The first time I photographed her, she came to my apartment with her band. A friend of mine had left about fifteen bottles of Dom Perignon in my kitchen for safekeeping. We drank most of it, made some pictures, and talked about spiritual enlightenment.
Patti liked people to think she was androgynous. She liked them to think she was bisexual. She liked them to think she did drugs. She was one of the straightest people I knew. She'd make sure her boyfriend's laundry was done before she did a show. All she ever really wanted was a guy who she believed was an angel, then she'd support him with every ounce of energy she had.
She loved Vogue magazine, especially the French version. Even though she didn't have much money, she shopped at Henri Bendel, an exclusive store on Fifth Avenue. I remember a very expensive green coat she wanted. She had to have it. It was pure silk. First thing she did when we got back to her apartment was stick the coat in the washing machine. She knew how to make it look completely hers.
I talked to her almost every day. I thought she was my best friend. One afternoon I called and she told me she'd packed up everything in the apartment and was walking out the door to go live in Detroit with Fred Smith. She had met her angel and was leaving it all to be with him. I asked her to call me from Detroit. She did, thirteen years later.
