Tracey Emin’s work has never been of interest to me. To be quite frank…I couldn’t give a shit about her life. Why should I? Emin is a self proclaimed artist with an appetite for narcissistic behaviour. If you dislike Tracey Emin as a character then don’t go to this exhibition. Luckily for me, I don’t dislike her.
Emin to me is two different characters. Firstly she is the female who wants the attention. Look I made a few quilts with quotes from my life on them…Look what I did in the eighties…These are all my ex fucks…
…And I am Joe Public, observing her conceited observations on the happenings of her private life, her memories and herself. She only speaks of herself. I found myself suffocated by Emin’s shrine to herself.
The second character Emin tempts me with is the misunderstood, slightly disturbed, slightly desperate, yet highly creative individual. Her perception of herself is remarkably honest for a contemporary woman. Her collection is in ode to herself and if she thinks she is interesting enough to build an exhibition around then there must be something to her…no? It’s warts and all, so kudos to her for flashing her privates and having the guts to film herself discussing past issues for the public eye. As a klan of “art” loving citizens we have made her who she is today. That must say something about her skill…mustn’t it?
90% of the exhibition was irrelevant. It was shit. It was dull. It was ignorant.
10% of the exhibition was good. But not great.