She scandalised the art globe in the 1990s with her unmade bed, partied hard in the 2000s– then a brush with death turned the artist’s life upside-down. Currently she’s as frank as ever before
There is a lengthy buildup before I reach see Tracey Emin– her two felines, Teacup and Pancake, preceding her like a pair of slinky sentries as she walks into the white-painted cellar kitchen area of her massive Georgian residence in Margate. The lengthy overture is because– though I’ve been invited for noon– Emin is a magnificently late riser. Her ordinary functioning day, her workshop manager Harry informs me, ranges from about 6pm to 3am. And so, while the musician is progressively sorting herself out, Harry takes me on a scenic tour with her home town in the January drizzle, the sea a sulky grey blur past the sands.At last, Harry
is ringing the buzzer, and Emin’s charming house cleaner, Sam, is sitting me down in the kitchen, after that lastly right here she is, worn loosened dark trousers and top, with those faithful cats. Emin is recognisably the like she’s ever before been– the artist that scandalised and mesmerized the country in the 1990s with her camping tent embroidered with the names of every person she ‘d ever slept with; with her unmade bed and its mussy sheets and fragments. She still has that sardonic lip, those curved brows, those blinking eyes. These days she is remarkably tranquil, slow moving, her greying hair swept back into a loose bun. This is the Emin that has actually worked hard, survived a large amount and, rather unexpectedly, ended up a national prize.
Source: The Guardian