Just Kids by Patti Smith: A Reflective Journey Through Youth and Art
I must admit, it was the notion of diving into Patti Smith’s Just Kids that pulled at my curiosity. A memoir revolving around the vibrant yet tumultuous world of New York City in the late 1960s and 70s? Count me in! I stumbled into this book as a fulfilling task for Book Riot’s 2018 Read Harder Challenge—specifically, #12, focusing on a celebrity memoir. Bonus points because I’ve owned this gem for over a year, and even managed to snag some insider advice from Nancy Pearl about which memoirs pack a real punch. So with anticipation simmering, I cracked it open, ready to explore the deep well of creativity that Smith had promised.
At its core, Just Kids is a love story—not just between Smith and her muse, Robert Mapplethorpe, but also a love letter to youth, ambition, and the artistic spirit. Through richly detailed narratives, Smith drags readers along the canals of her past, recounting the highs and lows of being young, poor, and artistically ambitious. But therein lies the heart of my tepid response. Yes, Patti Smith captures the raw essence of life in a city bursting with creative energy, but I found myself wading through minutiae that often felt more like a checklist than an emotive journey. The countless details of clothing, trinkets, and daily rituals created a sense of distance—an itinerary rather than an immersive experience.
Smith’s style is undeniably poetic, but the poetic license sometimes morphs into an overwhelming focus on props, overshadowing the emotional gravity of her journey. It made me ponder what it means to hold onto memories, as she notes her “flexible imagination,” while recounting events with such intricacy that depth often seemed lost. For instance, her storytelling about her time at the Chelsea Hotel is mesmerizing, capturing its “shabby elegance” as a universe of its own. Yet, I couldn’t help but crave more raw connection and insight, perhaps along the lines of the curious snippets she mentions—like the casual finding of a 26-volume set of Henry James—that could have offered more than passing mention.
One particularly striking moment comes when Robert, shaken, recounts a failed theft of a print from Brentano’s. Smith writes, “He imagined they were on to him and ducked into the bathroom, slid it out of his trousers, shredded it, and flushed it down the toilet.” It’s a moment that encapsulates desperation and flair, evoking a sense of shared complicity in the chaos of youth and art that I craved throughout the book.
While I appreciate the struggles Smith recounts, the intertwining of struggle and serendipity stands out as well. Here’s where Just Kids shines—showing that art is not just born from hardship, but also moments of serendipitous luck and timing. Yet, I wanted more depth. I wanted the emotions behind those countless experiences, rather than a mere recounting of events.
In the end, I found myself at a crossroad with Just Kids. It’s a beautifully written memoir that doesn’t quite deliver the tear-jerking, spine-tingling excitement I had hoped for. I suspect that readers enamored by the bohemian lifestyle, art, and the New York scene will find solace here, while those looking for emotional resonance might feel a sense of distance.
So, if you’re fascinated by the world of art and culture in a past that shaped many, Just Kids might just be your ticket. Ultimately, I walked away with a newfound admiration for Patti Smith and her journey—an experience certainly worth my time, even if it wasn’t the riveting ride I anticipated. Here’s to turning the pages of life, artists, and the stories we share.