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In 1967, I exited the Port Authority Bus Terminal, gripping a tartan suitcase. I yearned to be an artist. Though perhaps lacking initial aptitude, I possessed the eagerness to cultivate it, holding fast to the conviction of my calling. It arrived as a rapturous revelation. No diabolical agreement accompanied my pledge, nor expectations from heavenly entities. I knew I would navigate this solo, yet I craved an ally, and fate guided me to him.
Robert Mapplethorpe was a native-born American, nurtured in a deeply Catholic family. He once played saxophone in his school’s ensemble, securing an R.O.T.C. scholarship to pursue visual communication studies at Pratt Institute. His mother harbored aspirations of him joining the clergy. His father, however, envisioned him progressing in the military, supported by commercial-art skills. Robert possessed fair skin, verdant eyes, and dark, closely cropped curly hair. He had a slight bowleggedness. By accepting his father’s designated route, he was presented with lodging, gleaming knee-high leather riding boots, and a stipend. At Pratt, he showed himself as an impressive draftsman and, for some time, trod the expected course. Unseen by others, an alternative identity was burgeoning within him.
At twenty, Robert put aside his saxophone, his vestments, and his rifle. He had experimented with LSD. He scrutinized himself in the looking glass and observed neither a clergyman nor a prospective R.O.T.C. captain. He discovered himself. As he stared into the mirror, he dedicated himself to art instantly, and just as rapidly everything else dissipated: his grant, his apartment, his funds, his polished boots, and, most significantly, his father’s blessing. He stayed briefly in a spare, unoccupied room in a friend’s dwelling. He rested on an unadorned white metal bed, encompassed by his portfolios. This was the boy I encountered during the summer of love.
We salvaged each other. He had faced rejection and banishment. I was healing from the emotional and corporeal aftermath of a challenging birth, and the conclusion, at barely twenty, to entrust my daughter to another household. I bestowed upon Robert a silver ring bearing an anchor; he gifted me with one fashioned from gold. Lacking abundant funds, our nocturnal excursions were infrequent. We’d enjoy Tim Buckley recordings and peruse our volumes on Picasso and Surrealism. On humid evenings, while lying entwined, I would narrate tales or serenade him, and he would gradually sit upright to partake in a cigarette, the sheet resting at his waist. I would observe the mutable characteristics of my artist: a vulnerable mariner, a transient flirt, or an adolescent geisha with the faintest blush of rouge upon their lips. Perhaps he discerned a dichotomy within me, the unfeminine child who had rejected girly pursuits but secretly yearned for a Communion dress. On Palm Sunday, Robert bestowed upon me another garment, a worn article of handkerchief linen. It mirrored the robe donned by the woman in “Liberty Leading the People,” by Delacroix. I named it my liberty dress.
The Chelsea Hotel, 1971.
Emerging from our shelter in Brooklyn, Robert and I relocated to the Chelsea Hotel. Robert engrossed himself in photography, intent on expanding the discipline’s parameters. Soon, he would cross paths with his pivotal companion and prospective benefactor Sam Wagstaff, who thoroughly celebrated his oeuvre. Our chamber was too confined for artistic endeavors, so I composed poetry in the Chelsea’s foyer, intersecting with a multitude of instrumentalists and authors.
Ultimately, Robert took residence in a nearby loft; I remained ensconced in the hotel with my bold new paramour, the dramatist Sam Shepard. Presented with an opportunity to recite my verses at St. Mark’s Church, prefacing Gerard Malanga, I sought innovation. Sam proposed I secure a guitarist to complement my verse’s vitality, and the concept intrigued me. I had freshly acquainted myself with the scribe Lenny Kaye, employed at the record shop Village Oldies, who divulged his limited guitar skills. Lenny never demurred. Should I envision a vehicular collision, he emulated it. When I yearned to vocalize a blues number, he strummed the chords.
That spring, Sam and I authored a theatrical piece titled “Cowboy Mouth,” in which we assumed the leading roles. Sam incorporated stage directions for a sequence where our characters ad-libbed a confrontation. I had never engaged in on-stage improv, but Sam assuaged my worries, asserting the impossibility of errors. His approach was straightforward: should you falter, create another.
