O-mama - Opinionated Moms

• Patty Smith • 10 Comments
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Once upon a time, a girl married a boy.  This boy said he was “an artist.”  “What did that mean?” she wondered.  Well, as it turns out, for her—it meant that he was unemployed for a long time.  But the girl kept telling herself that she married an artist and this is what happens when you marry an artist.  They are so smart and so ethereal and mercurial and brilliant—I mean all she had to do was ask him and he would tell her he was a genius—such a genius in fact, that he constantly felt surrounded by people that didn’t understand him--especially in work environments. 

 Coincidentally, or maybe not so coincidentally, that girl had a friend.  That friend had  A LOT of boyfriends, before she got married, who were also self-proclaimed artists—writers, musicians, actors, poets—all tortured, all unemployed—some convicted felons.  Luckily, she had one moment of sanity and married a “non-artist-type.”  This has caused her different kinds of grief but we’ll save that for another story.

 So what happened to our first girl?  Well, they eventually got divorced—quite a long time later.   As it turns out, it seems, he wasn’t really an artist—by some people’s standards anyway.  He didn’t even play one on TV.  But he was really smart and really funny, and he was a good writer and knew a lot about music and maybe he just hadn’t found the right “medium” yet.  Who knows?  He knew “funny” when he saw it.  He recognized great music when he heard it.  One could even say that at times—and in these times, the ability to recognize genius and play on it, learn from it—could be considered a form of art—sort-of coming under the category of “nothing new under the sun.”

 How much time should one devote to art?  If you want to be a rock star and you start playing guitar when you are 10 but it’s still not happening when you are 38, does that mean you hang up the guitar, quit the band, and focus on your day job?  Does that mean all those years were a waste of time? 

 And what happened to the slutty friend with all the boyfriends?  Well, that girl is still married, but it’s not always easy.  And sometimes she wonders what it would be like to be with someone who READ something besides sports or hunting catalogs—someone who painted or drew or sang or played guitar or any of those other things that attracted her to those crazy poets before she got married. 

 Because they really FELT things.  They were artists.  Maybe.  Maybe a man like that (or woman) would paint wondrous pictures of you when you were swollen with child.  Maybe he would write songs about your new baby and offer to get up with the child in the night because he was up anyway, writing or painting or sculpting or whatever.

 What would it be like to have some huge loft space with groovy tapestries and giant canvases and music and TIME—all the time in the world to just create??  What if you created a real salon of artists and devoted your life to art—to the creation of art—or even to the support of others’ creation of art.

That’s a tough one.  What’s art?  Who’s a REAL artist?  Who decides?  Is it…the more you suffer, the more of an artist you are?  Or is it, someone buys your stuff—music, paintings, whatever…someone else FINDS VALUE in your work, then it qualifies.  Does that make you an artist?  If you smoke French cigarettes and hang around coffee shops and are never really gainfully employed but fill countless journals with all your insightful, beautiful and painful poetry, does that make you an artist?  Open mike night?  Kareoke?  My middle aged desperate housewife paintings? 

 What about our heroine’s artist husband?  He never actually produced any “art.”  So what does that mean?  I  may never sell a painting.  I may never finish a screenplay let alone sell one.  Is it really just a good excuse to drink a lot?  In his heart, he felt he was an artist, can’t that be enough?  Maybe not enough for a marriage?  Maybe not enough for that marriage.  Maybe not enough for a life within certain “non-artistic parameters filled with certain financial expectations.”  The “starving artist” is not just a romantic image.  Smith’s idol, Rimbaud, very nearly starved to death a number of times, and Smith was at times homeless.  She and Mapplethorpe often scrounged for food or just went hungry and very often used “found” items for their “art supplies.”  Not sure the “starving artist” lifestyle works out so well when you have tuitions to pay and what have you.  I could be wrong…

These days people throw words like “artist” and “brilliant” and “genius” around like, well like, nothing—like they don’t mean anything, and I’ll tell you what, I don’t use any of those words lightly…ever.  And one thing I do know about an artist is that he or she is COMPELLED to create, all the time.  And they are not all geniuses and they are not all brilliant, but some of them are in fact, artists—at least by my standards.

 So this book,  Just Kids by Patti Smith, is the story of two artists who were best friends until one died of AIDS in the late 80’s.  I will tell you right now that when I started this book I hadn’t heard much of Patti Smith’s music—I knew she was considered to be the “Godmother of punk rock” and so forth, but I just had never been properly exposed.   I had seen some of Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs and knew for sure that they weren’t my kind of thing—most of the work he is known for is violently homosexual and pornographic, though he has many works which are far less controversial.

 But it’s always interesting to read about an ascent to notoriety or greatness.  How does Patti Smith become Patti Smith?  What were her parents like?  What kind of upbringing brings about this sort of utter devotion to art?  In this case, it turns out that both Smith and Mapplethorpe were sort-of born to do what they did.  They were very young when they came together and fell in love—a love that had at its core a deep friendship and a nurturing and necessary symbiosis.  They were utterly devoted to eachother and devoted to: creating, inspiring, seeking and learning.  Every single decision they made either independently or together was driven by this need to express themselves creatively and meaningfully—to do something new and original.

 Smith is first and foremost, a poet, so the writing is good—simple and clean, and though the story isn’t totally mind-blowing in terms of the classic sex, drugs and rock and roll, (Smith was and is surprisingly sober and chaste), the story is moving in its depiction of love and supportive friendship during a tumultuous time in New York City and America.

 Mapplethorpe died of AIDS when he was 43.  One wonders what artistic roads he may have taken as he aged.  Imagine what Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix or Jim Morrison would have done—all kids who died in their late 20’s!!  It begs the question, do you have to die for your art?  Well, seemingly not, as Smith has not only recorded 12 albums but has exhibited drawings, silkscreens, photographs, and this book is her sixth!  She has written both prose and poetry.  She is honest and upfront about her influences and her idols—Dylan, Rimbaud, Picasso and many others. 

 Mapplethorpe moved from drawing, painting and sculpting to eventually finding his way to photography—his true talent.  Both were (and are) surrounded by poets and artists throughout their lives—Warhol and his crowd in the 60’s—young people who believed in eachother and themselves—who believed that producing art, or at least attempting to produce art was in itself, heroic and important.  For many this pursuit was fueled by methamphetamines etc. and it’s utterly shocking to read how many died young.

 So no, you don’t have to die for art, and I don’t know that we can ever define it simply.  If a song makes you cry every time you hear it, is that just your life association with that song or was that Keith Richards and Mick Jagger putting together the perfect evocative melody?  If a certain painting makes you happy every time you look at it but it only cost you $10 at a yard sale, does that make it any less of a masterpiece? 

 What about the process of creation itself?  Not everyone is capable of letting themselves go—even just a little bit—allowing creation and ART to just happen without reservation, without doubt.  You tell a room full of people (adults) to just write, or just draw and you’ll get yourself a roomful of people itching to flee.

 My older daughter who is 10 now had to fill out a little Star of the Week deal a couple years ago in second grade.  She had to describe herself and then fill in 3 blocks for her “talents.”  In one of the boxes she wrote, “I am a fabulous artist.”  No fear.  No doubt.  I don’t think she would do that even now—just two years later.  Maybe that’s all it would take is to never stop believing—and if you ever come across someone who doubts you or stifles you in any way, you hopefully have the strength to just keep moving.  “Keep on keeping on” as Bob Dylan would say.

p.s.

I know, I know, if he was so in love with Ms. Smith, how did he die of AIDS?  Mapplethorpe came into his true sexuality after his relationship with Patti Smith.