Most of this section felt like retelling of traditional fables whilst speaking largely in code, embellished with Tracey’s signature anguish and trauma. This chapter details the relationship she has with her Turkish father and the years she spent in his homeland with him. She records a lot of her dream sequences throughout, particularly in the second part of the book, ‘Fatherland’, which I enjoyed the least. However, most of this initial chapter gives us an insight into the difficult start to life she had and provides a clear understanding of how she came to be the artist famed for her searing honesty today. Made up of short, sharp chapters which serve as mini vignettes to crucial memories, you get the impression at times that what may seem like an inconsequential event is actually vital in understanding the woman she is today. And yet, so much of what she has written is cryptic, teetering on the poetic and at times totally disorientating. Set largely against the backdrop of Margate, a derelict seaside town that serves almost as a time capsule to times gone by, Tracey details her formative years with searing honesty and unflinching detail. The book is split into thirds, beginning with ‘Motherland’. It should be noted from the offset that Emin writes about rape and abortion throughout, often making for a confronting read with these darker undertones of trauma always pushing to the surface. But with this, so often comes deeper, darker tales that are largely left out of the narrative, but not for Tracey. Part of an artistic cohort dubbed Young British Artists, her greatest influences were sex, drugs and the body – and this is certainly a key theme throughout Strangeland. With her came individuality and absolutely no fucks given – a figurehead of the British art scene that was still largely made up of white, middle-class men. Tracey Emin, Britain’s art enfant terrible, catapulted into public consciousness in the 1990’s. And what is so fantastic and beautiful is the sunset, and that is free.” Yet I owe so much to that place I grew up, mainly because it is so beautiful. But I knew there was something better: there was an outside – an outside of me. I was thirteen: I had been raped, I had lost my front teeth and I had suffered disillusionment with life. If you are interested in her as a person, than borrow it from a friend ![]() If you Enjoy Emin's art then you must buy this book. On the contary, it just means that you have to put the story into context with who she is. This does not mean that book is not worth reading. That said, I would venture to suggest that had this book not been written by an established artist, then it would have never been published. This is not a book that is easy to put down. It is, however, shocking to discover that so many female readers relate to this work, bearing in mind the blunt scenes of sexual abuse that the author describes. She has led an interesting life and she will continue to do so. It is all out there for thoose that want to read it. I enjoyed her style of writing and the book had a good voice in parts. Emin writes this book with a painful honesty and a navity that both devalues it's literary worth and paradoxcally makes it all the more interesting. ![]() I read this book in one sitting and found it, for the most part, quite disturbing, and partly entertaining and also in parts quite dull. The dentist gave me some antibiotics - and a cast of my own teeth.Ĭouldn't believe it was only a week ago that I went out and had a good time. I had an abcess and a totally fucked tooth that had to be removed. By now, the oil of cloves had burnt my gums. ![]() Still felt terribly low, knowing that I could end up in an iron lung. It amused me, a drawing made of my own breath. Thomas's Hospital for a lung scan and a chest medical. Told it could be taken out in a weekand I would not be pregnant. Indescribable pain as it was pushed into the neck of my womb. Had to be fitted with an IUD: a piece of copper wire wrapped around a plastic hook. Went to pick up my pills too late and too late by two fucking hours for the morning-after pill. Took fifty painkillers and dabbed on a ton of oil of cloves. Spent the whole weekend in bed, depressed and trying to recover, with a throbbing tooth and scabs breaking out all over my chin. I threw up nine more times during the day. My eyes about to burst, swearing to God I would never drink again. Small white balls of foamy stuff cascading out of my mouth. Ran to the bathroom to throw up, shitting at the same time, holding on to the pan. Woke up having sex - with a terrible hangover.
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