Patti Smith

I stepped out of Port Authority bus terminal with my plaid suitcase. My greatest desire at the time was to surrender as an artist. Perhaps I lacked the necessary skills, but I had the willingness to develop them, for I believed in the truth of my calling and was single-minded in my pursuit to find work. It had come to me as if struck with an ecstatic paralysis. There was no Faustian pact connected with my youthful vows, no dark forces, nor expectations from godly elements. In choosing to be an artist I knew I would be on my own, yet still hoped for a compatriot, and providence led me to him.

He was an American boy, raised in a devout Catholic family. He had served as an altar boy, excelled in school, played saxophone in the marching band, and achieved an ROTC scholarship to study graphic art at Pratt. His mother, who favored him, had great hopes that he would enter the priesthood. But his father, preparing him for the military, pictured him rising in the ranks with commercial art training to fall back on. He had pale skin, green eyes, and dark curly hair that was cropped close, military style. He was slightly bowlegged and had a natural sailor’s gait. In accepting the path his father had chosen for him, he was rewarded with an apartment, shiny knee-high leather riding boots, and a stipend. At Pratt he proved himself to be an exceptional draftsman and for a time walked the expected path. No one suspected that another self was growing within.

At the age of twenty Robert Mapplethorpe laid down his robes, his saxophone, his boots and rifle. He had experimented with LSD. He looked in the mirror and saw neither a priest nor future captain in the ROTC. He saw himself. The intermittent shuddering that he had felt throughout his life was now undeniable. That shuddering was Art. It was a calling. Gazing in that mirror, he committed himself in an instant, and just as swiftly, all was stripped away. His scholarship, his apartment, his allowance, his shining boots, and, most profoundly, his father’s approval. He tapped his thigh and stepped into a new world.

He stayed for a while in a small empty room of a friend’s apartment. He slept on a simple white iron bed, surrounded by his portfolios. He slept as Eros with his bow balanced by his side, naked, and no flags covered him. That was the boy that I met in the summer of love. I found my way to him, and he opened his eyes and smiled.

We rescued one another. He had been shunned and disowned. I had the emotional and physical scars of a difficult childbirth. We were one another’s buoy, believing in the vows we had made to ourselves. I gave him a silver ring with an anchor; he gave me one in gold with a small stone the color of his eyes. Having little money, we seldom went out at night. We’d play Tim Buckley records and look at our books on Picasso and Surrealism. On rainy evenings languidly lying together, I’d tell him stories or sing him little songs and he would slowly sit up to have a cigarette, with the sheet to his waist. I would glimpse the changeling aspects of my artist: a fragile sailor, a fleeting coquette, or a young geisha with the smallest touch of rouge on the lips. Perhaps he sensed a duality in me, the tomboy who spurned girlish things, yet had secretly yearned for a Communion dress and veil.

From. ART/Rat Bread of Angels.

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Tony Shanahan and I wrote this in 2000. New Party mayhem…..

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Hello everybody, just a few pictures from Spain. More tomorrow. Heading for home…

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Hello everybody, Here are a few shots, more to come. So happy to be back with wonderful memories all connected with books manuscripts and coffee, of course….

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Hello everybody,

Yesterday we played at Riot Fest in Chicago in the rain. The people were great, I have to say they lifted my spirits. I am resting tonight, reading Graham Greene and stopping to say hello. Thank you for waiting for me, I appreciate it so much.

A few pictures, works friends, and good autumnal wishes.

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Tony Shanahan on stand up base and Jackson on guitar. I loved this song when I was young. That love has not diminished. We are recording in Electric Lady Studio at the tail end of the pandemic. It’s such a nice video, I thought you may like it. Im still grappling with my challenges but doing fine….

Thank you all for your supportive, emotional and poetic comments. For those who wanted to know why I didn’t cast blame, there were no facts those first days, and lies and jumping to false conclusions lead to attacking Iraq. My diary pages that week were not focused on blame and revenge, it’s not how I operate. Almost all of you seemed to understand that. Thank you. See you soon.

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Hello everybody,

Quite tired but happy with the work we accomplished. I am just including a few pictures. A stormy sky, a golden half moon. Annapolis is the historic capital of Maryland. It’s amazing to see so many pre revolutionary war structures. I was by the water and watched the storm clouds build above the calm waters. The Quartet had a really nice show there. Though I had to negotiate some challenges I was happy to be singing for the people. I took two phone videos. Here is the second less than ten minutes later. The whole sky changed and soon after torrential rains.

And that night a golden half moon. Hope everyone is well. I will report tomorrow.

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Hello everyone,

It was nice to talk to you. I look forward to passing through this particular challenge, but being as productive as possible. Sorry the video is grainy. P.S I did see the moon, misty and cloudy not red yet but ever beautiful.

Below is Peter Cullen, a very fine man, the voice of Optimus Prime, who passed away today at 85. And beneath is a work by the beautiful Palestine artist Sliman Mansour who passed away at 79.

The world mourns the wondrous Dolly Parton who was as great as philanthropist s a singer songwriter. So we lost three very kind, humanistic souls this week. How lucky we were to have them.

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