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In 1967, I exited the bus station at Port Authority, clutching a suitcase patterned with plaid. My ambition was to be a creative. Possibly, I was lacking the required skills, yet I possessed the resolve to cultivate them, as I was convinced of my true calling. It had befallen me like a rapturous vision. No deal with the Devil was associated with my pledge, nor any expectations from sacred entities. I was aware that I would be alone, but still hoped for a fellow spirit, and destiny directed me to him.
Robert Mapplethorpe was an American youth, brought up in a deeply religious Catholic household. He had played the alto sax in the school orchestra and secured an R.O.T.C. grant to study visual communication at Pratt Institute. His mother harbored aspirations for him to join the clergy. However, his father foresaw him ascending the military ladder, with training in commercial art as a fallback. Robert had fair complexion, emerald eyes, and dark, curly hair cut short. He had a slight bow in his legs. By accepting the course his father had selected, he was rewarded with an apartment, gleaming, knee-high leather riding boots, and a stipend. At Pratt, he demonstrated exceptional skill as a draftsman and, for a period, followed the expected path. No one guessed that a different persona was developing inside him.
At twenty, Robert put down his saxophone, his vestments, and his firearm. He had experimented with LSD. He observed his reflection and saw neither a clergyman nor a future commander in the R.O.T.C. He recognized himself. While staring in that mirror, he committed to his art at once, and just as rapidly everything else was taken away: his grant, his flat, his allowance, his polished boots, and, most meaningfully, his father’s blessing. He remained for a time in a tiny, vacant room in a friend’s apartment. He rested on a basic white iron bed, surrounded by his portfolios. That was the lad whom I encountered during the summer of love.
We saved each other. He had been ostracized and disinherited. I was healing from the emotional and physical aftermath of a complicated delivery and the determination, at only twenty years old, to entrust my daughter to a different family. I presented Robert with a silver ring bearing an anchor; he gifted me one in gold. With limited funds, we rarely ventured out at night. We would listen to Tim Buckley recordings and study our volumes on Picasso and Surrealism. On wet evenings, while lying side by side, I’d recount stories or hum melodies, and he would slowly sit up to light a cigarette, the blanket at his waist. I would glimpse the protean facets of my artist: a delicate mariner, a fleeting flirt, or a youthful geisha with a hint of blush on her lips. Perhaps he detected a dichotomy within me, the tomboy who had rejected feminine pursuits yet secretly pined for a Communion gown. On Palm Sunday, Robert presented me with another type of dress, a threadbare garment of handkerchief linen. It mirrored the tunic donned by the woman in “Liberty Leading the People,” by Delacroix. I named it my liberty dress.
The Chelsea Hotel, 1971.
Leaving our refuge in Brooklyn, Robert and I relocated to the Chelsea Hotel. Robert dedicated himself to photography, endeavoring to extend the form’s perimeters. He was soon to encounter his close companion and future benefactor, Sam Wagstaff, who completely admired his work. Our chamber was too confined to operate in, hence I composed verse in the Chelsea’s foyer, crossing paths with a rush of musicians and writers.
Eventually, Robert took to residing in a nearby loft; I remained at the hotel with my daring new lover, the playwright Sam Shepard. When I received the chance to recite my poems at St. Mark’s Church, opening for Gerard Malanga, I desired to attempt something unique. Sam proposed that I find a guitarist to complement the vigor of my lines, and I was drawn to the concept. I had just been introduced to the author Lenny Kaye, who was employed at the record shop Village Oldies, and he mentioned that he played guitar a bit. Lenny never hesitated. If I pictured a vehicular collision, he recreated one. If I felt like singing a blues tune, he plucked the chords.
In springtime, Sam and I wrote a play entitled “Cowboy Mouth,” in which we assumed the leading roles. Sam incorporated instructions for a segment where our characters spontaneously created a dispute. I had never improvised on stage, but Sam advised me not to be concerned, that making errors was impossible. His strategy was straightforward: should you miss a rhythm, create another.
In 1973, I transferred into a modest apartment on MacDougal Street, opposite Kettle of Fish, the pub that Kerouac once frequented. Robert arrived one morning, carrying peyote buds wrapped within a cloth. I was reluctant to misuse a consecrated drug, but I confided in Robert and we shared it. Time lost significance, and the morning diffused into evening. Where did you travel to? he inquired. I had entered a vacant mountain devoid of a peak, and an incredible bird materialized that faded into whiteness. The bird soared to the mountain’s ridge, and its noble head became the pinnacle. I was able to see both within and without. Fifty-two stars descended, visages of fate, transforming into a deck of cards. And what about you? I questioned. Robert smiled. It’s all present—I crafted it for you. He presented me with a charm, a slender length of rawhide tied and strung with glass beads, a cowboy’s rosary.
We journeyed down Bleecker Street to the Pink Tea Cup. Robert requested pancakes, and I consumed catfish accompanied by grits and dark coffee. I recall reflecting that, even when affected by a holy drug, he was the artist and I the narrator. No one considers things as we do, he declared. Then he departed into the night.
