loving tracey emin or fucking like narcissistic oblivion or more importantly how can fucking be really good and worth it

  

 

 

The artist, Emin, was dancing in this sort of drunken stripper way. It made me feel sort of lesbianish. I wanted to kiss her so I tried coming on to her by telling her she looked great and I liked her dance moves. She sneered a Billy Idol sneer at me -- my send off for the evening.

                                            ELIZABETH HAYT,  AUTHOR OF "I'M NO SAINT"
                                                         

WANT TO BE WITH U

OK, Tracey, what I really want to know is, who is U, who is you, who is you, you and U and I don't mean I want to know the identity of your lover, or everyone you have ever slept with, I want to know who is U, when we are in love, who is U, the lover or the audience or is U just the haze, just that stuff the sun burns off, that fuzzy narcotic red in morning or at dusk . . I want to know, Can I Be U?

I can sit in bed, just after deep sex, and then smoke and then eat something fabulously sweet and then get on the computer and check my email and then watch something fabulously decadent in my bed with my lover and then, and then and then I'm still scratching the sheets, still sniffing, hungry still and empty spot, me . . U

Marion Woodman, Jungian Psychoanalyst once said, "The body knows the lover is never, never, never going to return."  She used that fact to illustrate the roots of addiction, specifically at that moment, feminine addiction to food, food related trauma and, as she put it,  "The Addiction to Perfection".

Everytime I press my thumb into the 8 key twice in a text message, I see that U like a cup and I love how easy it is to just hit that U, no spelling. I get the immediate pleasurable gratification to finish that loving sentiment, love U, C U, thinking of U.

Tracey, I am writing to U today, today I am thinking of U, I love you.

THE BED

The ridge of my back is bristling Tracey, but I have to remind the two of us of how long hatred and contempt can stay in the body.  My contempt of you is not in the present, it comes from long ago, and, as mentioned before, the body does not forget anything. I don't know if we are actually speaking hatred here, anyway. I use hatred to juxtapose with love but it is all love, isn't it, this attention, this compulsive attention, running my tongue along a nagging empty space in my mouth -- this attentiveness to pain is a form of care. 

It is often said that where there is an extreme negative reaction coined as hatred, it is just another veil of love, for the opposite of love is not hatred or contempt or jealousy or bitterness -- all forms of love in their intensity -- but indifference.

Tracey, can I say this right now -- with love, without seeming mean --  it is easier to love you more directly when your work is not as strong, then I can eliminate my covetousness from the work, if not from your rock star London lifestyle – the friends, the home, the cash .  It shows I am getting better, healthier, now that I can soften my heart when the work is not as good, it shows that, although competitive, at least I have my values in the right place.

In 1999 I stood in front of your bed at Lehmann Maupin and I was consumed with possessive love/rage at your audacity and How Come I Didn't Think of This First.  That and the pages from your journal framed, Shit, What A Good Idea.  I wanted to both have you all to myself and eliminate you, terminate you, like that maniacal rage that caused Sleeping Beauty's Stepmother the Evil Queen to send The Huntsman out to kill Sleeping Beauty and bring back her heart.

That's it Tracey, like two slutty girls that always go out together, who obsessively groom and provoke each other, who cannot party without the other, who have to end up making out with each other just to wrench the other out of circulation, I wanted to own you in that divine possession -- a different kind of love than the divine proposed here, the metta love, the love I am trying to learn, the new love I am practicing.  I wanted to own you in the old way I used to know how to love, using my love to stop my lover from doing anything that does not reflect or benefit me. 

The bed and it's evidence of how much sex you had, I just couldn't handle it, how could I ever keep up with you?

WHY DID YOU STOP ME FROM LOVING YOU   

I love your sheets, Tracey, the faded faded flowers, the white. My sheets, now always white, used to be baby roses, peonies, cabbage roses.   

As I began to haughtily raise myself up the other day @ "I Can Feel Your Smile", me all in black and high and mighty, rising over the precious beauty of your objects themselves, the exquisite and expensive framing, I was struck by this simultaneity, the sheets, just one more simultaneity – another, along with the loss of dignity around the deep need and sadness and loneliness that comes when we connect (or not), and then sex itself and then the pure hurting.

