Patti Smith
Maybe it was my penchant for dating gay men or my rebellious, clout-chasing spirit, wrapped up in a package of black hair and boho-punk sensibility, but Patti Smith’s work became the soundtrack to my life. In highschool I spent hours consuming her concert footage, watching her light cigarettes in Levi jeans and cementing her status in my eyes as “The Only It Girl. Ever.” Just Kids entered my life and whispered passages to me like a trusted confidante. She was writing to me. The mosaic of greats that influenced her became a portal to my world of literature like Rimbaud, Baudelaire, and Ginsburg. I identified incredulously with her work: her life was a misshapen mirror reflecting my life’s complexities.
Everywhere I looked, I found her work in new places. Her legendary status isn’t confined to her musical or literary pursuits; it spilled over into my Instagram feed and email. She writes weird poetry snippets, always paired with a cup of black coffee, that make the mundane feel profound. She’s still at it with a charming substack consisting of her poetic ramblings and photos of her cats. Patti isn’t just an artist; she’s an enduring muse, an inspiration that aged as gracefully as she did.
In true Patti Smith fashion, I embarked on the quintessential journey for every annoying 20-something year old: a move to New York City in the fall. I landed in a tenement style apartment in the heart of Chinatown. I ran across the city with my friends, watched cigarette smoke float from my fingers, and indulged in afternoon coffees. Dates compared me lovingly to Patti, as if they were on their own journey to find her. In the late summer, I became a hostess at a fancy restaurant in Soho, where I spent my time batting my eyes at the cooks so I could get some french fries or playing Jenga with tables and unhappy customers. (I was horrible at my job).
One midnight, after a particularly soul-draining shift, I met her. I had just zipped up my jacket and embarked on my trip home when I noticed a form walking ahead of me. Only minutes away from the restaurant, there she was—a black silhouette with long, stringy gray hair. She had tote bags hanging from her arms like a Christmas tree decorated by the grocer. My stomach did somersaults, and my back contorted. The coolest woman on the planet was just steps away! After a good minute of frantic internal dialogue, I gathered my courage, and went in for the kill: I introduced myself to Ms. Smith. To my surprise, she seemed pleased, and even asked me to walk with her. As we strolled a few blocks, my knees shaking, we delved into her newfound passion for animal liberation. Fresh out of her sold out show at Madison Square Garden (she apologized for being tired), she vividly described the swaying black mass of the crowd. I listened to her in awe, unsure if this was really happening to me.
Finally, our paths were about to diverge—I was heading towards Little Italy, and she towards the West Village. Before parting ways, I mustered the courage to ask her to sign my journal. With a gracious smile, she wrote, "Tonight every night, people have the power." So now, I have new words to live by.