Friday, May 6, 2011

'What you see is what I�am'

Tracey Emin's raw unpretentiousness ? and the use she's made of her life in her work ? has captured the nation's attention for 20 years. But its brilliance lies in its use of words

A cunt is a rose is a cunt. This is the title of a Tracey Emin monoprint from 2000. It's a reclining female nude, legs and torso neatly nicked off above the chest and at ankle and shin level, a body sloping backwards from the raised legs downwards, so that, held vibrant and prominent right at the centre of the drawing, there's not just the vibrating smudge and scribble of female genitalia but also a sense of something solid emerging from it, a shape cut in air, made by the crook of the upper knee and the line of the lower thigh.

"A cunt is a rose is a cunt" is Emin's reworking of the famous/notorious line from Gertrude Stein's 1913 poem "Sacred Emily": "Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose". This was probably inspired in turn by Juliet's comment on Romeo's name, 300 years before Stein: "What's in a name? ? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet" (and Shakespeare was a writer not averse to the odd pun on the word "cunt" himself). What would Stein, the great literary experimenter, have made of Emin's emendation? Here's what she said in 1935 when some students in Chicago questioned her about it:

Now listen. Can't you see that when the language was new ? as it was with Chaucer and Homer ? the poet could use the name of a thing and the thing was really there. He could say "O moon", "O sea", "O love", and the moon and the sea and love were really there? And can't you see that after hundreds of years had gone by and thousands of poems had been written, he could call on those words and find that they were just worn out literary words? The excitingness of pure being had withdrawn from them; they were just rather stale literary words. Now the poet has to work in the excitingness of pure being; he has to get back that intensity into the language. We all know that it's hard to write poetry in a late age; and we know that you have to put some strangeness, as something unexpected, into the structure of the sentence in order to bring back vitality . . . Now you all have seen hundreds of poems about roses and you know in your bones that the rose is not there. All those songs that sopranos sing as encores about "I have a garden! oh, what a garden!" . . . Now listen! I'm no fool. I know that in daily life we don't go around saying ". . . is a . . . is a . . . is a . . ." Yes, I'm no fool; but I think that in that line the rose is red for the first time in English poetry for a hundred years.

The "can't-you-see?" of this. The insistence on "listen". The repeating immediacy ? now, now, now. The emphasis on the importance and excitement of aliveness; the intensity. The focus on strangeness; the understanding that something strange introduced into the structure of things renews things: Stein's isn't a bad lens through which to see Emin's own practice. For Emin a word like "cunt" is excitingly multiple. In her work it ranges across the whole spectrum of resonance, from affirmation, celebration, punchy frankness to unpleasantness, insult and mundanity, via the still-thrilling buzz of the just-not-said, and all simultaneously, all in the swivel of a repetition, the shape a word cuts in time. There's also, here, the cheek, the wit of her retake on Stein's rose, since for sure Stein knows that a rose means more than just a rose. "And then later," Stein says of her ring of words, "what did I do? I caressed completely caressed and addressed a noun." Emin, too, is a caresser and addresser when it comes to verbal and conceptual certainties and ambiguities. Inherent ambiguity is something she's well aware of if you look at the photograph, from the same year as A cunt is a rose is a cunt, called I've got it all, in which she sits with her legs splayed open, clutching notes and coins to her cunt as if either the cash is exploding out of her in fairground fecundity, spilling out as though she's a giant fruit machine, or she's in the act of cramming it into herself.

The thing about Emin is that she's really good with words. Maybe no one, until now, has so energised, understood, made visible, the possibilities of this particular, powerful word: cunt. Partly such energising is art's responsibility, one that works, by means of what WG Sebald calls "keeping faith with unsocial, banned language", to question, understand and, with any luck, transcend the proscriptions and the inarticulacies of whatever time we happen to live in. There's a parallel in Emin's punk insertion of the word "fucking" into the construct "red, white and blue" in her neon of 2002, Red, White, and Fucking Blue, where the word "red" is red neon, the word "white" and the "&" are white neon, and the words "Fucking" and "Blue" are blue neon, and suggest everything that could make you feel blue (in all senses of the word) in the clich� of the concept of being British. Plus, there's her general democratising, the total unpretentiousness ? for instance, in one of her Princess Diana monoprints of 1999, on which she writes "Regardless of class or status no woman deserves what thoes cunts put you through ? LOVE WAS ON YOUR SIDE." With Emin, art is about articulation: its questions, impossibilities and, above all, the fluidity and changeability of register. At the same time it's really very British, reminiscent of something a bit Lawrentian. Mellors, the close-to-nature gamekeeper in Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928) ? a novel that's all about chatter, and the upper, the lower, the chattering classes ? can switch rhetorical registers with ease, talking to his penis one minute ("Ay, th' cheek on thee! Cunt, that's what tha're after. Tell lady Jane tha wants cunt"), the next minute laughingly aphoristic to Constance Chatterley ("Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in kindred love"). Something in this resembles the versatile split-second shift from cloy to edge, from acrid to sentiment and back again, in Emin's work; the neon Be Faithful to your dreams (1998) next to Good Smile Great Come (2000) next to MY CUNT IS WET WITH FEAR (1998) next to Love is What You Want (2011). (Elsewhere in her work Emin has played this last one as Love Is What You Wont.)

