Read Online Dancing Barefoot: The Patti Smith Story by Dave Thompson - Free Book Online Page B

disdainful of his dental requirements, particularly his ulcerated gums, Mapplethorpe had developed a serious infection while Patti was in Paris. He was now in terrific pain, spinning between unconsciousness and delirium. Patti recalled these weeks in the poem “Sister Morphine,” titled for a song that Marianne Faithfull wrote with the Rolling Stones (in mid-1969, it was the B-side of her latest single) but inspired wholly by Mapplethorpe’s suffering: i checked into the alton house with my friend, in pain. his nerve was exposed and he laid for several days on the bumpy rusting cot draining and weeping.
    They couldn’t afford a doctor, and they couldn’t afford their rent, either. Just weeks into their tenure, they made a midnight getaway, Patti all but carrying the still-sickly Mapplethorpe down the fire escape and across town.
    It was time, Patti decided, to go for broke. If they were to be artists, they needed to live like artists. They’d still be starving, but at least they’d have style. And there was only one address in Manhattan where starvation and style went hand in hand. The Chelsea Hotel.
    Quite possibly the most famous hotel in America, and certainly the most famous in the American art scene, the Chelsea was built in 1883, when for a short time its twelve floors established it as the tallest building in New York City. Planted on West Twenty-Third Street between Seventh and Eighth, it was originally designed as luxury cooperative beforebecoming a residential hotel in 1905. In the decades that followed, Mark Twain, O. Henry, Sarah Bernhardt, and Thomas Wolfe numbered among its residents, and it was their patronage that gave the Chelsea its reputation.
    By the early 1950s, the Chelsea had degenerated into a virtual flophouse, its doors open to anybody who could afford a room for a night— and with its prices kept deliberately low, that was a lot of people. It was in a dangerous neighborhood as well, one where even a not-so-innocent passerby was as likely to get mugged as mug someone else.
    But the hotel’s aura lingered on. Poet Dylan Thomas stayed there during one of his New York City visits, and the Chelsea was a magnet for the Beats as well: Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and Gregory Corso all lived there for a time; William Burroughs wrote Naked Lunch there. And by the time manager David Bard handed the running of the hotel over to his son, Stanley, in 1957, the Chelsea was on the up-and-up again, at least as far as its best-known clientele was concerned.
    During the mid-1960s, Warhol’s Factory regarded the Chelsea as a second home, with Gerard Malanga, Brigid Polk, Ondine, and Nico all resident there. Warhol’s movie Chelsea Girls was partially filmed there, at least until Stanley Bard kicked the crew and their cameras out and the movie had to be finished on a lookalike film set. Lou Reed wrote the movie’s title theme, a haunting ode to the hotel’s most colorful denizens.
    Leonard Cohen lived there for a time, and wrote one of his best-loved songs, “Chelsea Hotel #2,” about the night he spent there with Janis Joplin. Joni Mitchell was a resident, and she emerged with “Chelsea Morning.” If any simple pile of brick and mortar was capable of inspiring the arts, it was the Chelsea.
    And Stanley Bard knew it. He listened while Patti outlined the dreams of glory that awaited Robert and her, smiled as she handed him her art portfolio as collateral for the rent they would not be able to pay, and allowed her to barter the promise of future fame for a room key.
    It was a tiny key for the tiniest room in the hotel, a pale-blue tenth-floor shoebox with just enough room for a twin bed, a sink and a mirror, a chest of drawers, and a portable television. For now, though, that was all they needed. With Reed’s musical tribute echoing in their ears, and the ghosts of so many other past residents flitting through their consciousness, the couple knew they had found their niche. They had found their