How can we stand coming up with the same ideas all the time, any of us?  I guess it makes a difference if the work is selling and who is paying it, but even still . .  we're all born on the same planet at the same time, are we not -- sisters, lovers, ufo abductees . . isn't the object of this metta love to prove that we are probably the same person even, are the molecules really all that different, just a different organization, differing concentrations of slightly differing DNA . . .

So does it not make any difference that we make similar art, that we have such simultaneous impulses . . does it make any difference who is first?

I did find it strange that not one art writer, in all the press I read around your show, mentioned the similarity to Jack Pierson's work, I guess it doesn't really make any difference after all, who is first, because we are all lonely together, oh I'm not sure if I can believe it but I'm truly trying to work it out, for I know I must love if I'm going to survive, and I must believe we all deserve to find ourselves, at our own pace.

INSANE REFLECTION

And who am I to judge anyway -- the fucking, the repetition, the intriguing (a new verb a sexually addicted lover introduced me to – intriguing: when you are pulling someone in and virtually fucking them with your mind and words while maintaining a certain chasteness or celibacy), the addiction to loneliness, the manipulation of the world through your own despair . . . I still play, and play and play all those game, my motives are still suspect. 

This is how I can love you.

I couldn't just throw away the sheets as too pretty, too well framed, too much of a Jack rip-off, I was to busy copping to my most recent simultaneity, the evidence of my own power-art-fucking-sex-gamesmanship, one I claimed as my last, my most recent last, but one nonetheless, a minor infraction at best, in the last couple of months, nothing too spectacular, just a online flirtation with a young, cocky curator that got really personal really fast, even though it was clear from the beginning that he had a serious girlfriend, neither of us cared, we played quite readily, a very explicit truth or dare game that went on for days while both of us were at work:

(my response below to one his dares –
describe in detail your last sexual encounter)

you did rock my world baby, she texted him as she left

he was dancing in just his jeans to Shaggy, a CD
he stole from his daughter, the music
was old but pretty naughty and she laughed and
danced too. She told him he had to keep all his
clothes on for at least the next three hours and
she was going to as well . She kept laughing, her
hands over her head and grinding her ass into him
he was delirious begging, renegotiating the
clothing rule, but she held firm. In spite of
this, she ended up in just her underpants, she kept
laughing til he was out of his mind, the shaggy record
repeating

they didn't make it to three hours but by the time
he laid her down she didn't remember anything
other than the compulsion to be fucked and that
didn't matter anyway because his whole self sunk
into her in an osmosis kind of desire that caused
a sort of blackout that was unfortunate cause it
all was incredibly yummy, she kept coming back out
to pull his hair back and look into his eyes to
make sure he was still with her. sometimes once
the fucking began he became only cock and his
eyes only black, which was to be expected. she was
cerebral at heart, as sensual as she may
seem, and these kinds of psychic withdrawals or
disappearances threw her off her rhythm.

The riffs would come and go, they laid under the
open window even though the rain outside was damp
and cold. she woke to find herself on top of him,
naked, no blanket. he reached around her back,
flipped her over and pressed himself down on her,
darling, darling

she never told him that sometimes she fantasized
that he was her father, not her actual father, but
some father somewhere, it was the way he said
darling when he came . . .maybe because she kept
telling herself she didn't care . . 10/12/05


Later that week, when he dared me to send him a love letter complete with a scandalous gift, I ripped a tiny corner off the white sheet of that unmade bed, stapled it to a piece of color xerox of my tattoo and mailed it to him, the young cocky curator, not the daddy.  I wasn't thinking of you, Tracey or your sheets, at that time, honestly.

I dared him to call me. He didn't. 

I didn't really care, I didn't, Tracey, but I will admit it here, to you -- I hate to be left alone and empty-handed. 


NEXT LOVE:  MIKE KELLEY "Day is Done" @ GAGOSIAN

Comments

[becky]

I love this:
"the intriguing (a new verb a sexually addicted lover introduced me to – intriguing: when you are pulling someone in and virtually fucking them with your mind and words while maintaining a certain chasteness or celibacy)"

I posted it on my myspace blog, I hope you don't mind, I gave you due credit:
http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=269076&blogID=67121078

It describes so well something that is so hard to define, and very topical for me right now...
Love,
Becky

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