In April 2003 I travelled by coach to London to visit my mother and read Wladyslaw Szpilman's, "The Pianist," after seeing the film, and where the extract from the diary of Captain Wilm Hosenfield was as moving and of interest as the life of Wladyslaw. Because of the accumulation of events over the previous six months, I was already at my emotional and psychology edge. The consequence was that although I felt a creative artist I was not functioning as one, totally engaged in work processes. It was in this frame of mind that I had decided that the time had come for me to confront what contemporary art had become, and beforehand I had worked out that it was possible to visit Saatchi and the New Tate over one day, taking with me a packed lunch and a notebook,
I walked from Waterloo, along the Embankment from The London Eye, passing giant Dali sculptures, onto County Hall which seemed an odd extraordinary building for a MOMA. The impact of the Saatchi exhibition was intoxicating, sending me whooping with joy at the translation of concepts into a fairyland of heaven and hell and the awareness that I had come home.
In one la
rge area there were two works by the same individual. One I had some awareness because it had attracted media attention. At one level it was a bed with objects but to me it was a naked soul who had lived in the abyss. Above the bed the artist had crucified herself. When you look into the abyss said Nietzsche, the abyss looks into you. I quickly made my way to where my travel bag was stored and retrieved the notebook and then seeking permission from a security steward I sat on the floor and wrote down what I thought and felt. There was joy, empathy and remembrance of my own experience. I rushed around seeing everything, delighted that among the present day there was Bratby and I made a note to reread his two novels, 'Breakdown' and Breakfast and Elevenses,' published in 1960 and 1961 and read for the first time in 1963. And later at the Tate Modern there was some Stanley Spencer with both echoing the impact of Gulley Jimpson, Joyce Carey's the Horses Mouth and the wallow and slosh of paint. On my way out I bought Stephen White's disappointing cleanup photo of the Bed and '100 Works that changed British Art' and giggled at the audacity of deciding that I would produce 101, blissfully unaware of the extent to which the wider concept of 101 was already in active circulation.
Later I discovered here were 98000 Google references to Tracey and I read several hundred, printing many for further reference. I acquired. This is another Place', Modern art Oxford, 'The Art of Tracey Emin, Thames and Hudson, edited by Mandy Merck and Chris Townsend, her Video and by luck was able to make a tape of some TV Programmes. I have this notion that everything I think has been thought before by others, with greater clarity, and everything I want to do, has been done better. It is as if I have lived in a parallel universe and unlike Dr Who or Primeval, which are dramatic fiction, I have managed to cross over. This happened the same afternoon during my visit to Tate Modern.
I needed some respite and and found a seat overlooking the former Turbine Room where people were laying on the floor looking up at what, and eat a packed lunch of home made salami sandwich, two purchased crème caramels and a diet coke? It was a mistake, and it was not a mistake, to go on to Tate Modern, because the experience quickly became overwhelming, as I kept looking into my soul and seeing what might and should have been, and was afraid that there would not be time for me to achieve something of value, and was afraid there would be time, but I would fail. And then through the work of several artists, I found the portal between my world of sixty four years and theirs.
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