Tracey Emin eh, you've got to hate her. The trashy art: can't paint, can't draw, banal conceptual nonsense, coarse sculpture and pointless installations. Then we must endure her constant references to her abortions, rape, and venereal diseases. The frenetic self-publicising and social round far from the islanded peace desired by the true artist. And the misplaced hubris. The twisted face is hardly her fault but it's hard not to see it as the objective correlative to something within that causes her to spew forth such garbage. She has the look of an 19th century street walker who's been through the mill (nice legs though).
There is something fundementally unpleasant about her work. This is not the grotesquerie of Otto Dix's social observations or Goya's depictions of war. Her Her work is banal and lacks both the wit and the technical skill of these painters. This is particularly true of her efforts to draw and paint. Her contribution to the Venice Bienalle is depressing - particularly the abortion water colours (http://www.guardian.co.uk/arts/gallery/2007/jun/07/emin?picture=329989772), which combine naivety and nastiness. And don't get me started about that unmade bed.
In recent weeks I've noticed that Lynn Barber in the Observer has become a fawning fan. Two long articles and numerous asides about "my friend Tracey" suggest that this former scourge of celebrity has fallen madly in love with her. How else can you explain the malign old broiler's references to her "magnificent cleavage" and "gorgeous work" - total uncritical adoration. How weird.
