There are a few people on this spinning planet of ours that open their eyes fully conscious of what they need to do until the hourglass runs out. Patti Smith is one of those people. Her desire to be an artist overlaps so symbiotically with her work that to imagine her as anything but seems like a thoughtcrime.
'Bread of Angels', a phrase that Patti coined to refer to "the unsullied memory of unpremeditated gestures of kindness", is a memoir that captures the details of her Dickensian childhood, growing up in a poor family in post-war America, a sickly, gangly child predisposed to prolonged bouts of illnesses with nothing but her vivid imagination to offer respite and recovery. Soon joined by her younger siblings, Linda and Todd, the trio was inseparable, forever occupied in innocent games that offered a break to their overworked parents.
What followed were a series of relocations, destabilizing the family's foothold as they struggled to build their home afresh. In between, by virtue of stepping into the world, the children are exposed to the kindness and cruelty of others, especially the adults. It is this point which affected me the most (as it did in Arundhati Roy's memoir as well), I do not understand or cannot rationalize how a grown person can find it within themselves to be intentionally malicious towards a child.
Owing to her illnesses, Patti discovers a love for reading nourished by her parents, and by sheer chance stumbles upon the world of art which was to forever transform her. "Art is the highest form of hope", that chapter begins with this quote from Gerhard Richter, and proceeds to describe her visit to the Philadelphia Museum of Art as she stood in front of a Cubist paintings, mesmerized by Sargent, Modigliani, and Picasso. The rest is history. Well, history as documented in 'Just Kids'.
Subsequent sections cover her coming into fame, meeting her future husband, Fred 'Sonic' Smith, finding success, and leaving it behind to start a family in Detroit. It is here, amidst domesticity that she is devastated by the losses of her closest people - Robert Mapplethorpe, Fred Smith and Todd Smith, in a matter of years. We understand how she compelled herself to return to public life through a mix of personal and financial compulsions. We also learn, almost in real time with Patti, a revelation about her parenthood that was news to her too.
Patti is an unparalleled literary voice with a timbre that makes it seem like she is attuned to some otherworldly frequency of the universe. There's the tendency to daydream, another to have an inner voice, and yet another to live in an alternate reality; Patti Smith writes as if she has access to all of them, that her consciousness is permeable, and she can flow from reality to that space at will.
I will admit, and anyone who has followed my page knows this, that I am partial towards her, I adore her writing and am inclined to rate her higher than a casual reader who isn't aware of the lore surrounding her. Admittedly, this book was somewhat scattered in places. If you have read her other works ('Just Kids', 'M Train', 'Year of the Monkey', and 'Woolgathering' in particular), this serves more to complement the missing pieces of those books while mapping out her childhood in detail. The latter sections tend to jump around without much flow and in the hands of an inferior writer would have been much clunkier. It's an illuminating memoir but does not have the power of 'Just Kids' or 'M Train'. Yet, in the collective oeuvre, it fits snugly, adding to the tapestry of her art.