Strangeland by Tracey Emin - review by Frances Wilson

Frances Wilson

Confessions of a Chav



Sceptre 224pp £14.99

The psycho-slut is back (‘body from Baywatch, face from Crimewatch’), and the latest incarnation of ‘Mad Tracey from Margate’, as she calls herself, comes in the form of literary, rather than visual, confessions. Strangeland appears ten years after Emin hit notoriety with another form of autobiography, ‘Everyone I Have Ever Slept With, 1963–1995’, the tent on which she sewed the names of all those who had ever shared her bed, including members of her family and her aborted foetus. 

In the intervening decade Emin’s style has not ‘developed’ so much as reinforced itself. In ‘My Bed’, a reconstruction of the unmade bed in which she resided for three weeks in a suicidal depression, she once again used herself as her art, presenting us with a crumpled and stained set

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