The Emin Way of Life

However, the modern-art-phobic within me was pleasantly surprised. The exhibition, presented in the gallery’s typically sparse, yet aesthetically pleasing environment, showcased some of Tracy Emin’s more obscure works, ranging from the outrageous to the banal, from drawings to textiles, from teapots to handbags. Perhaps the crux of the exhibition is the iconic Self Portrait – a close-up photograph of the artist’s scantily clad décolletage.

Now I’m not necessarily adverse to a bit of controversy. I’m a sucker for the latest ‘Eastenders’ or ‘Hollyoaks’ plot twist – when I’m in the world of soap opera, give me adultery, drugs, drunken behaviour, family rifts. But after my daily half an hour of intrigue and dilemma is up, and I return to reality once more (where I would never dream of attempting any of the sordid antics of my favourite female soap characters), I’ll blush at the slightest hint of controversy. So when faced with a photograph of a woman’s bare-except-a-hint-of-black-bra-and-gold-bejewelled chest, I’m bound to embarrass myself. Standing in the art gallery with a friend, I could feel myself turning into a straight-laced Victorian gentleman – “yes – cough – well – cough – the use of, erm, lighting, is – cough – interesting, wouldn’t you say?” And my embarrassment is complete. All I can say is thank goodness Emin’s other famous work, Everyone I Have Ever Slept With, was not present. Who knows what kind of social faux pas I might have made faced with – gasp – such a blatant allusion to sexual activity?

But jokes aside, the exhibition revealed a side to Emin’s work that I had never truly appreciated before. Many of the drawings and delicate textiles are emotional pieces, bringing a tear to even the steeliest of eyes, as Emin draws on her own experiences in the artwork. Just a few roughly sketched and scribbled out lines draw attention to themes as diverse and poignant as racism, loneliness and abortion. My personal “favourite” (although under the circumstances this isn’t quite the correct word) of the collection was a rather sobering few words scrawled on a piece of paper, accompanied by a small stitched red rose, recalling Emin’s early memory of racial abuse. Hard-hitting and showing an extreme tenderness and sensitivity, I was genuinely moved by this piece, and others in the collection.

And apart from the embarrassment factor of the exhibition (and Emin’s “deliberately” incorrect grammar, which made half of me want to take my eraser to the prized sketches), I realised during my wanderings of the art gallery that modern art doesn’t have to be scary, or incomprehensible – not even to laymen like myself. It’s all too easy to get bogged down in questions such as whether pieces like Emin’s famous My Bed are worthy of the renown they have gained (as much as I feel I am a convert to the Emin way of life, I would question the aesthetic appeal of a dirty, unmade bed). Just recently the Turner prize was awarded to a man who habitually dresses up as a bear. An odd choice for some, and were I a judge, I would instead, I think, be looking to find the next DaVinci or Vermeer. But this doesn’t matter – I can still appreciate the ingenuity of his designs, and in the case of Emin, I no longer look at that self-portrait photo and cringe. Instead, I feel I have had the opportunity to take a heart-wrenching glimpse into the life of a strong and courageous woman who has transferred her life experiences onto the page for all to see. An inspiration and an exhibition well worth a visit.

Tracy Emin runs until 17th January at York Art Gallery.

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