when i first heard 'horses' by patti smith,i thoght it was the most sublime artwork to inwade my little pretentious arty world;i thought it was better than sex, masturbation,writing or even drinking - my whole life had been transposed. yet, in years that came, patti had found away to transcend even the beauty of the actual physical existence she so celebrated w/ her life, her art, the people she loved;the little girl of vivid dreams growing into a youg poetess,into a visionary artist, a wife, a mother - the seclusion embraced by chosing domesticy only proppeling her to mature as an artist and a person; robbert mapplethorpe had been a dear friend who helped her to find her true calling - art;his gift had been taken from us all too soon by aids. she could not weep so she wrote her sorrow : about passenger m who, terminally ill, sets on his last journey, a pilgrimage to see the southern cross;in his last days he questions his life which had been beautiful and which he adorned w/ his gift of the perfect placement of things; it had not been a perfect life however- he was unable to find a balance beetween his desire for perfection and the actual life itself; thus he was dying alone, his last wish to see his ideal the southern cross: perhaps in his mind he had failed to be what he wished, but his passing away was beautiful and he left behind his art to light the way of those treading after him, us. pattis work tells us about the inner struggle of the artist, she describes robbert as an artist (no matter what else he might have been),inducing us to believe in the power and importance of art in our life; her book is a loving elegie to her friend, her beloved compeer, her unfettered joy. leena spite.