Something in it is prefigured, too, in work by groundbreaking writers like Angela Carter, a genius of verbal and narrative reclamation and emendation, and the American post-beat writer Kathy Acker, whose seminal, anarchic 1978 novel Blood and Guts in High School is also a work of words and pictures with its graphic genital line drawings, including one of the labia labelled underneath in typewriter typeface "My cunt red ugh". (Acker was influenced, in turn, by the 1960s and 70s feminist performance artists, for instance Carolee Schneemann, one of whose practices was to pull a rolled scroll out of her vagina then read out what was written on it.) Somehow Emin goes beyond; with her, it's as if Warhol and Valerie Solanas were rolled into the same person, but minus his posture of obliquity and spaciness, minus the violent fixity of her political focus. Something else, something unexpected and difficult to articulate happens. As Jennifer Doyle says, about looking at Emin's repeated graphic versions of what Courbet calls "the origin of the world", "I couldn't help but think: 'Isn't this how Judy Chicago and Georgia O'Keeffe are supposed to make me feel (but don't)?'".

Emin's ear for the right word in the right place, and for the resonances of "rightness" and "wrongness" in word and place, are at the basis of her art. Take her play on meaning in the pair of neons, Is Anal Sex Legal and Is Legal Sex Anal (both 1998), so simple and so complex at once, so centrally about how (and where) words mean, and so witty about proscription, with shades too of Lewis Carroll's Alice lazily falling down the rabbit hole in a swoon pondering do cats eat bats, do bats eat cats? "And what is the use of a book", thought Alice, "without pictures or conversation?" Emin ? while she brings straight to the surface all the things, including survival, Freudian strangeness, child/adult sexualities and innocences, which go unsaid or remain subconscious in the work of a writer like Carroll ? is drawn to the place where meaning and consumption come together, fascinated by the conversation that happens when words and pictures meet, a dialogue most of us come across as soon as we first look at books. "I love writing," she says. "I think every artist has a backbone to what they do. For some it could be photography, painting, the ability to make a formal sculpture stand, but for me it's writing." For her, art is language and, as she put it in the press release for her very first show, "art has always been, a lot of the time, a mysterious coded language. And I'm just not a coded person . . . What you see is what I am."

This unpretentiousness has made Emin a national symbol. Her uncodedness, her frankness, her direct use of her own life in her work, have made her a repository, in the media and to some extent in the general public's eye, for all that's contentious in contemporary art. It's easy to dismiss, simplistically, her complex and redolent use of self-portraiture as ego-posturing. But the thing is, there's no pinning her down. There's no reducing Emin. No matter how ? or how much ? the media strings her up (one minute lunatic, the next the new William Blake), her work engages the nation, and has engaged it now for more than 20 years, in a dialogue about art and life and the crossovers between both. It does this at what might be called a language-sensitive place. She is multitalented, multifaceted; aesthetically endlessly versatile; there's no form she won't try. Somehow nothing circumscribes her.

From Blake's illuminated books to Stevie Smith's strange, pithy little illustrated verses, from Fra Angelico to Magritte's not-pipe; from the terrible increasing tension in Charlotte Salomon's Leben? oder Theater? to Gilbert & George's Dirty Words Pictures: artists and writers have worked for centuries with what happens when text and visual art come together. For Emin, it's another of her many modes of dialogue. In one of her monoprints, a girl wearing high-heeled shoes, with a smudge for a face, stands next to the words "dog" and "brains". Is she saying it about herself? Is she hearing it said about herself? The instability makes something momentary into something piercing and shaming.

In her book those who suffer love (2009), 11 monoprints by Emin of a woman masturbating accompany the text like a restless flickerbook; but the repeated shifts of the body up against the text make the text come alive, while the text itself, sometimes banal, sometimes funny, sometimes anguished, rubs up against the body to make the whole thing both pathetic and satisfying. Its title, a statement in its own right and an adjectival phrase, is a typical Emin reflexive. Considered carefully, it becomes more than itself, in the same way that the title of her celebrated tent-work, Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963?1995 (1995) played on the phrase's colloquial sexual meaning and was mischievously, seriously, quite literally, a list of everybody she had ever gone to sleep next to.

