Regardless of how we age and how jaded we inevitably become, we are always profoundly disappointed when the intellectually and expressively gifted among us spew hateful, idiotic, narcissistic blather. It is a blow to the psyche when the supremely talented (and successful) fail society in this way, behaving like ignorant jack-asses. We assume such conduct is beneath an artist's dignity and its expression is definitely too much for our tolerance.
Recently, Nobel Prize winning author V.S. Naipaul stated in an interview with the Royal Geographic Society that, "Inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too."
He then spoke of his publisher who, when she crossed over into writing, produced nothing but "feminine tosh".
That phrase is destined to return to bite ol' V.S. in his saggy ass, a simple but damning expression that illustrates both Naipaul's nasty gender bias as well as his clever way with words.
Without pontificating, without ranting, I will let Naipaul's words stand on their own. I don't know his work and it's too bad because these recent statements do not entice me to explore his venerable anthology.
Instead I will issue a check mate to his statements by discussing my favorite new read, Just Kids by unapologetically sentimental female author, rock and roll pioneer Patti Smith. The high priestess of punk poetry relays the achingly beautiful story of her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. This book is a last request at last fulfilled, the story having brewed, aged, and acquired a luminous patina within the memory of Patti Smith. During one of their last conversations, before he died of AIDS in 1989, Mapplethorpe asked Smith to "write our story. No one but you can write it". Smith subsequently wrote Flowers and The Coral Sea in remembrance of Mapplethorpe but waited twenty years until she "found the right voice" with which to tell the tale.
That voice is wistful and ageless...I was immediately drawn into her world from the beginning of the book. Smith is unabashed and open in her retelling of her precious, unique relationship with Mapplethorpe. That relationship, that deep love defied definition, and the two artists struggle to figure out how to define it themselves. Classic soulmates, their love transcended mere sexuality and simple friendship. I doubt there are many couples who are lucky enough to find that kind of life long devotion. Smith aptly describes their relationship as being similar to the siblings Elizabeth and Paul in Jean Cocteau's "Les Enfants Terrible", brother and sister who live and love in a world of their own invention.
In many ways I was predominantly drawn into the story as it speaks of life as a burgeoning artist in NewYork City at the beginning of the 1970s. That life, as wrought with sickness, hunger, and desperation it was, was still golden, wonderfully simple, and endlessly creative. A single hot dog from Nathan's was, to them at the time, a luxury to be cherished and savored. Second hand trinkets and imported baubles, traded between them as tokens of their unique bond, became auspicious talismans. These bits and pieces of their creative lives together tell of a lifestyle that no longer enjoys the respect it should. Simple joys, humble treasures, bestowed with profound meaning then passed along. And art, the creation of art, by people who literally, outspokenly, dedicated their lives to that muse. It is a long lost national treasure, that way of living, that set of values...it would be nearly impossible to pull off in this day and age, when more is more.
Smith and Mapplethorpe occupied crumbling residences and historic hotels. They were showered with glitter tossed upon them by the deliciously kooky drag troupe from the West Coast, the Cockettes, during their infamous visit to New York City. They were personally touched by the tragic rise and fall of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, they skirted the edges of the whole Warhol/Max's Kansas City crowd without becoming jaded victims of its influence. They were witness to the alpha and omega of many an artistic legend. Smith discusses how beloved Warhol transgender stars Candy Darling and Jackie Curtis were brilliant, loaded with talent, but so far ahead of their time they would not live to experience the veneration they deserved. All of this time was spent in a microcosm of their own special planet, where Smith and Mapplethorpe wrote, drew, created, critiqued, and supported one another faithfully.
Back to V.S. Naipaul and his hatred of feminine "sentimentality"... the literary world is a far richer place because of this (and so many other) woman, Patti Smith's, sentimentality, which never spills over into the cheap or maudlin. As if longing and cherished memories have no place in exquisite writing. With her tender memories, Smith has given readers a threefold gift. One is the history of a distinguished artistic scene, one whose echos reverberate still within popular culture. The second is the story of a life long friendship that defies definition, one that gave birth to so much beauty and creativity, some of it too remarkable to understand. The third is a lesson, almost an opportunity, to examine that history and that friendship and hopefully glean for ourselves a better understanding of life and how to live it.