In 1973, I occupied a diminutive flat on MacDougal Street, facing Kettle of Fish, the tavern once patronized by Kerouac. Robert visited one morning, bearing several peyote buttons enclosed in a kerchief. I hesitated to abuse a hallowed substance, yet trusting Robert, we ingested it together. Temporality dissolved, and morning seamlessly transitioned into night. Where did you journey? he queried. I entered a vacant mountain bereft of summit, and a resplendent avian materialized, merging with whiteness. The bird ascended to the mountain’s apex, and its noble head transmuted into the crest. I possessed interior and exterior vision. Fifty-two celestial bodies plummeted, visages of fate, reforming into a set of cards. And what of you? I inquired. Robert grinned. It’s entirely here—I forged it for you. He proffered a talisman, a slender length of rawhide intertwined with glass beads, a cowboy rosary.
We ambled down Bleecker Street to the Pink Tea Cup. Robert requested pancakes, while I opted for catfish accompanied by grits and black coffee. I recall musing that, even under the influence of a sanctified drug, he was the artist while I remained the storyteller. Our modes of perception are singular, he observed. Subsequently, he vanished into the night.
Come evening, positioned on my fire escape, I devoured Mrabet, Genet, Cossery, and Paul Bowles. I concocted couscous. I attended to Patty Waters and danced solitarily to the Velvet Underground. I acted in Sam’s productions. I relished being onstage, yet I began to weary of the monotonous repetition of theatre, reciting the utterances of another person night after night. I preferred composing and articulating my own thoughts.
At St. Mark’s Church, I was invited to perform with Jim Carroll and Allen Ginsberg. I was fortunate to share the stage with such celebrated poets, yet I still felt compelled to explore further. I recited and sang my poems, frequently accompanied by Lenny on electric guitar, in art galleries and libraries, atop buildings, and even within a planetarium. Bob Dylan served as my muse: his diction, his gait, his button-down collar shirt, shaded lenses. Yet I never perceived myself as his duplicate; I remained distinctly myself.
Lenny and I were cultivating a modest yet supportive following. Rimbaud acted as a guide; as a youthful soul, I was deeply affected by “A Season in Hell,” as much an ignoble confession as poetry. Rimbaud pens, You’ll forever be a hyena, shredding himself in twain, battling the civil conflict within his persona. I aspired to emulate him down his shattering spiritual avenue, to broaden musically. We recruited the pianist Richard Sohl, younger than ourselves, with protracted golden ringlets. He was instinctive, possessing classical training, and could render the concertos of Mendelssohn, stage tunes, rock, all with the same noncommittal expression. I could eternally navigate Richard’s rhythmic chord structures, liberating Lenny to perform interpretively. We coalesced into an entity, three to entangle, as Lenny would verbalize.
There existed no grand scheme, merely an organic convulsion that transported me from the written to the oral expression. We honed our skills in a chamber behind the antiquated Victoria Theatre, on Times Square’s western flank. In the midst of substantial rainfall, we presided over auditions for a guitarist-and-bassist. Ivan Král, a talented exile hailing from Czechoslovakia, distinguished himself from the rest, most of whom declined to participate in a band helmed by a female leader. Our rehearsals encompassed extensive sessions of harmoniously intertwining poetry with a trio of chords, furnishing me with an undulating domain upon which to improvise.
In 1974, we discovered kindred spirits in Tom Verlaine and Richard Hell, both lyricists, who established the collective Television. They erected a compact stage at CBGB, the dilapidated pub on the Bowery. We were all striving for novelty, fusing poetry and rock, eliminating artificiality. The ensuing spring, we allied with Television, launching a five-week residency at CBGB. We performed Thursday through Sunday, offering two sets each evening. The modest establishment, complete with its billiards table and graffitied washrooms, remained largely unnoticed. There were exuberant evenings and sparsely populated ones. There were sonic challenges, equipment malfunctions, emotional outbursts, and minor victories. No one chronicled failures; each night, we were afforded the chance to delve into our songs’ inner worlds and the outermost reaches of improvisation. Navigating the band’s current, I harbored no trepidation regarding missteps, adhering simply to Sam’s counsel when they transpired. Lou Reed would visit, as the evenings intensified. Robert, too, clad in his motorcycle jacket. By April’s conclusion, CBGB experienced its initial instance of refusing admittance.
