William Todd Schultz

Very depressing...comparing Arbus to Sylvia Plath. I think Arbus was a tortured genius, whose demons were made worse by medication and bad relationships. This book was full of a lot of psychobabble, not just a telling of her life. I also found the lack of photographs annoying; when the author described one, I had to go online to look it up to see exactly what he was describing. That was quite annoying.

If Arbus had lived in a different era, perhaps her suicide could have been prevented by better therapy and meds. But then -- would she have had the impact on the photographic world that she did?… (altro)

William Todd Schultz's biography of Elliott Smith is not particularly definitive, though it at least attempts to fill an obvious void in well-researched accounts of his life; many readers having been unsated by Benjamin Nugent's previous attempt that seemed rushed to publication shortly after Smith's death. One of the key strengths of this book is its supremely fine focus on Smith's early years growing up in Dallas, followed by the move to Portland and his time with Heatmiser. The detail and insight in this first half of the book is captivating, with regard to both the development of the man and his music.

The only drawback in this first half, one which occurs throughout the book, is Schultz's use of lyric snippets from Smith's songs to garnish some particular moment, explicitly referencing which song that lyrics derives from every time this device is employed. This tactic, used far too frequently to retain any charm, quickly begins to grate and distract from the text.

The second half of the book, starting around the release of the self titled album, meditates on that album's preoccupation with heroin by someone who at that point was not a user. This is an intriguing observation, but it also marks the starting point of a narrative shift. The complexity of the subject slowly begins to dilute into that of a tortured genius gradually plummeting towards death. Who constructs this narrative? Schultz is the author, but he is not entirely responsible for this. For one, what Schultz has at his disposal is ultimately sparse. All he can rely on is the music, published interviews, and oral histories from friends and collaborators, and then only those willing to share. Several members of Smith's family and other intimate relations did not talk to Schultz and it is doubtful they will ever talk to anyone about him on record. It is also not much of an exaggeration to say that Smith crafted or bought into this narrative himself, and began to mold himself around it. This has the potential to inhibit and sabotage objective or open attempts at biography.

It is not impossible, though, to subvert the "tortured artist" narrative, whether Smith purposefully adhered to it or not. The best biographies aspire to and sometimes succeed in holding the subject in question, in order to uproot mythos and to create the most fully realized representation possible. Edmund White's biography of Jean Genet and Jon Lee Anderson's biography of Che Guevara come to mind. Schultz, his background in psychology, would seem more apt than any rock historian to attempt such a feat, but that does not come to pass here.

Smith transforms in Schlutz's book from tortured genius to junkie savant, becoming more and more a flat character, the book petering out into speculation for ten or so pages about the nature of his death. Though the question is pertinent, Schultz's adamant and drawn out conclusion of suicide cloyingly reiterates Smith's lifelong despondency and diverges into apologia for Jennifer Chiba, who in the end is significant to Elliott's life, though these last pages in the book hardly deal with Elliott at all. He is talking about a death scenario, a woman caught in its devastating aftermath, and a knife. The knife serving as a maudlin if not insulting metaphor of an existential wound, because the metaphor nearly negates the importance of the music, oversimplifies the man, and dampens what could have been a potentially great biography. Smith's narrative is simply hard to navigate in and of itself, one that may never be fully uncovered, but what the budding lineage of his biographies indicate is that the possibility for illuminating interpretations is there. Schultz's addition is flawed but devoted; a cracked light bulb.… (altro)

Schultz is a dogged analyst, fixated on certain facets of Arbus' life and personality, in order to explain her unique artistic choices and her unfortunate demise. However, he lacks the larger vision necessary to put this person into a realistic, vital context. He looks at Arbus through the wrong end of the lens, reducing her to fit certain psychological diagnoses, which is neither fair to Arbus or fruitful for the reader. Schultz also tends to repeat ideas and phrases throughout the book, seemingly unable to leave the confines of his limited conceptions. The comparison of Arbus to Kurt Cobain, in particular, seems lacking the first time he makes it, and progressively less cogent as he does it a second and third time. I did appreciate his research regarding Arbus' own psychoanalyst and how her own theoretical and personal background might have affected and do reflect on Arbus' life and death.… (altro)