Tracy Emin: A Fortnight of Tears


She was deadly worried she will not be a famous artist. She thought she was done. Until the ‘bed show’ was she then recognised by the public and probably banned from previous partners. Never mind, she became a celebrity artist and her drawings, most of which were hardly recognised as from a higher education level of MA Painting Royal College of Art, often puzzled audience with the definition of art itself.



Violence, anxiety, sex, and a lot of sex. And selfies. Made on her iPhone as she suffers insomnia, the different qualities of light testifying to long hours of sleeplessness. With these anti-selfies she takes her place in a long history of confrontative self-portrait photographs by women, if that is the meaning of these photos.



The hastily made drawings, the vast bronzes, the predictable neons. It is a little bit tiring to walk in, and pleasing to walk out. The video that recorded her struggling life with pregnancy and abortion is probably the best part of the exhibition. I like her young face with specs wearing an oversized suit. Watching she talking to a squirrel, I cannot help thinking that she may never expect such a grand solo exhibition in her later years?





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