Patti Smith is one of a handful of enigmatic pop icons about which many—even dudes who scour every last liner note—presume much but discover how little they knew after their hero broadcasts some self-revelatory incident. (Bob Dylan is an obvious other, as his own autobiography and the surrealistic, imagined biopic, I’m Not There, denoted so astonishingly). For my money, the second part of Hotel Chelsea chapter in Just Kids dispels so many Smithian presumptions, I finished it wondering: Where is she?
Pre-read, when I thought of Patti Smith, these were the tropes that came to mind: gender-bending pop poet; ground breaking punk performer; flat out independent woman. For me, it was that last one that was always boldly underlined, probably because I thought it was so cool that she was so defiantly not known as a sex symbol in that era of centerfolds. Looking at any timeline of photographs or album covers of her is evidence enough. Androgynous? Yes. Alluring—for sure. Sexpot? No way. She never went for anything obviously girly: not interested in glittery maquillage (the cosmetic of choice for Factory stars and wannabe’s), nor in emulating downtown contemporaries such as Blondie’s Debbie Harry—too cotton candy-ish lip pouting.
Yet, fascinatingly, in this section of “Hotel Chelsea” Smith’s catalogues with stripping candor the many men on whom she was dependent—and who dumped her. There was Jim Carroll, early punk rocker and author of The Basketball Diaries; Smith cared deeply for him, even through his co-hustling with Robert, and then he leaves her. There was the then-married playwright Sam Shepard, with whom she has a protracted, intimate affair and co-creates a play; he dumps her. There was Allen Lanier of the heavy metal band Blue Oyster Cult; she even moves in with him, and then he dumps her. At one point, Smith writes that Robert, Allen, and Sam get together and “hashed it out” to determine how, between the three of them, they were going to support her financially.
Then, we see Smith getting dragged around by her social-climbing ersatz husband, Robert, to fancy parties with Met curators and Diane Von Furstenberg—expected to summon social graces to advance his career. Then we see Smith “there, there, dear”-ing Janis Joplin, as the latter sobs that men never go for her. Then, there she is again, the object of the ultimate male gaze in Robert’s photographs.
Where the heck did that “flat out independent woman” idea come from? It struck me, as I was trolling around YouTube and stumbled on her 1979 performance of The Who’s “My Generation,” that though Smith would, of course, ultimately—and, per her memoir’s trajectory, soon—come wholly into her own, that in judging her prematurely in these pages, I had made the ultimate amateur’s mistake: I’d forgotten that, though she’s now plastered in iconography, she was, is, not a paragon but a person of her time. And that was a time in which even the most flat out of independent women were still male-dependent and, to a large extent, arm candy.
In watching that performance, and Smith’s punky take on the pop song of its time, I thought: There she is. Exactly where she ought have been—sandwiched between two male guitarists, but holding her own as the main attraction—at just that moment.
I am compelled by Patti Smith’s loyalty. From what I have read so far, Smith is incredibly loyal, especially to those who have fallen ill like Robert (Hotel Chelsea) and her childhood friend Stephanie (Monday’s Children). Perhaps this intense loyalty was what made her vulnerable when she was part of the a relationship with either Robert Allen or Sam , but at the same time influenced who she was at the time.
I am compelled by Patti Smith’s loyalty. From what I have read so far, Smith is incredibly loyal, especially to those who have fallen ill, Robert and her childhood friend Stephanie. Perhaps this intense loyalty was what made her vulnerable in her romantic relationships but at the same time influenced who she was at the time (Hotel Chelsea). I look forward to learning more about how loyalty affects her life.
Although I was not very familiar with Patti Smith until recently, I have found that her legacy as an independent punk woman has left as profound of an impression as her music. Even in early chapters of Just Kids, one can see a tendency towards androgyny or towards a sort of gender bending experience. She was a noncompliant Lost Boy roaming the Patch of her childhood bare chested like the rest of them. Early on, Smith distinguishes herself as a fierce independent, who is sometimes seduced by convention, but later personalizes her experiences (think: experience with child’s prayer). Yet, in continuing to read the memoir her naiveté as well as her disposal for being a stereotypically feminine nurturing figure, put such fiercely feminist characteristics into question.
What I find most interesting about her experience of the feminine mystique is how closely linked this appraisal of stereotypical roles may be linked up with Smith’s brief commentary on her relationship with her mother. In the early pages of her memoir, Smith proclaims that at times she resented her mother, “She was the messenger and also the message.” In the Chelsea Hotel passages of the book, one cannot help but notice how often Smith is at the services of others, especially Robert. She writes, “I knew how to take care of him. I was good at tending the sick, bringing one of out of fever, for I had learned that from my mother.” Although not an explicit restatement, one can see the ways in which the decisions which Smith is making throughout her time of devotion to Robert are heavily influenced by the messages and signs she has read off of her mother.
While not a complete explanation for her choices, the parallel between Smith and her mother is interesting to note given how little Smith seems to acknowledge her familial ties. One may even go as far as to continue to extrapolate other similarities (think: Smith’s projection of meaning unto objects and her mother’s gift to Robert). In many ways the simple labeling of mother as message and messenger is deeply self reflexive, yet are there other less evident instances in which Smith proves not only to be a woman of her generation but her mother’s daughter? In reading on and trying to understand Smith’s later shift, I will keep my eyes peeled for this particular connection.