Patti

“Bread of Angels,” Patti Smith’s mesmerizing new memoir, only deepens the mystery of who this iconic artist is and where her singular vision originated. I’ve long been struck by her magnetism on stage, her fearless approach to her craft, and the stark beauty of her words on the page, including the National Book Award-winning “Just Kids.” She has a preternatural belief in her own instincts and a boundless curiosity that, taken together, help explain the extraordinarily rich life and oeuvre she’s constructed. This transcendent — and at times terrifying — account of that evolution enriches that understanding. And yet, Smith’s persona remains veiled — sphinx-like — an ethereal presence whose journey to fame was fueled by her questing spirit and later detoured by tragedy.

Like Jeanette Walls’ classic, “The Glass Castle,” Smith’s saga begins with a hard-scrabble childhood she relates as if narrating a Dickensian fairy tale. In the first four years of her life, her family relocated 11 times, moving in with relatives after evictions, or into rat-infested Philadelphia tenements. Smith’s mother was a waitress who also took in ironing. Her father was a factory worker, a World War II veteran scarred by his experience abroad. They shared their love of poetry, books and classical music with their daughter, who was reading Yeats by kindergarten.

Smith, who was born in 1946, was often bed-ridden as a young girl, afflicted with tuberculosis and scarlet fever, along with all the usual childhood ailments. She writes: “Mine was a Proustian childhood, one of intermittent quarantine and convalescence.” When she contracted Asian flu, the virus paralyzed her with “a vise cluster of migraines.” She credits a boxed set of Puccini’s “Madame Butterfly” recordings her mother bought with tip money for her return to health.

As a 3-year-old, Smith recalls grilling her mother during evening prayers, posing metaphysical questions about Jesus and the soul, immersing herself in Bible study and later joining her mother as a Jehovah’s Witness. She didn’t confine herself to a single religious discipline, though. For example, while still a young child, she saw the movie “Lost Horizons” and became entranced by Tibet and the teachings of Buddhism — “an awareness of the interconnectedness of all things.” While “this seemed beautiful,” she writes, “it nonetheless troubled me.”

There is a romantic quality even to the deprivations Smith chronicles, an effect heightened by what she chooses to highlight or withhold. With little money for toys, she and her siblings entertained themselves using the knobs on a dresser as instruments on a ship, sailing on faraway seas. She and her younger siblings regularly set out with their mother to the nearby railroad tracks, where they harvested leftover lumps of coal to fuel their pot-bellied stove — the apartment’s sole source of heat. Under the floorboards of her closet, Smith conceals “glittering refuse I had scavenged from trash bins, fragments of costume jewelry, rosary beads,” along with a blue toothbrush she’s invested with magical powers.

Their apartment building overlooks a trash-strewn area dubbed “the Patch,” which is bordered by “the Rat House.” There, Smith proclaims herself general of the neighborhood’s Buddy Gang, fearlessly fending off bullies twice her size, while at school, she was viewed as odd by her teachers, “like something out of Hans Christian Andersen.”

Within this urban setting, Smith often paused to marvel at nature. Taking a short cut on the long walk to school, she stumbles on a pond in a wooded area. A snapping turtle emerges and settles a few feet away. “He was massive,” she recalls, “with ancient eyes, surely a king.”

It’s impossible to know if Smith was really this self-possessed and ruminative as a child or if nostalgia has altered her perspective. What’s undeniable, though, is that her extraordinary artist’s eye and soulful nature emerged at an age when the rest of us were still content to simply play in our sandboxes. She recollects fishing Vogue magazines out of trash cans around age 6 and feeling “a deep affinity” with the images on their pages. She’s immersed in Yeats and Irish folk tales while being bored at school reading “Fun With Dick and Jane.” On her first visit to an art museum, viewing Picasso’s work produces an epiphany: She was born to be an artist. A decade later, she boards a bus bound for New York City.

At this point, about a third of the way into the book, we enter the vortex that is Patti Smith’s talent and ambition on fire. The pace of the memoir accelerates. An alchemy infuses each chance encounter. Opportunities abound. Everywhere she turns there are talented photographers, poets, playwrights and musicians encouraging and supporting her. She writes poetry and finds a soulmate in Robert Mapplethorpe. She meets Sam Shepard, who features her poem in a play he’s writing. She meets William Burroughs, performs a reading with Allen Ginsberg. She forms a musical partnership with Lenny Kaye, and begins performing her poetry, with the 19th century French poet Arthur Rimbaud as her spiritual inspiration.

Smith’s story unfolds as a bohemian fairy tale. Luck is with her, bolstered by a fierce conviction in her own bespoke vision. “There was no plan, no design,” she writes of that time, “just an organic upheaval that took me from the written to the spoken word.” Bob Dylan becomes a mentor. Her fame grows enormous with the 1975 release of “Horses” and the international touring that followed, yet she retains the bearing of an ascetic. She writes: “We hadn’t made our record to garner fame and fortune. We made it for the art rats known and unknown, the marginalized, the shunned, the disowned.”

