#35: “Just Kids” by Patti Smith
I borrowed this book from a friend of mine who, when I told her I had finished it, said, “Didn’t you love it? Didn’t it make you feel like you weren’t a real artist?” I’ve never thought to draw that conclusion, to take pleasure in something that makes me feel like less than who I am. But in a way, she was right. I loved the book. It made me feel the unfair mix of joyful and torn down. And it made me feel like I was not an artist.
Not on the same level at least. Because Patti Smith drowned me in the idea that you have to sell your paintings to your landlord in exchange for rent, that you have to shack up with another artist — several artists — so that you can maintain the aura of creation even when things are standing still. She force-fed me art until it tasted like arrogance and hindsight and regret.
I’m new to Patti Smith. Backwards that I am, I discovered her work through the play she wrote with Sam Shepard — “Cowboy Mouth.” It’s really satisfying to yell at a book, which is what I did when I came to the Shepard portion of this memoir. When Sam suggested that they write a play together, she responded that she didn’t know how. He told her not to worry about it, that it was easy. I expected to read pages upon pages about the creation process, but instead she wrote one line: “He was right. It was easy.”
And yet, I loved it. And yet, I’m still an “artist.” Whatever that means.
