The day after the art opening, I liked Patti Smith. I loved Smith’s book, Just Kids. I read most of it on the beach in Corpus Christi, Texas, in between minor adventures (like meeting a guy with the most interesting accent of all time, India Indian crossed with Alabama). My head was in crunched together, dirty 1970s New York City (dirtiness being one of my favorite things about New York, don’t get me wrong), and my bare feet dug in the sand, the water of the gulf, rather recently de-oiled, doing its usual push-pull job, and our umbrella boy (not Alabama, but he did exist) occasionally shifting the shade so that it covered me.
Why did I suddenly like Patti Smith’s music? I have found her lyrics too sweet, and her voice too wavy. I read her biography on Pandora, and it mentioned, along with the men she worked with, one additional bit of information: if they were her lovers. Gee. I didn’t care who she slept with, but you know, we can’t understand a woman unless we know if she is wholesome, frigid, or a slut.
I thought maybe I could be like Gertrude Stein (this was suggested to me). Not, like, a bad dresser, or chunky, or a lesbian, but a bossy art boss with good taste. I did a little research, and it turns out she grew up with money, and always had money. So I can’t quite be that kind. These patron types, they don’t have 40 hours of work a week to pay the bills, or, you know, “careers.”
I went back to some Stein, anyway, her wackiest writings. I can hardly stand her insanity except that I like how it smooths my brain down because there’s nothing to snag on. And I started The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, something I should have already read. If I can distract myself from its two depressing notes (one: I did not live in Paris in the 1920s; two: I have no One who inspires and supports me and I couldn’t do without), then I’ll enjoy it.
I watched a documentary on a burlesque class. It makes me angry that women have to take their clothes off to be in front of people and get attention. I have a hard time getting past that. I’ve always thought it was foolish to get naked in front of anyone who didn’t love you. As a woman, your body is important to who you are, it is closer to your soul than a man’s is, and you have to protect it. Yes, it’s women who photograph themselves and post it all over the internet so they can be seen, looking this way. (I’ve done it myself.) Is that troubling? Is that cultural or natural? Is that a disadvantage or an advantage? Who knows. Setting that aside for now.
At least, I have to protect my body. It’s not modesty or shame. Just protection. In any bar, people making music are almost always men, and people taking their clothes off (or working scantily clad) are almost always women. The generally thoroughly feminist members of my generation have retained this gender division. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just that deep.
I enjoy being a girl, though. I think women have more choices, more flexibility, at this moment in history. I can be weak without being shamed. I can make very little money and have that look idealistic, rather than impractical. It hits me harder, the gender thing, when thinking about other arts. In writing, I’ve got George Eliot, Annie Dillard, and everyone in between. In teaching, women abound. I only know of one woman who runs an art gallery. I can’t think of any visual artists I love who are women.
Patti Smith used her body most like a man. Or she didn’t play the game, or something. Or she is just one of those people who were so rooted, so deep down rooted in where they came from, that other people don’t make her anything different. I don’t know. I don’t know much about her. I just read her book and liked her music for a little while.
I had a friend take my picture on the beach, in my swimsuit. I liked the way I looked. My brain was in good shape, although unfortunately it didn’t show in the photo. It was so good, that spring, to undress and have your skin out in the air again. It was nice to be looked at. It was still snowy back home, up north.