Tracey Lays It Bare
On Tracey Emin's exhibition, 'A Second Life'
I went to the Tate Modern yesterday to see Tracey Emin’s new exhibition, ‘A Second Life’. I hadn’t seen her work in person before but knew of its nature; I attended expecting sincerity and received it in overwhelming abundance.
I visited on the second weekend of its opening - and wow was it full. Despite the crowds of people all moving slowly through the rooms, I still felt I had an intimate experience with the artwork. I normally walk around galleries/museums with headphones on, telling myself it will help my focus. But that day I didn’t, and I wasn’t bothered by the noise of shuffling feet nor the conversations. I was completely in my own world - or Tracey’s.
What I enjoyed most were the raw, journal-like notes plastered throughout the first few rooms. You can discover someone’s truest self through their diary - and her confessions were madly personal. The spelling mistakes and characterful handwriting only added to this. In most circumstances, it is wrong to read a diary that is not your own, but she let us in fully.
They traced her sexual relationships, experiences of exploitation, depression and more. The colourful textile quilts would not have been so impressive or effective if not for the small, handwritten notes pinned to them. It was only on standing close to the piece that you could read them, and the work was revealed in its entirety.
“Urgh - she is just so funny!”, one woman standing near to me pointed at the line ‘no you listen - I’m not late - you’re lucky’ (No Chance (WHAT A YEAR), 1999). The confessional quilts didn’t lack humour. I found myself smiling at its provocation whilst the phrases jumped out at me - places, names, things said at, and by, Tracey: ‘leave him trace’, ‘yea I’ll have your baby’ (Mad Tracey From Margate. Everyone’s been there, 1997).
They resembled something a young girl would make - abounding with detail and sentiment - yet concerning much maturer themes. I am inspired to collage my ephemera - receipts, tickets and of course personal notes - to chronicle my way through pain and hurt, too.
The exhibition included all forms of self-expression: video footage, sculpture, painting, installation, photography. A highlight for me was ‘My Bed’ (1998). Following on from the previous rooms showcasing art relating to her cancer, miscarriage and rape, the bed felt perfectly placed. If it was displayed upon entry to the exhibition, visitors would have lacked a proper sense of who it was that owned it.
‘The Bed’ met the personal, and merged with the ordinary effortlessly. I stood looking at the piece, much like I did when peering into the homes in Zofia Rydet’s ‘Sociological Record’, and felt a sense of familiarity or knowing. They weren’t my possessions, nor were they rooms in my house, but both signalled to my humanity.
My favourite items on the floor included: carton of Malboro Lights and ash tray to accompany it (because it can sometimes be enjoyable to smoke in bed), few vodka bottles (the smoking is only acceptable when drunk) and copious amounts of tissues strewn around the bedside stool (organised chaos?).
The objects and their assemblage captured the mood of an era of her life. In fact, her entire body of work captured the intensity of several eras, the private made public with little hint of dishonesty.
P.S. My bed looks like: beer mat from holiday to Lublin, gold cross missing its chain, Hanuman edition of Cookie Mueller’s ‘Garden of Ashes’, clothes (on the floor and occasionally folded, for outfits past or to come) and empty glass.
‘My Bed’, taken on the day