Patti retells the story of her friendship with Robert in flowery lyricism, like the poet she is. It's unexpected at first; you don't connect who you think she is with who she tells you she is. But then it becomes second nature to taste and smell the memories she tosses at you, and you find yourself smiling back. Like a hopeless romantic.
Every time we broke away from technology and picked up the book, we were rewarded with inspiration and meaning, transported to a story where all paths lead to Art. So gracefully, so clearly.
After the last page, we picked up some Rimbaud and sighted some more, and then we followed Patti on Instagram, where she captions with poems images of her routine visits to the graves of poets she loves. Also like a hopeless romantic.
Throughout the story, Patti's disdain for the material stood out for us as one of the elements that threats the story. We believe that's how she seduced the narcissistic art world elite she navigated in. Her contempt for the non-poetic, to be precise, because she loves objects; placeholders for friends and lovers who came and went, leaving behind a trail of humble crumbs that hold so much significance for her: A handwritten note, a raggedy postcard, old boots.
We like to imagine she doesn't fit in now, just as she didn't fit in then. But that's precisely the point, and maybe even the whole reason for making art altogether. It feels good to be a castaway in a world that seems to make much less artistic sense than the one she knew.