Este post inclui o vídeo de "Horses" de Patti Smith (ao vivo).
Patti Smith, talvez a principal protagonista feminina do início da cena punk rock nova-iorquina e do CBGB (ver posts anteriores), acaba de lançar um livro intitulado Just Kids: From Brooklyn to the Chelsea Hotel, a Life of Art and Friendship (a edição britânica é hoje colocada à venda).
O livro, que é em grande medida um tributo a um dos seus maiores amigos, o fotógrafo Robert Mapplethorpe (falecido em 1989), autor da imagem da capa do seu primeiro álbum, Horses, descreve a chegada de Patti a Nova Iorque e o encontro imediato com Robert; os primeiros anos da vida e da carreira da cantora/compositora/poeta/ fotógrafa/artista plástica e a sua relação - de grande intimidade e identificação intelectual e espiritual - com Mapplethorpe.
Foto de Robert Mapplethorpe: Capa do LP Horses (1975)
Essa identificação motivou também colaborações artísticas como a exposição conjunta realizada em 1978 na Robert Miller Gallery, na qual figuravam as fotos que Mapplethorpe fizera de Smith, e os desenhos que Smith fizera de Mapplethorpe.
Aqui ficam alguns excertos do livro que revelam um registo simples e directo, intimista, fluido e com um inegável sentido de humor.
"By the end of my first week I was very hungry and still had nowhere to go. I took to sleeping in the store. I would hide in the bathroom while the others left, and after the nightwatchman locked up I would sleep on my coat. In the morning it would appear I had gotten to work early. I hadn't a dime and rummaged through employees' pockets for change to buy peanut butter crackers in the vending machine. Demoralised by hunger, I was shocked when there was no envelope for me on payday. I had not understood that the first week's pay was withheld, and I went back to the cloakroom in tears.
When I returned to my counter, I noticed a guy lurking around, watching me. He had a beard and was wearing a pinstripe shirt . The supervisor introduced us. He was a science-fiction writer and he wanted to take me out to dinner. Even though I was 20, my mother's warning not to go anywhere with a stranger reverberated in my consciousness. But the prospect of dinner weakened me, and I accepted.We walked down to a restaurant at the base of the Empire State Building. I had never eaten at a nice place in New York City.But even though I was starving, I could hardly enjoy it. I felt uncomfortable and had no idea how to handle the situation. It seemed like he was spending a lot of money on me and I got to worrying what he would expect in return.
After the meal we walked all the way downtown. He suggested we go up to his apartment for a drink. This was it, I thought, the pivotal moment my mother had warned me about. I was looking around desperately when I saw a young man approaching. It was as if a small portal of future opened, and out stepped the boy from Brooklyn who had chosen the Persian necklace, like an answer to a teenage prayer. I immediately recognised his slightly bowlegged gait and his tousled curls. He was dressed in dungarees and a sheepskin vest. Around his neck hung strands of beaded necklaces, a hippie shepherd boy. I ran up to him and grabbed his arm.
"Hello, do you remember me?"
"Of course," he smiled.
"I need help." I blurted, "Will you pretend you're my boyfriend?"
"Sure," he said, as if he wasn't surprised by my sudden appearance.
I dragged him over to the science-fiction guy. "This is my boyfriend," I said breathlessly. "He's been looking for me. He's really mad. He wants me to come home now." The guy looked at us both quizzically.
"Run," I cried, and the boy grabbed my hand and we took off, through the park across to the other side.
Out of breath, we collapsed on someone's stoop. "Thank you, you saved my life," I said. He accepted this news with a bemused expression.
"I never told you my name, it's Patti."
"My name is Bob."
"Bob," I said, really looking at him for the first time. "Somehow you don't seem like a Bob to me. Is it okay if I call you Robert?"
(...)
In February Robert took me to the Factory to see rushes of Trash. It was the first time we had been invited, and Robert was filled with anticipation. I was not moved by the movie; perhaps it wasn't French enough for me. Robert circulated easily in the Warhol circle, though taken aback by the clinical atmosphere of the new Factory, and disappointed that Andy himself did not make an appearance.
As we were leaving in the elevator, Fred Hughes, who managed the Factory, addressed me in a condescending voice. "Ohhh, your hair is very Joan Baez. Are you a folksinger?" I don't know why, as I admired her, but it bugged me.
Robert took my hand. "Just ignore him," he said.
I found myself in a dark humor. One of those nights when the mind starts looping bothersome things, I got to thinking about what Fred Hughes had said. Screw him, I thought, annoyed at being dismissed. I looked at myself in the mirror over the sink. I realised that I hadn't cut my hair any different since I was a teenager. I sat on the floor and spread out the few rock magazines I had. I usually bought them to get any new pictures of Bob Dylan, but it wasn't Bob I was looking for. I cut out all the pictures I could find of Keith Richards. I studied them for a while and took up the scissors, machete-ing my way out of the folk era. I washed my hair in the hallway bathroom and shook it dry. It was a liberating experience.
When Robert came home, he was surprised but pleased. "What possessed you?" he asked. I just shrugged. But when we went to Max's, my haircut caused quite a stir. I couldn't believe all the fuss over it. Though I was still the same person, my social status suddenly elevated. My Keith Richards haircut was a real discourse magnet. I thought of the girls I knew back in high school. They dreamed of being singers but wound up hairdressers. I desired neither vocation, but in weeks to come I would be cutting a lot of people's hair, and singing at La MaMa. Someone at Max's asked me if I was androgynous. I asked what that meant. "You know, like Mick Jagger." I figured that must be cool. I thought the word meant both beautiful and ugly at the same time. Whatever it meant, with just a haircut, I miraculously turned androgynous overnight."
© Patti Smith, 2010
© Patti Smith, 2010
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