In a conversation yesterday evening that touched upon that old chestnut of modern art, for a few moments, Tracey Emin was held in comparison with Anthony Gormley, and suddenly a little light was shed on the question of self and art: Anthony Gormley uses his body (much of the time) in what might seem a very exposing way, as does Tracey Emin, though in the light of traditions of art, Anthony Gormley appears in a recognisable tradition whereas Tracey Emin appears to belong to some other tradition.
Which reminds me of the question often asked of novelists, how much of this is autobiographical? A question which is always present and more often than not, boring–
What else can I use but my body . . . my self?
Demon Fighting
“So pleased to meet you.”
So far, so good–
You know where you are with such sneering falsehood
But don’t be distracted by the weather
Or the hunger of consumerism
And when the talk comes to the cost of the restaurant last night
Don’t mention the degradation of the food.
Anyway what does he do for a living?
Does he work?
She leans into him, all glossy lips and perfect teeth
Her lust as indiscriminate as a Texan typhoon on the rampage
So the questions of
Where to put myself, where to stand
In this sphincter tightening debate where a mind-bending gravity
Knots all possibility of solution – but then
Time passes and with the depredations of consciousness
I manage a few years
Before discovering how seriously I’ve lost.
ak
November 2006
Wholly man, holey man or holy man?
All present on the streets of Istanbul.
ak