“You were in love with me—I have no doubt about that—and love is by nature extravagant.”
Someone once told me that in a relationship one person is alwa“You were in love with me—I have no doubt about that—and love is by nature extravagant.”
Someone once told me that in a relationship one person is always going to love more than he or she receives in return. One partner might even worship the other. That makes sense to me. What I have more trouble understanding is a relationship in which one person does all the giving and expects very little to nothing in return. I mean to say, I don’t doubt that this can occur, but I just can’t believe that this could be rewarding. And I don’t mean simply when love is denied. I mean an actual relationship where one partner treats the other’s love, his or her passion, with scorn. That’s what I ultimately took away from this little novel. I know that Coetzee meant much more than that, but perhaps Coetzee and I just don’t quite see eye to eye (this isn’t the first time!). I can never feel for his characters for some reason. If I could feel for them even the slightest bit, I’d likely fall for just about any message he feeds me.
“She believes, on the whole, in first impressions, when the heart delivers its verdict, either reaching out to the stranger or recoiling from him. Her heart did not reach out to the Pole when she saw him stride onto the platform, toss back his mane, and address the keyboard.”
The Pole is a seventy year old concert pianist made famous for his controversial interpretation of Chopin’s work. Beatriz is twenty-four years his junior and rather unhappily married. The Pole falls for Beatriz. He falls hard and fast. She doesn’t reciprocate but is intrigued by what she considers to be a bit of nonsense. Despite herself, she can’t help but reflect on the nature of this “relationship”, about how such a man can be content with simply worshiping her as he does with that little to nothing in return which I mentioned above. He would be content to love this woman even for the briefest moment in time. So I began to reflect myself. Perhaps this was an older man’s wish - to have one last “love”.
“For just a day even. For just a minute. A minute is enough. What is time? Time is nothing. We have our memory. In memory there is no time. I will hold you in my memory. And you, maybe you will remember me too.”
I don’t know, on a sentence level I really admire Coetzee’s writing. But I fail to feel any sort of warmth in his prose. And I guess that is something I look for in a story like this. I don’t need it to be romantic or sentimental (Coetzee would refuse to be labeled as such, I’m certain), but I need something to bring me over to his side so I can nod my head and say, Yes, I completely understand! While I fell for the Pole, I still don’t quite get Beatriz. But maybe I’m not supposed to.
As an aside, the blurb for Coetzee’s novel states it is “evocative of Joyce’s ‘The Dead’.” Go read that short story if you want to learn what really grabbed my heart.
“Is love a state of mind, a state of being, a phenomenon, a fashion that recedes, even as we watch it, into the past, into the backward reaches of history?”...more
“It was the summer Coltrane died. The summer of 'Crystal Ships.' Flower children raised their empty arms and China exploded the H-bomb. Jimi Hendrix s“It was the summer Coltrane died. The summer of 'Crystal Ships.' Flower children raised their empty arms and China exploded the H-bomb. Jimi Hendrix set his guitar in flames in Monterey. AM radio played 'Ode to Billie Joe.' There were riots in Newark, Milwaukee, and Detroit. It was the summer of Elvira Madigan, the summer of love. And in this shifting, inhospitable atmosphere, a chance encounter changed the course of my life. It was the summer I met Robert Mapplethorpe.”
*Warning: Slightly gooey, syrupy review ahead. Written on the eve of my daughter’s seventeenth birthday, with all the standard warm and fuzzy feelings you might expect and loathe.*
This beautiful, magical memoir is an ode to art, to music, to writing, to New York City, to life, to love, but most of all to enduring friendship. True friendship that lifts the other up, affirming one’s worth and sustaining the soul. While this is Patti Smith’s memoir, I had the feeling throughout that it was really a tribute to Robert Mapplethorpe and his art. As it turns out, Patti made a promise to Robert that she would one day write their story. What a story this is! I knew little about Patti, other than a couple of her songs, before reading this. I knew almost nothing about Robert. To think that I could have missed out on such an inspirational life adventure! This is a quintessential tale of struggling artists, living in New York City, trying to make their big break.
“I felt constantly confined by the notion that we are born into a world where everything was mapped out by those before us. I struggled to suppress destructive impulses and worked instead on creative ones.”
“A child imparts a doll or tin soldier with magical life-breath. The artist animates his work as the child his toys. Robert infused objects, whether for art or life, with his creative impulse, his sacred sexual power.”
Smith’s writing is poetic, conversational, and candid. She talks about her romantic relationships with Robert and later with other men, as well as Robert’s relationships with his other lovers, including his most lasting with his patron and lifelong friend, Sam Wagstaff. She never apologizes or shows regret for any of their choices. Life was what it was, bringing the good with the bad. They lived the lives they chose, and there is nothing to be sorry for in doing just that. It makes one feel wholly nostalgic for a different sort of past.
“I was attracted to Robert’s work because his visual vocabulary was akin to my poetic one, even if we seemed to be moving toward different destinations.”
Naturally, in a book like this, one is likely to stumble upon some name-dropping. It didn’t bother me one bit. When an artist is making his or her way in the world, there are going to be others that come into their orbit and influence their lives. It seems to me that it would be impossible to write a story of one’s life without mentioning those persons that played a large part. Living for a time in the iconic Chelsea Hotel, Patti and Robert ran into a number of other musicians, artists, and writers. I’m not going to mention names here, but these were sometimes funny little stories, often involving misunderstandings. Many of these went on to become household names, while others never made it to the big leagues. Patti seemed very humble about all of it. There’s no affected swagger to her eventual fame.
“Many would not make it… Taken down, the stardom they so desired just out of reach, tarnished stars falling from the sky. I feel no sense of vindication as one of the handfuls of survivors. I would rather have seen them all succeed, catch the brass ring. As it turned out, it was I who got one of the best horses.”
I don’t read a lot of memoirs, but I’m going to have to say this has got to rank up there with the best of them. I love to read about the creative process, what gives one the urge to share something sacred, something that reveals the stuff of one’s self. What does it take to succeed? Everyone has dreams, but only a select few actually realize them. I spent some time this past weekend listening to Patti Smith on Spotify and searching for Robert Mapplethorpe’s photography on the internet. I’m smitten by the two of them now, and I’m not ashamed to say I couldn’t close Just Kids without grabbing a tissue. A genuine celebration of art and life!
“Only a fool would regret being had by art; or a saint.”...more
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