It was a cold morning. I arrived at the gallery right on time : 10:25am upon walking to the entrance I saw a few of our classmates waiting around with empty expressions. We stood out in a weird way like a group of tourists. The gallery was just like the name itself. A big white cube surrounded by older looking buildings suggested that I was in for a “contemporary” treat.
We were told to freely roam the gallery and to pick up the flyer at the reception as well. A piece of information in one hand and a smartphone in the other, I walked into the gallery not expecting anything. I took some photos, I read some texts and gazed at the big sculptures, one with the title “Mother”.
While walking aimlessly in the gallery and feeling a little bit more and more depressed by all of the artwork I felt that some other people were weirded out by these pieces. I was not surprised at all. Tracey Emin’s body of work is very raw, painful and sometimes just plain sad. To comment on her skill is sort of impossible because it’s not traditional art and to comment on her concept is also tricky as this is about her personal experience. It’s very brave of her to display her pain. I, for one, can say that I can’t do this. I once wrote a small comic strip about my anxiety and I cried. That was already too much for me so I can’t really imagine how terrifying it was to draw about the painful deathly experiences she had. I think I might go crazy and I felt like she actually went crazy. Something might have break inside her and all her pain and sorrows poured out into artworks because that’s the only subject she can make.
In another way, it also left a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t really know if using your pain as your main subject is such a good idea. I felt like it was too much. It was like choking on someone’s thoughts. While walking around the glass boxes displaying sketches and objects I asked a friend if she like the exhibition. She didn’t say anything but her eyebrows bunching into knots told me she wasn’t into it. Looking at one of the sketches that seemed to be ripped off from a notebook, I said “This wouldn’t be here if she is not famous.” and I think we agreed.
The film about the abortion was painful which explained a lot of her artworks and I think the exhibition was presented well as a whole ( especially how they display the “Insomnia Room” ) but I can’t help this feeling of dread in a white contemporary art gallery. I know it’s easy to criticise something you don’t understand but I do. I do understand but I felt numb standing in front of a canvas filled with blood-like splash of colour.
The line that has been erased between what’s right and what’s wrong in art has left me with no response. I’m not angry or mad. I’m not even confused. I just realised that I can do whatever I want in this course, even filming myself spitting into a cup or drawing stick figures and they will always be valid. What a wonderful, non-judgemental, fantasy world I’m living in. One that is going to disappear immediately after I graduate when I return home to a place where our biggest contemporary art museum almost closed down and told by the government to display the artworks in a temple.
No matter how much you talked about this beautiful thing that “art” can offer, you can’t deny the fact that being successful in the art world is a whole different story. Oh yes, we can absolutely teach kids to express themselves with creativity but the problem comes when they grow up, enter art school and graduate with hundreds of people who draw the same things as they do.
And it’s been studied that it’s about who you know : here
So maybe I should’ve just taken some social lessons and start chatting up people in a gallery opening, sneak into some elite art circle, befriend a wealthy art collector and see if I can do a sold-out show as a major up and coming artist.
As we finished, a group of older white ladies with blond hair came in to see the exhibition with a guide. It only exemplified the stereotype of this elitist art society that I don’t think I will ever be a part of. It was kind of funny because it looked surreal. I should’ve taken a photo of all these blond women and create an artwork that criticises the privileged of the art world.
We walked out of the gallery to get coffee and food. Nothing were discussed ever again.
What a strange way to start the day.
td @ ual 