Just Kids is an amazing book. When I found out today that Patti Smith has been nominated for a National Book Award for this memoir, I felt like I was witnessing something auspicious, something worth sharing with people. Just Kids is not an easy book. Be warned that it deals with loss and suffering and a New York both beautiful and treacherous for the young people who love and trust its magic. And Just Kids is a love story. It’s a snapshot of a pivotal time in the history of a city and a culture. On Patti Smith’s website, there’s a sentence on the index page that reads: “The miracle is love.” Ultimately that’s her story, but you gotta read the book to understand who this woman is and what loves formed her. Read it as memoir, read it as art tome, read it as history of New York, but read it.

In today’s NY Times, Roberta Smith reviews the Joan Snyder show I covered in my 9.20.2010 post. “In all cases, the combination of sensuousness and honesty attracts,” wrote Smith.

I didn’t make it to the opening of “Joan Snyder: A Year in the Painting Life” at the Betty Cuningham Gallery on West 25th Street, and I wonder if many people did since tornados touched down in parts of NYC right before the opening reception. I saw the show two days later on Saturday afternoon, and I liked it. Joan Snyder is a MacArthur Award winner who lives both in Brooklyn and Woodstock, New York. She’s a big-time abstract painter who’s also represented by Elena Zang Gallery in Woodstock. In that artist’s colony atmosphere, I’ve met Snyder at an opening, heard her lecture at the Byrdcliffe Guild, and had the opportunity to hang out with her paintings at Elena’s, really being able to look without a lot of distractions. Elena and Alan’s dog, Nori, hangs out too (and sometimes needs a pat on the head) but that’s not what I consider a distraction.

On Saturday in Chelsea, I walked into a quiet gallery and had a few minutes to sit with the paintings. Then things got busy. An energetic tour group came in led by a lecturer, and the atmosphere changed. Suddenly people were reacting to the paintings and the guide’s speech. He covered Snyder’s personal stats: facts about her life, her stature in the art world, her sexuality. He described how Snyder walked through the woods upstate gathering seeds, twigs, and dirt to use in her paintings. His description of this part of her process in Woodstock sounded almost exotic. I realized I was reacting to the paintings through a filter of all this going on around me, and that became interesting, too.

I’m not an art critic. I’m not a big collector. I’m not a painter looking for a guide to success. What I relate to most in Snyder’s work is her desire to take an emotional life and give it size, shape, color, texure. Seeds and sticks and drips and grids mean something, and I think her work is a reminder that the mystery of being human isn’t something we have to leave alone with no form. We can use it, attach form to it—words or shapes or images. We can point a camera, pick up a pen, open a tube of paint. We can make something that can speak for us, through us. Other people can also make work that speaks for us. Joan Snyder does this at a master level. Her work is worth seeing.

Driving through town today, I saw the papered-over windows of the Golden Notebook and felt sad that a 32-year-old business has closed. But I was thrilled that someone has bought the bookstore, will renovate it and continue to run an indie bookstore, serving a community of artists, writers, musicians and free thinkers. I’ll write more later about the new owners and the grand reopening!

Welcome to Notes. I’m originally from NC, but now (for almost 20 years) a NY-based writer, photographer, and poet. This post is for writers—anyone who wants to pick up a pen, put words on a page, and go wherever that leads them.

When I walked past this diner on the main street of a small North Carolina mountain town a couple of years ago, I placed my camera lens against the glass door and suddenly found a way into the closed, solitary space. I’m on the outside looking in. I loved the clock and the leaning plates and stacked bread and coffee left in the bottom of the pots. Sometimes when I’m shooting pictures, I’m trying to document a time or place, but often I’m interested in making images that tell stories and also leave room for other people’s stories to take shape.

Suggestion: Set a timer for 10 minutes, create a start line…something like, I remember…look at the photo, and then write for 10 minutes. Don’t stop, edit, or cross out words. Don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, grammar. Just write. When the timer goes off, read what you’ve written out loud. This is a fun exercise to do with a writing friend or a couple of writing friends. When you read back, just listen to each other. Don’t critique. No critics allowed. This is for fun. I hope this diner was a good starting place.

Last night I went to a lecture given by Doug Beasley at the Center for Photography Woodstock. The work Beasley chose to show is beautiful, vast, spirit-filled, ambitious. Beasley is a generous speaker, freely naming cameras and film choice. He made me want to immediately run out and buy a Holga. After I left CPW, I thought about how the images I’d seen would not only be gorgeous to live with but could also be a great starting place for writers looking for ideas—desolate lands, the loss of green space, and historic Native American sites turned luminous by Beasley’s vision. For amazing prints or just a flash of inspiration, check out Beasley’s site. If you’re a photographer, look for him next year at CPW’s summer workshop series.