Tracey Emin: My Life In A Column

It's 4:40pm on, Thursday afternoon and I have to write this column. But I'm in one of those moods today where I really don't feel like it. In fact, I don't feel like anything. My brain's gone all scrunchy and I have a nasty mosquito bite on my left eyelid, which isn't very attractive. I have 53 words, only another 950 to go, or 947 to be exact. It's hard being a columnist because you what you write has to warrant being written. No matter how trivial the subject, there has to be a level of conviction, and also, somehow, usefulness. I know to some this column may come across as really self-indulgent but I always hope that somehow I can convey a message. Not some kind of righteous, moral, biblical stand, but at the least I have to stand by my thoughts. But the problem that's arisen this week is that I don't actually have any thoughts. Today I feel minus of conviction. I feel a numbness as though I'm just floating around in some grey, middle area. As though whatever question, of no matter what magnitude, I might be asked, my reaction would be no more than just a shrug of my shoulders.

"Tracey, how do you feel about Robert Mugabe?"

"OK."

****

NO. NO. NO. NO. It is not OK. There are many millions of things in this world that are not OK. The OK void drives me insane. We are almost conditioned to be there. We are not expected to re-assess and re-analyse. It's expected that things just carry on.

Every morning I wake up very early and I lie there in bed thinking, what am I going to do now? Go swimming, watch News 24, go for a bike ride? But what I really want to do is clean out my bathroom. I imagine myself holding a black dustbin liner, and with some almighty, massive, fascist sweep I remove every product, jar, cream, hairspray, toothpaste, cellulite stripper, foot fungal, face algae, talcum powder, perfume bottle, sponge, nail file, soap, scented candle... countless bottles of sticky, old turquoise blue nail varnish, face-packs, blunt tweezers, eyelash curlers, brow brushes, hairbrushes, clapped out electric toothbrushes, half of Christian Dior's entire skincare range, 15 tubes of sunblock (never used), ranging from Factor 8 to Factor 50, assortments of eye-pads, Movalet arthritis cream (even though I don't have arthritis), cans of Deep Heat, Clear-Clean and Oxypads, teenager's acne nightmare kit, vitamin pills, tubes of Berocca and rotting, smelly Italian bath salts.

God, it's a mess. But only in my head. When you see my bathroom it actually looks very pleasant – homely and warm, fresh green-apple colour wood. It's not the kind of bathroom that you look at and think: Urrgh, that's horrible. But almost every morning I go through the thinking ritual of cleaning out the bathroom, closely followed by the ritual of cleaning myself in the bathroom. It's important where we get clean. Every day, first thing, I like to have my head under water. I want to feel like I'm being baptised, to be able to appreciate each new day. It's absurd, the amount of silt we carry around. I would love to have the energy and the strength to radically streamline my existence.

Now I'm sitting here in my studio writing this column, feeling quite resentful and frustrated. I want to attack the bathroom! Good, good, I'm starting to get some blood flowing through my veins again.

I'm desperately trying not to mention that I was made Woman of the Year by GQ magazine this week. Every year I go to the GQ Men of the Year awards, apart from 2004, when I was blacklisted after an incident the year before. In a more than drunk and disorderly fashion, I attempted to give The Clash their lifetime achievement award – and said to Paul Simonon and Mick Jones: "Let's dance." Paul and Mick had to tell me gently that we were on stage in front of 500 people and there was no music playing. It has taken years of humble behaviour, but GQ has welcomed me warmly as I have risen up into the ranks to become Queen Bee! It's a nice lump of Conde Nast plastic to have after receiving two honorary PhDs, becoming an Royal Academician, etc, etc, etc.... But no, the GQ award is good, because you're in a room surrounded by Alpha males, filling up the air with vast amounts of testosterone. Richard Hammond, James Nesbitt, Sir Michael Caine, that really sexy racing driver... it made me go quite woozy. In fact I had to come straight home and have a bath! My pheromones were pinging around like a cat's cradle!

Sexy moments can be strange; the complete opposite to lying in bed in the morning thinking you have got to clean your bathroom out. I'm talking about the sexy moments that are conjured up by events being on the edge of excitement, nothing lustful or explicit, just a warm, sensual feeling of wanting to share. An understanding of a room coming together. I really like those feelings. Sometimes it happens for me when I'm working. Especially painting. An alchemic moment of things joining together, some of the components beyond my control.

Do you know what? I don't think I'm going to clean the bathroom. I might just create something instead. After all, I am Woman of the Year!

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