In 1967, I arrived in New York City carrying a plaid suitcase and a fierce desire to become an artist. I might not have possessed great skill, but I had the will to learn and faith in the truth of my calling. The vision came not as a bargain with destiny but as a revelation of purpose, one I was prepared to face alone — though fortune soon offered me a companion.
Robert Mapplethorpe was that companion. He grew up in a devout Catholic household, a quiet American boy with green eyes, pale skin, and short dark curls. His mother dreamed of a priestly life for him, while his father hoped he might rise through the military ranks, secure with a background in commercial art.
Robert earned a scholarship to the Pratt Institute, where his talent for drawing flourished. His father rewarded him with an apartment, elegant leather boots, and a small allowance. For a while, Robert followed the route laid out for him, fulfilling expectations without question. Yet, beneath the surface, another self was forming — a quiet rebellion against the life prescribed.
At twenty, Robert laid aside his saxophone, his robes, and his rifle. He looked in the mirror and saw neither a priest nor an officer.
A reflection on the early meeting of two artists in 1960s New York, capturing the moment when youth, vision, and defiance shaped their artistic destinies.