In the evenings, perched on my fire escape, I perused Mrabet, Genet, Cossery, and Paul Bowles. I cooked couscous. I listened to Patty Waters and danced solo to the Velvet Underground. I performed in Sam’s plays. I enjoyed being onstage, but I was becoming weary of the repetitiveness of theatre, uttering another individual’s words night after night. I favored writing and articulating my own thoughts.
At St. Mark’s Church, I had been asked to perform with Jim Carroll and Allen Ginsberg. I was privileged to share the stage with these exceptional poets, but I still felt the urge to extend further. I chanted and sang my poems, frequently accompanied by Lenny on electric guitar, in galleries and libraries, atop buildings, and even at a planetarium. Bob Dylan was my exemplar: his verbiage, his manner of walking, his snap-tab collared shirt, dark spectacles. Nonetheless, I never once felt like him; I felt like myself.
Lenny and I were amassing a modest, supportive following. Rimbaud was a guide; during my teenage years, I’d been moved by “A Season in Hell,” which was as much an ignoble confession as poetry. You’ll remain a hyena, Rimbaud writes, ripping himself apart, struggling with the civil conflict of his character. I aimed to pursue him along his devastating spiritual course, to broaden musically. We recruited the pianist Richard Sohl, who was younger than us, with lengthy golden locks. He was perceptive, classically trained, and could perform Mendelssohn concertos, popular tunes, rock, all with the same carefree manner. I could endlessly drift over Richard’s rhythmic chord structures, and Lenny was liberated to play interpretively. We evolved into an entity, three to entangle, as Lenny would put it.
There was no scheme, no arrangement, solely an organic upheaval that transported me from written to spoken language. We rehearsed in a room behind the former Victoria Theatre, on the west side of Times Square. Amid intense rain, we hosted tryouts for a guitarist-and-bass player. Ivan Král, a talented émigré from Czechoslovakia, was distinctive from the others, the majority of whom declined to perform in a band led by a woman. Our exercises encompassed hours of effortlessly blending verse with three chords, affording me an undulating field to riff upon.
In 1974, we discovered like minds in Tom Verlaine and Richard Hell, both poets, who established the group Television. They had constructed a small stage at CBGB, the run-down tavern on the Bowery. We were all pursuing the novel, combining poetry and rock, stripping away pretense. The ensuing spring, we paired with Television and embarked upon a five-week residency at CBGB. We played Thursday through Sunday, two sets each night. The small pub, featuring its pool table and graffitied restrooms, was still relatively unknown. There were lively nights and quiet ones. There were audio problems, equipment malfunctions, tears, and minor victories. No one was logging failure; each evening, we could delve into the inner landscape of our melodies and the outer expanses of improvisation. Wandering through the band’s current, I felt no dread of stumbling, and simply heeded Sam’s counsel when I did. Lou Reed made an appearance, as the evenings grew more charged. Robert did as well, clad in his motorcycle jacket. By the close of April, for the first time, CBGB was denying entry to patrons.
In June of 1975, we performed at the Bitter End, in the Village. It marked our initial performance with a drummer, Jay Dee Daugherty, signaling our true status as a rock band. The instant I stepped onto the stage, I knew something was different; I could sense it, like elevated moisture in the air. Afterward, Bob Dylan entered our dressing area. I overheard that unmistakable voice call out—Any poets in here? Overwhelmed with adrenaline, I blurted out—I loathe poetry. I’m uncertain why I spoke those words, but he merely laughed.
For a period, we inhabited the same street, and occasionally he’d escort me wherever he was headed. One night, we visited a loft in the West Village. The individuals were somewhat older, and I sensed that I was being scrutinized. I sat at Dylan’s feet, and he picked up an acoustic guitar and played every song that would be featured on his “Desire” album. The tunes were a blessing to hear, but after a while I became uneasy. He was preparing to perform another song when I arose. Are you departing? he asked. Yes, I answered timidly. It’s not really my milieu.
Bob never seemed bothered by anything I uttered, hence I felt at ease expressing my thoughts. I cannot assert that we were companions, but he appeared to value my judgment. He needed a screenwriter for a film he was arranging, and I recommended Sam. Subsequently, he inquired if I knew any female singers for his new recording.
Well, I am a vocalist, I said.
No, I mean a genuine singer.
I’m not a genuine vocalist?
No, he chuckled. I mean, you’re more like myself.
I feigned offense but I was delighted.
A performance at Schaefer Music Festival, in Central Park, 1976.
On occasion, I longed for writing to be my singular profession, but some impetus persisted in directing me elsewhere. I located an apartment close to St. Mark’s Church, a walkup on the sixth floor with a tub within the cooking area. Tom Verlaine resided next door. We had no telephones, but our kitchen windows confronted one another, and we’d call out or merely encounter each other on the lane.
I didn’t wander too far east, as considerable hard-drug activity occurred beyond Avenue B. However, encompassed within our limits were St. Mark’s, boasting its dogwood trees and compact graveyard; there were chocolate egg creams at Gem Spa newsstand, scrambled eggs and challah bread at B & H, Italian bakeries, and early-morning produce stands. The East Village was strangely hushed late at night, its streetlights nearly mystically artificial, as if they belonged to a theatrical setting.
