"He said, 'You know, I really like the whiteness of the shirt. Can you take the jacket off?'
I flung my jacket over my shoulder, Frank Sinatra style. I was full of references.
He was full of light and shadow.
'It's back,' he said.
He took a few more shots.
'I got it.'
'How do you know?'
'I just know.'
He took twelve pictures that day.
Within a few days he showed me the contact sheet. 'This one has the magic,' he said.
When I look at it now, I never see me. I see us"
-patti smith, Just Kids
I JUST FINISHED reading this beautiful, beautiful memoir filled with the intertwined lives of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorp.
There were so many moments when I felt her child-like curiosity through the pages, when I was taken aback and choked up, over how someone could possibly have gone through these things, moments filled with so much life and so much death. How could one person have contained the magic to write in such a musical, poetic way, over so many ups and downs, so many lives that were short in length, but not in experience.
And what does it feel like, to love someone that much, to be both each others' artist and muse, to connect on a level incomprehensible to others?
I appreciate how honest Just Kids is, and how the life of an artist includes just as many moments of un-inspired, self-doubt as the strokes of genius it comes with. It's my mission now, to have as many friends borrow my book (with its dog-eared pages and all) and share these stories together.