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This is a memoir about two artists who loved one another. It's difficult to like a memoir when you dislike the people involved (and do not see merit in their work). Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe were so desperate to become recognized as artists that they "networked" shamelessly until they made some meaningful connections. Eventually it seemed less about creating than it was about working the system, getting your foot in the correct door.

Like so many modern memoirs this piece becomes difficult to believe. There are many scenes that don't pass the smell test. Example: Patti enters Robert's room to find him looking into a mirror screaming like a lunatic. He's on a bad acid trip. No problem. Patti talks him down in a matter of minutes and voila, Robert goes to sleep with his head on her lap. I know enough about this to tell you that you don't just go to sleep in the middle of a bad trip. You may wish you could doze off..... but it just doesn't happen. Patti's private conversations with Jimi Hendrix and Janice Joplin sound like BS as well. Of course neither rock icon is around to corroborate.

Unfortunately it becomes a scenario of sleeping your way to the top. Robert works the high-brow circles, the black-tie (white-tie?) dinner parties of the Manhattan elite. He's broke but he works that circuit in borrowed garb. Finally he hits pay-dirt. He hooks a wealthy benefactor, an older man, a museum curator who falls for him. Doors are flung open, grants are awarded, a condo is purchased for Robert. Patti is right there with her hand out. Patti and Robert finally made it!

Their love for one another is the real deal. This book is not.