Posts Tagged ‘art’

Dear Tracey: everybody hates you

September 11, 2010

I have sometimes felt that my life is little more than a quest to write the perfect, scathing, hilarious essay on why I hate Tracey Emin and everything she has ever done.  I have tried to achieve this several times but it never seems good enough.  My teachers always used to tell my parents at Parents’ Evening that I was a perfectionist, and in light of this, I’m going to give it another bloody good go:

I’ll start by pointing out that Tracey, you are a STATE.  You are the Amy Winehouse of the art world.  You turn up at stuff you shouldn’t even have been invited to with your tits hanging out and your face looking like someone’s given you a decent beating with a shovel, slur your words for two hours then puke in a taxi.  The difference between you and La Winehouse is that she is at least talented in her chosen field.  You on the other hand think your unmade bed is worth forty grand.

Which leads me nicely to my next point: unless your unmade bed is made of gold, IT IS NOT WORTH FORTY GRAND.  I would also like to take this opportunity to extend an open plea to Charles Saatchi: please stop encouraging Tracey Emin.  She’s only getting worse.

If unmade beds were worth forty grand, I could sell the contents of my bedroom and never work another day in my life.  (I highly suspect, by the way, that the previous sentence is almost word for word the thought process Tracey Emin went through when ‘creating; that ‘piece’.)  However, even for that money I would think twice, because I have some dignity (people who know me, cease your laughing) and frankly don’t want to share any stains I may have on my bedsheets with the world.  I mean, congratulations Tracey, your bodily fluids occasionally escape the confines of your wizened, disgusting body.  I just don’t see why you think a bed covered in them is worth a fortune – or why the art world apparently agrees with you.  Personally, I like to think that people who have any knowledge of me at all are able to deduce for themselves that I own a bed, occasionally drink, and have a sex life of some description without being presented with a bedful of the evidence, and that people who don’t know me just don’t care and certainly wouldn’t queue to get into a gallery to examine the evidence for themselves.  If there are people out there who would queue for this – well, frankly, they must be Tracey Emin fans and as such I find them highly disturbing.

Still on the subject of the bed, I don’t quite see how it’s considered feminist.  I wasn’t entirely sure, but apparently, feminism is about having the right to be a complete skank and make stupidly large amounts of money from it.  Hmm.  Interesting.  Seriously though, what is it supposed to say?  “I have a vagina.  You can have sex with it, if you wear one of these, and sometimes it bleeds, which looks a lot like this.  It really is very interesting.  You will also notice that, although I am a woman, I sleep in an actual bed (albeit an awfully dirty one), as opposed to on a pile of hay on the floor!  Clearly I am equal to a man.  I am woman, hear me roar!”  (Perhaps more appropriate would be “I am Tracey, hear me queef.”)  Honestly the most positive thing I can think of to say about Emin’s work is “She’s ok at sewing, I guess.”

Tracey is hugely, off-puttingly fond of her own work.  Of the spidery sketches she was for some reason allowed to show at the Venice Biennale in 2007, she said:  “I wanted to show that I can really draw, and I think they’re really sexy drawings.”  The drawings she’s referring to can be seen here.
An example of really being able to draw? The pinnacle of human sexiness? You decide!
Jessica Rabbit was an example of ‘being able to draw’ and she was a hell of a lot sexier than that. I guess that wasn’t “art”, though, was it, because it wasn’t prompted by years of psychological trauma and abuse, etc etc.

Also, not that I have any involvement in the art world at all, and not that I consider myself patriotic – I certainly don’t – but the following quote makes me feel frankly embarrassed at how Britain chooses to represent itself to the rest of the art world:
“Work in progress for [Emin’s] 2007 show at the Venice Biennale includes large-scale canvases of her legs and vagina.”
Of course. This is obviously the way in which a country which apparently prides itself on its dignity and modesty wants to portray itself to the rest of the world. Silly me.

I have often imagined a comedy sketch featuring Tracey Emin going through her day to day life and proclaiming everything she does ‘art’. Allow me to subject you to a sample.

[Spits toothpaste into sink.]
[Removes hair from hairbrush; leaves it on the floor.]
[Eats some cereals; spills them on the table, dripping onto the floor.]
[Goes for a walk; encounters some tramp vomit in a doorway.]

I frequently conclude this sketch/fantasy with a giant foot, a la Monty Python, coming down out of the sky and squishing Tracey Emin like a bug, followed by me leaping into the scene and yelling “ART! BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL ART!”


In conclusion: a lot of people have been raped, had tough childhoods, had abortions, had bad relationships, grown up in poor areas, and, god forbid, experienced things a thousand times worse than the things you have experienced. And yet, I don’t see many of them subjecting the public to a constant stream of egotistic, poorly thought out, pompously justified and hideously over-priced shit with an ‘art’ label tagged onto it.

Take a hint.

Thank you for your time.

(And for those who were wondering, the title is a reference to a Dylan Moran thing about bad housemates, the kind who leave notes about you drinking their coffee. “You start leaving your own notes. For instance: Dear Tracey – everybody hates you. Even people who haven’t met you yet. Your mum called, just to say, she’s so glad she didn’t hear from you.” Har har.)