(Emin wrote one for the Independent for four years.)
In this country, contemporary artists rarely become regular guests on television talk shows and are never asked to contribute weekly columns to the op-ed pages of leading newspapers.
Often vilified in the English press for both her drunken tantrums and her autobiographical needleworks, frank line drawings, and neons, she nonetheless has a following at home akin to that of a sports hero in America. I didn’t read it.”Īt 46, the holy terror of Brit Art is every inch a gracious (if slightly foul-mouthed) lady who neatly makes her own bed every day and wears low-cut Vivienne Westwood frocks to sophisticated advantage. “See how much I’ve changed?” she said, laughing. Yet on Sunday, the forthright Emin, who is famous for putting a debauched bed stained with unidentified effluents in a museum and surrounding it with bloody underwear and used condoms, was too embarrassed by the inebriated sensations of an old New York diary entry to get through it in public. (As one of her more memorable neon signs puts it, “People like you need to fuck people like me.”) Sex, lust, and longing are recurring subjects in Emin’s provocative art as well, and she has never been shy about putting herself in it. “Sex was something you did after fish and chips,” she explained. “It feels like I’m giving someone a really weird blow job.”ĭuring the hour-long performance, the British art star, in town for the opening of her fourth solo show at Lehmann Maupin Gallery, read searing and tender stories from her memoir Strangeland, which details her adolescent adventures with the randy boys who slagged her in Margate, the seaside town where she grew up. “I don’t like this microphone,” she said, trying to get settled at the start of her reading on Sunday at the Performance Project Settlement. Photo: Oli Scarff/Getty Imagesįor Tracey Emin, sex always seems at the top of the agenda.
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