In June of 1975, we graced the Bitter End, situated in the Village. It marked our inaugural display incorporating a percussionist, Jay Dee Daugherty, signifying our legitimate metamorphosis into a rock ensemble. Instantly upon mounting the stage, I recognized a disparity; I could sense it, akin to heightened humidity on the epidermis. Subsequently, Bob Dylan entered our backstage area. I discerned that unmistakable cadence articulating—Any poets dwelling back here? Pulsating with adrenaline, I blurted—I detest poetry. I remain uncertain as to why I uttered such a sentiment, but he merely chuckled.
For a duration, we occupied residences on the same street, and at times, he’d escort me wherever his engagements led him. One twilight, we ventured to a loft in the West Village. The inhabitants appeared somewhat advanced in age, and I sensed their discerning scrutiny. I sat at Dylan’s feet, as he grasped an acoustic guitar, playing each composition slated for his “Desire” record. The compositions were a boon to hear, yet I grew increasingly restless. He was poised to perform another song when I rose. Are you departing? he verbalized. Indeed, I uttered hesitantly. This isn’t precisely my element.
Bob never appeared affronted by any articulation of mine, thereby granting me the liberty to express my convictions. I cannot assert that we were intimate companions, yet he seemed to repose faith in my assessments. He required a screenwriter for an impending cinematic project, and I advocated for Sam. Subsequently, he inquired whether I knew any female vocalists for his upcoming record.
Well, I am a vocalist, I stated.
No, I mean a genuine vocalist.
Am I not a genuine vocalist?
No, he chuckled. I mean, you mirror me more closely.
I feigned offense yet remained content.
A performance at Schaefer Music Festival, in Central Park, 1976.
At periods, I yearned that writing constituted my singular pursuit, however a certain force perpetuated to guide me elsewhere. I secured an apartment proximal to St. Mark’s Church, a walk-up on the sixth story with a bathtub nestled in the culinary space. Tom Verlaine tenanted the adjacent quarters. Telephones were nonexistent, yet our kitchen apertures faced reciprocally, and we’d summon each other or simply converge in the street.
I strayed minimally east, owing to rampant hard-narcotic activities past Avenue B. Yet within our confines lay St. Mark’s, complete with its dogwood trees and diminutive burial ground; there were egg creams at Gem Spa newsstand, scrambled ovum and challah bread at B & H, Italian pastry shops, and vernal vegetable stalls. The East Village assumed an uncanny stillness late at night, its street illumination possessing an almost mystically simulated quality, akin to elements of a movie set.
While traversing home from CBGB one eve, I witnessed a crimson orb arcing across an enclosed playground. I surmised that I detected a vocalization of catch, yet no one was present. Abruptly negotiating a corner, I nearly collided with a solitary husky, which paused, gazing at me as melodies flowed from its pearly eyes. I later vocalized fragments of the composition to Lenny. The chords materialized readily as we formulated a piece entitled “Free Money.” The verses—“Scoop the pearls up from the sea, cash them in and buy you all the things you need”—were composed with my mother in mind. Our yearnings extend beyond our capacities; she fantasized about possessing a grand dwelling for our lineage, perched atop a precipice overlooking a waterway.
Within our rehearsal venue in Times Square, I would cease mid-song, seized with inspiration, to transcribe alternative verses. “Redondo Beach” originated as a poetic work penned within the Chelsea Hotel’s foyer; Lenny, Richard, and I transmuted it into a reggae composition. When I encountered lyrical quandaries, I sought Tom, whose personal output appeared inexhaustible. He unveiled one of his methods, arbitrarily unfurling my notebook to reveal a chronicle of a dream I entertained concerning Jim Morrison, dormant and restrained in chains within a marble effigy. Within the dream, I could discern Jim’s vital force stirring, and I exclaimed, Break it up, Jim, break it up! I vocalized until his marble casing splintered apart, beholding his emergence, winged and soaring away. Mixing components of this phantasm with stray particles of discourse, Tom and I fashioned the verses to “Break It Up,” which Tom simultaneously adapted musically.