Smith’s rock star trajectory is diverted by her love affair with Fred Sonic Smith, for whom she ditches her career at its height, against the advice of many of those closest to her. But as with every decision she’s ever made, she can’t be dissuaded. In this intimate portion of the book, we receive glimpses of two passionate artists hibernating, in love. They marry, have two children, and cultivate an eccentric version of domestic bliss. But harsh reality intervenes and the losses begin to accumulate. One after the other, Smith loses the men she loves most — Robert, then Fred, then her beloved brother, Todd. These losses haunt the memoir; she grapples with them by returning to the stage with a fierce new hunger.

The book’s final pages reveal Smith continuing to grieve, mourning the loss of other loved ones — her parents, Susan Sontag, Sam Shepard. I wish I could simply reprint those pages here — they moved me deeply. At 78, she reflects on the process of “shedding” — which she describes as one of life’s most difficult tasks. “We plunge back into the abyss we labored to exit and find ourselves within another turn of the wheel,” she writes. “And then having found the fortitude to do so, we begin the excruciating yet exquisite process of letting go.”

“All must fall away,” she concludes. “The precious bits of cloth folded away in a small trunk like an abandoned trousseau, the books of my life, the medals in their cases.” What will she retain? “But I will keep my wedding ring,” she writes, “and my children’s love.”

Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.

Twenty-five years ago, on a warm summer night in Los Angeles, Broadway stars Patti LuPone and Audra McDonald closed a show at the Hollywood Bowl with back-to-back encores of “Get Happy”/ “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

Today, those happy days appear to be over for the two Tony Award winners.

In a May 26 interview with the New Yorker, LuPone ignited a firestorm when she referred to McDonald as “not a friend” and refused to comment on McDonald’s celebrated performance in “Gypsy.” (McDonald is nominated for a 2025 Tony Award in the category best actress in a leading role in a musical — its her 11th nomination.) LuPone also referred to Tony winner Kecia Lewis, who, like McDonald, is Black, as a “bitch.”

Speaking with Gayle King in a “CBS Mornings” clip, McDonald sounded surprised by LuPone’s comments. “If there’s a rift between us, I don’t know what it is,” she said. “That’s something that you’d have to ask Patti about. I haven’t seen her in about 11 years, just because I’ve been busy, just with life and stuff. I don’t know what rift she’s talking about. You’d have to ask her.” (A full interview is set to air this week, according to a “CBS Mornings” Instagram post.)

Broadway star Audra McDonald arrives on the red carpet at the 30th Screen Actors Guild Awards in Los Angeles in 2024.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

Following public backlash, however, LuPone did something she rarely does. The outspoken diva apologized.

But that was not without some stage direction.

In an open letter from her colleagues in the theater community dated May 30, more than 500 actors, including Tony-winning actors Wendell Pierce, James Monroe Iglehart and Maleah Joi Moon, called LuPone’s language “racialized disrespect,” “bullying” and “harassment.” They asked the American Theatre Wing and Broadway League to discourage those who disparage fellow artists, including LuPone, from attending industry events “including the Tony Awards, fundraisers, and public programs.” (The 2025 Tony Awards are scheduled for June 8 in New York, and will air on CBS and stream on Paramount+.)

On Saturday, LuPone responded to the criticism in a statement on her Instagram account: “I am deeply sorry for the words I used during The New Yorker interview, particularly about Kecia Lewis, which were demeaning and disrespectful. I regret my flippant and emotional responses during this interview, which were inappropriate, and I am devastated that my behavior has offended others …” She went on to write that she hopes to speak to McDonald and Lewis in person.

LuPone is well-versed in calling people out herself, particularly audience members who text during her theater performances. Last year, she even complained about noise from the Alicia Keys musical “Hell’s Kitchen” when she was performing in “The Roommate” with Mia Farrow next door.

After LuPone asked the theater owner to fix the sound because she found it to be too loud, Lewis took offense and posted a video on Instagram, describing LuPone’s actions as “bullying,” “racially microaggressive” and “rude and rooted in privilege.” She also noted that “calling a Black show loud dismisses it.”

Last year, Lewis won a Grammy for best musical theater album and a Tony in the category best performance by an actress in a featured role in a musical for “Hell’s Kitchen.”

Although flippant, LuPone’s words only serve to hurt everyone during a turbulent time for the arts in America, the open letter from the theater community said. “Our industry is under threat. The arts are being defunded, theater programs are disappearing, and artists are being pushed to the margins. We need each other now more than ever. We need community. We need leadership. And we need accountability.”

Humbled, LuPone agreed.

“I wholeheartedly agree with everything that was written in the open letter shared yesterday,” she wrote. “From middle school drama clubs to professional stages, theatre has always been about lifting each other up and welcoming those who feel they don’t belong anywhere else. I made a mistake, and I take full responsibility for it, and I am committed to making this right. Our entire theater community deserves better.”