While journeying back from CBGB one evening, I witnessed a crimson sphere traverse a fenced play area. I surmised that I discerned someone vocalizing “catch,” yet no one was present. Whisking around a street corner, I almost collided with a solitary husky, which halted and peered at me as melody poured from his white pupils. I later hummed excerpts of the tune to Lenny. The chords came readily as we composed a piece entitled “Free Money.” The lyrics—“Scoop the pearls up from the sea, cash them in and buy you all the things you need”—were penned for my mother. We all yearn for items beyond our reach; she dreamt of possessing a spacious abode for our clan, situated on a bluff overlooking a river.
Within our rehearsal space in Times Square, I would pause mid-song, inspired, to jot down substitute lines. “Redondo Beach” was initially a poem crafted in the Chelsea Hotel foyer; Lenny, Richard, and I transformed it into a reggae track. When I encountered challenges with the lyrics, I consulted Tom, whose personal output seemed inexhaustible. He imparted one of his techniques, randomly opening my notebook to a narration of a dream wherein I envisioned Jim Morrison, dormant and encased in chains within a marble effigy. Within the dream, I could perceive Jim’s vital force stirring and I exclaimed, Break it up, Jim, break it up! I cried until his marble enclosure splintered apart, and observed as he emerged winged and took flight. Blending fragments of this dream with random bits of conversation, Tom and I fashioned the lyrics to “Break It Up,” which Tom concurrently set to music.
As the band readied our songs for recording, I reflected upon our objective. The valorous aspirations of my youth, of ascending from modest beginnings, were now materializing in the unusual and unanticipated guise of an album. We had been contracted to Arista, a record company operated by Clive Davis. Other labels had voiced interest, and had proposed greater monetary compensation, but solely Clive extended the artistic independence that I sought.
For our producer, we designated John Cale, as we valued the ambiance of his solo recordings. Cale consented to journey from London and mentor us. Around Labor Day, Lenny, Richard, Ivan, Jay, and I arrived at Electric Lady, the studio that Jimi Hendrix had constructed. We proceeded past the cosmic murals embellishing the hallways and entered Studio A, where Cale was anticipating us. The fellows expended the entire evening arranging our equipment. At midnight, we documented our interpretation of “Gloria,” the Van Morrison standard that seemingly every fledgling rock ensemble had covered. Approaching it was an initiation of sorts, and an answer to those attempting to confine me, to demand self-identification. Richard laid out the opening chords as I half-intoned the words to “Oath,” a poem that I had composed in 1968. “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.” It served as a pledge to be answerable for my choices, both in life and in art.
I knew very little about recording and aspired to uphold the truthfulness of a live rendition. I was an amateur, occasionally irrational, determined to protect our craft, skeptical of any modifications, excessive overdubbing, or propositions of stringed instruments. This spawned some contentious moments, yet John did his utmost to fulfill the yearning for genuineness. One of our pieces, “Birdland,” was a mutating composition, a metaphoric expedition of birds in submarine flight. Lacking established lyrics, it pledged to be the album’s purest improvisation. John unearthed merit in it musically but challenged the notion of improvising the lyrics. When I insisted, he prompted me to prove myself. He persistently pushed us to attain further, as we underwent several exhausting takes. I had recently finished reading Peter Reich’s “A Book of Dreams,” and I re-envisioned the scene of his father’s burial: the son believes that he sees the lights of his father’s spaceship and begs to be taken along. Words, no longer mine, expressing the son’s transfiguration, generated a sort of phosphorescence. We traversed an emotional domain dominated by the boy’s desperate wails, as Lenny mimicked screeching blackbirds on his Fender Stratocaster. John, visibly shaken, at last declared that we had achieved it.
I remained vigilant regarding all facets: the album’s sequencing, its promotional verbiage. The liner notes operated as a form of poetic manifesto. In my youth, I had bemoaned not being a male. It wasn’t that I desired to be a boy; I coveted the options that boys seemed to possess, but as my true self. I desired independence, and, as a youngster, that signified donning flannel shirts and blue sneakers. In adolescence, it meant rejecting makeup and nail polish, and forgoing shaving my legs. At twenty, it meant defying any predetermined paradigm of feminine conduct. Upon finishing the album, there was concern regarding the manner in which I was presenting myself. Robert had captured the cover photograph, and the art division airbrushed it, refining my hair and correcting facial irregularities. I declined any such alteration and confronted Clive; Robert’s original depiction was promptly reinstated.
The poet stands solitary, yet in coalescing with a band is compelled to succumb to the wonder of the collective. Our band had conceived a work collectively. We grasped that it was not destined to appeal to the mainstream. We hadn’t generated it to garner fame and fortune. We crafted it for the art vagrants known and unknown, the marginalized, the shunned, the disowned. I settled upon the title “Horses,” which summoned the rushing current of the cosmos, the perils and prospects of youth. ♦
This is adapted from “Bread of Angels.”
Sourse: newyorker.com