I wonder if, along with My Bed and the now lost Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963?1995 (which was destroyed in the Momart fire of 2004, and which Emin refuses to remake), one of Emin's most enduring images will prove to be the photograph Monument Valley (Grand Scale) (1995?97). In it, the artist is off centre, sitting in the desert on an old bright-green chair whose sides are lined with orange piping, so much in the foreground that the great slabs of Monument rock are miniaturised behind her, with the wide blue sky above her only slightly scuffed with clouds, the word "THANKS" appearing from behind her right leg and a book called Exploration of the Soul in her hands, open as if she's about to give a reading. She's looking straight at us. Her gaze is direct but distanced ? shrewd, serious. There's both silence and the promise of voice in it. There's a waiting, a discrete openness.

The book is one she wrote in 10 days, an autobiographical work written with the considered rawness for which Emin has now become known. In the early 90s she toured America, giving readings to anyone who came to hear, sitting on her travelling storyteller chair, which was a gift to her from her grandmother (it originally belonged to her great-grandmother), which she patched with the names of the places she visited, like a suitcase. The chair is now an exhibit in its own right (There's a lot of money in chairs, 1994). It's a dialogue itself in the form of a chair, one that holds its own narrative shape between Emin and her grandmothers, between past and present histories. The work is about a girl who comes of age via the legends of her English mother and her Turkish-Cypriot father, their material ups and downs, then the girl's own horrific early sexualisation, first by abuse, then by rape, at the age of 13, at the hands of a local man, someone well known for having "broken in girls". "When I got in, my mum said, 'Tracey, what's wrong with you?' I showed her my coat, the dirt and the stains, and told her 'I'm not a virgin any more.' She didn't call the police or make any fuss. She just washed my coat and everything carried on as normal, as though nothing had happened." Exploration of the Soul ends with the story of Emin at the age of seven going to a children's party, from which she is sent home because "you don't have an invitation". The next morning the child Emin asks her mother, "What's an invitation?" It is a model fable of exclusion, of how language itself is used to exclude.

Emin is a great recycler. Much of Exploration of the Soul appears again in her book of "memoirs and confessions" Strangeland (2005), a work of echo and resonance and rewrite, in which ? as in her video-poem Why I never became a dancer (1995) ? she works with a repeating structure, one that shifts from abjection to empowerment and transformation. In it she declares "You don't have to be born with balls to have balls."

By her own authority, Emin writes with a gift of fused subjectivity and objectivity reminiscent of a writer like Nell Dunn (the titles of whose 1960s novels Up the Junction and Poor Cow read now almost like the titles of Emin works). Dunn, an upper-class girl who decamped to south London and wrote with what proved to be a transformative lack of judgmentalism about the working classes, has a talent for fusing roughness and beauty into something at once fragmentary and whole, seen from both outside and inside simultaneously.

"Instead of feeling on the outside, I realised that there was an outside and it was called 'being an artist'." Strangeland's first image, of her birth, is an infant vision between death and life, somehow wrong, voiceless: "When I was born they thought I was dead. Paul arrived first, ten minutes before me . . . I just rolled out, small and yellow . . . I somehow felt a mistake had been made. I couldn't scream or cry or argue my case . . . They put me into a little glass box and slowly I came round." Its final image, of the adult Emin in Egypt longing to smash through the glass case in a tomb and take into her arms a "tiny mummified foetus" is one of sheer empathy. "Dead for thousands of years, not completely formed, but he had soul. He still had soul," writes the artist who knows what spirit is, who can go from the word "drunk" to the word "soul", from inebriation to metaphysic, in the space of a single strip of material, and hold them both in equal measure (Drunk to the bottom of my soul, 2002).

It's all about connection. It's one word after another, with Emin. Give her a blanket and she'll make it speak. Give her the fabric of things and she'll find voice in it. Give her a clich� and she'll take it apart to give it back its full original whack of power again. Give her words, she'll write them backwards and forwards; she'll send them off in all directions; she'll work them into everything; she'll put them where you least expect. She'll make you wonder what they mean; she'll show you they're right and they're wrong. She'll take them to pieces then sew them back together again. She'll light them up.

Tracey Emin: Love Is What You Want is at the Hayward Galley, Southbank Centre, London SE1 (0844 875 0073), from 18 May to 29 August 2011. www.southbankcentre.co.uk


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Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2011/may/07/tracey-emin-ali-smith-hayward

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