Just Kids

  Just Kids by Patti Smith disappoints.  The story of her relationship with Robert Maplethorpe; their careers--combined and separate; and every person she met, garb she wore, and place she parked her butt has such potential. (You may need to recoup the subject of that sentence.)  So where does she go wrong?

First, she writes what amounts to a Cinderella tale without marriage and with homosexuality.
1. Man rescues girl.  Robert's a bit older and more savvy.  He has resources although meager.  She's homeless and starving.  He affords her shelter and artistic guidance.  She joins him--on his terms.
2. Girl becomes man's appendage.  For all of Robert's us-against-the world worldview, it's Robert running the show.  They are so broke that they have to split a grilled cheese sandwich and eat lettuce soup; but Robert can blow $5 on a sealed porn magazine in hopes of some artistic material.  He creates whenever he wants while she holds down 9-to-5 jobs.  They can barely fit into their hotel room together but he secures a loft while she's writing in the hotel's busy lobby.  Etc. She bolsters his ego.  She nurses him through days of trench mouth, impacted wisdom teeth, and high fever.  Thereafter,  he abandons her to hustle men and pick up more diseases.
3. This is a man's world, starring Robert Maplethorpe, alleged artist genius.  Screw her and her life. He discovers men, S&M; high society, and artistic-types' salons.  She lurks in the background, longing to fit in or waits in her room for him to return.  He eventually ditches her.  And it's absolutely no coincidence that afterward, she blossoms.

This all makes for a too-familiar, disappointing story, which the author seems oblivious of.

The second reason that the book is a dud lies with the writing style.  A diary extended into a hagiography promises nothing but insipidness.  Robert, the artist, the lover, the misunderstood.  Come on.  It's more than a little infuriating to this reader that such an intelligent and talented woman waits around one half hour for stoned roommate to tie his shoes so that they can finally go out after she worked at a colossally boring job all day to support him. She tolerates his promiscuity, creepiness, even evilness--without any attempt to analyze him or educate herself.  Someone in the book club lamented that she didn't learn anything from reading this memoir.  I wonder if that's because Smith, herself, doesn't learn anything.  While cataloging her outfits, meals, travels, residences, conversations, and her acquaintances, she never wonders if Robert is toxic for her.  She only praises his creativity and overlooks his self-destruction.  It's either poor, dear, Robert or Robert, creative genius.

Don't read it because you already know this worn-out story of female self-subjugation.