Last night I finished Patti Smith’s book about her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, Just Kids. Lying in bed with tears rolling down into my neck, I had so many thoughts racing through my head. Life, death, New York, art, the artist, the idea that a love can transcend multiple planes. I laid still, taking in everything I had just read and letting it permeate. It was a good book and I enjoyed the journey.
However, during my time reading Just Kids, there was an underlying current that kept gnawing at my psyche. An idea that made me question my own views on art and the artist. Mid-way through the book I began questioning the validity of the two characters. I chastised them both for being directionless, for creating for the sake of creating with seeming disregard to what the medium was. To me, they appeared to be waiting for something to stick. Robert in particular bothered me for his creative ambitions seemed to solely revolve around fame and fortune. His creative outlets (more…)