The New Yorker:

Finding my own words.

By Patti Smith

In 1967, I stepped out of the Port Authority Bus Terminal with a plaid suitcase. My desire was to become an artist. Perhaps I lacked the necessary skills, but I had the willingness to develop them, for I believed in the truth of my calling. It had come to me like an ecstatic vision. There was no Faustian pact connected with my vow, no expectations from godly elements. I knew I would be on my own, yet still hoped for a compatriot, and Providence led me to him.

Robert Mapplethorpe was an American boy, raised in a devout Catholic family. He had played the saxophone in the high-school band and won an R.O.T.C. scholarship to study graphic arts at Pratt Institute. His mother had great hopes that he would enter the priesthood. But his father envisioned him rising in the ranks of the military, with commercial-art training to fall back on. Robert had pale skin, green eyes, and dark curly hair that was cropped close. He was slightly bowlegged. In accepting the path that his father had chosen for him, he was rewarded with an apartment, shiny knee-­high leather riding boots, and an allowance. At Pratt, he proved himself to be an exceptional draftsman and, for a time, walked the expected path. No one suspected that another self was growing within.

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