpe feels like the true main character, even when he isn’t directly appearing on the page. I don’t think I really fell under the charm of his personality, no matter how much the narrative tried to pull me under and how much I didn’t mind succumbing. But I really liked the depiction of the bond he and Patti shared, how tightly entwined their lives remained even as their relationship changed from lovers to friends to something family-like in ways that defy strict categorization. I think what they shared is as close as it gets to finding a soulmate.

I really enjoyed how the book was structured, the narrative kind of growing denser and more expansive as it progressed. First we get the daily existence of someone striving to find something *more*, something that will give their life meaning. Then comes the part about the young starving artists that feels both freeing and a tiny bit claustrophobic, that endless juxtaposition of unleashed creativity and struggling in small apartments with limited funds. And then by the time we get close to the Chelsea Hotel times, more and more actors keep entering the stage, and the kaleidoscope of names and events grows and grows, sweeping you away. 

When it comes to flaws, I guess I didn’t really like how much the author put Robert on the pedestal. She didn’t exactly shy away from depicting his flaws, but she always hurried to make excuses for him or to downplay the extent of the objectively shitty things he did, like

initiating sex when he knew he had an actively symptomatic STI

. I can’t exactly fault her for it, given how important this man was for her and how much his loss hurt her. It’s kind of hard to be critical of someone in these circumstances! But still, I think the reason he was borderline my least favorite person to read about here was that the writing was pushing me to adore him no matter what, and I got kind of contrary.