As the band readied our songs for documentation, I pondered our objectives. The heroic ambitions of my juvenility, of ascending from modest beginnings, were now being manifested in the peculiar and unforeseen form of an album. We had formalized an agreement with Arista, an enterprise overseen by Clive Davis. Alternative labels had voiced interest and extended more substantial monetary offers, however solely Clive proffered the artistic autonomy I mandated.
For our producer, we designated John Cale, as we lauded the timbre of his solo works. Cale acceded to journey from London and guide us. Around Labor Day, Lenny, Richard, Ivan, Jay, and I arrived at Electric Lady, the studio constructed by Jimi Hendrix. We proceeded beyond the galactic spatial frescoes adorning the hallways, entering Studio A, where Cale awaited. The cohorts dedicated the entire evening to configuring our equipment. At the stroke of midnight, we captured our interpretation of “Gloria,” the Van Morrison paragon that seemingly every neophyte rock aggregation had covered. Addressing it constituted a form of initiation, and a rejoinder to those endeavoring to corner me, to solicit self-identification. Richard laid down the initial chords as I half-sang the lyrics to “Oath,” a poem conceived in 1968. “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.” It represented a solemn pledge to accept responsibility for my choices, both in existence and in artistic expression.
My knowledge of recording was scant, and I desired to preserve the veracity of a live rendition. I was an amateur, at times unreasonable, impelled to safeguard our output, distrustful of any alterations, excessive superimposition, or invocations of strings. This engendered occasional contentious junctures, yet John exerted his utmost to fulfill the yearning for genuineness. One of our pieces, “Birdland,” was a metamorphic work, a metaphorical odyssey of avian creatures engaged in submerged flight. Bereft of prescribed lyrics, it pledged to represent the album’s purest improvisation. John acknowledged its musical merit, yet interrogated the premise of lyric-less soaring. Upon my insistence, he challenged me to validate my claims. He perpetually pressed us to achieve further depths, as we traversed numerous exhausting iterations. Having recently perused Peter Reich’s “A Book of Dreams,” I reimagined the spectacle of his paternal obsequies: the son harboring the belief that he beholds the luminaries of his father’s spaceship, supplicating to be conveyed aboard. Utterances, no longer my own, articulating the son’s transfiguration, engendered a form of phosphorescence. We traversed an emotive domain dominated by the boy’s anguished exclamations, as Lenny replicated screaming blackbirds upon his Fender Stratocaster. John, visibly shaken, ultimately affirmed our triumph.
I sustained vigilance over all facets: the album’s sequencing, its promotional material. The accompanying notes served as a species of poetic manifesto. In my youth, I had lamented my lack of male identity. Not from a desire to embody masculinity; rather, I sought the options seemingly afforded to males, while retaining my intrinsic self. I craved latitude, and during my formative years, this translated to adorning flannel shirts and azure sneakers. During adolescence, it entailed abstaining from cosmetics and nail enamel, and refraining from depilating my legs. At twenty, it denoted defying any predetermined archetype of feminine conduct. Upon completing the album, concerns arose pertaining to my self-presentation. Robert had procured the cover photograph, and the art department digitally manipulated it, smoothing my tresses and refining facial eccentricities. I rebuffed any such revision and confronted Clive; Robert’s pristine image was swiftly restored.
The poet operates in isolation, yet when amalgamating with a band, they are bound to relinquish themselves to the magnificence of the collective. Our band had jointly conceived an endeavor. We understood that it would not appeal to the mainstream audience. We hadn’t birthed it with the intention of acquiring fame and riches. We formulated it for the artistic individuals, both identified and anonymous, the marginalized, the spurned, the rejected. I settled upon the denomination “Horses,” evoking the stampeding pulse of the world, the pitfalls and prospects of adolescence. ♦
This is drawn from “Bread of Angels.”
Sourse: newyorker.com
