I will forever be grateful to my sixth-form art teacher, Mr Eden. In 1997, he took us to the Sensation exhibition, a controversial contemporary art showcase featuring Charles Saatchi’s collection of works by the Young British Artists (YBA).
At the time, I may have accepted that it was art, but I didn’t understand it. You grow up with a certain mindset of what art is. For me, at the time, this meant Titian, Nicolas Poussin, Georgia O’Keeffe, or Bridget Riley, artists who demonstrated specific skills or technique. But here there was Damien Hirst with a sheep in formaldehyde, an horrifically grotesque portrait of a child killer painted using children’s handprints, and Tracey Emin’s tent (to name just a few). How could any of this be considered art? At 16, I accepted it was and moved on.
Now, however, I want more. When something sparks my interest, makes me think, or engages my curiosity, I want to understand why. Take Maurizio Cattelan’s Comedian, for example: I want to know the concept, the meaning, and the fascination, how it gets from artist to collector to me.
Recently, I visited the Moco Museum in London and saw an installation that really caught my attention. I was surprised to learn it was by Tracey Emin, The Closest I Am to Love Is You, written in bright neon lights. Here was an artist I’d given no thought to since the Sensation exhibition and a wave of nostalgia hit me. I recalled a TV clip where a group of middle-aged men sat discussing art (side note: I watched it mainly for Matthew Collings, as I loved his style of art critique). Among them was Tracey Emin – one of only two women – drunk, trying to make herself heard, yet ignored (or so it seemed to me). She walked out and rightly so. However, at the time, I had no inclination to delve deeper and find out what happened next.
After seeing Emin’s work at Moco, my curiosity got the better of me. I did some research and followed her on Instagram to see where she fits in the art world today. I also bought her book Strangeland. Oh my days… suddenly, I understood the provocative, sometimes difficult-to-look-at, nature of her work. Reading her words, I was temporarily inside her mind, this amalgamation of memories, dreams, and fears. “A life lived” is an understatement. I felt she had lived many lives and many deaths. The brutality in her words felt courageous, and while the book was physically easy to read, the truth she lay bare made it emotionally challenging at times. At one point, as she shared her innermost thoughts and experiences, I found myself in tears. Here was the artist, the woman, and I finally saw her.
Emin’s story reminded me of another artist I once thought little of, whose work I didn’t particularly enjoy at first. It was only after researching her that I began to truly appreciate her and her art: Frida Kahlo.
Could Tracey Emin be the Frida Kahlo of our time?
Both women have lived through tragedy and turmoil, fighting for survival and living under the shadow of death. Both have found ways to love despite what their bodies have endured – illness, rape, sexual abuse, and the loss of multiple children. Both are feminist icons and unapologetically authentic. Both brought intimate art to the forefront of their time, creating work about the only thing they truly knew inside out…themselves.
I find myself drawn to Tracey Emin in much the same way I was drawn to Frida Kahlo and Artemisia Gentileschi. Their stoicism, self-awareness, and sheer audacity to carry on despite the upheavals in their lives, not compromising their identity, is nothing short of remarkable. These female icons are fearless in their expression, challenging the art world, all while empowering women around the world – myself included – simply by sharing who they are and not hiding behind societal expectations. Tracey Emin dares to live…and that’s the biggest takeaway I have from her book and her work.
Mr Eden must have trusted his 16-year old students were mature enough to reflect on the content of such an exhibition and find its impact. Well, Mr Eden, wherever you are, it did.