The first time I flew was in January 1984 with Dad from London to Istanbul then on to Cyprus. As we boarded the plane he said: 'Tracey darling, I'm taking you home.'
I had spent quite a lot of time in Istanbul as a child, but we never flew. Dad would always drive. I remember going through the border crossings: Yugoslavia, Bulgaria — heavy Eastern Bloc encounters — at night, the checkpoints with their floodlights lighting up the surrounding fields. In the morning, Dad would set up camp next to the roadside: Calor gas stove, frying pan and a few basic implements and we would have the best fried breakfast in the world with cups of tea from tin cans and Carnation milk. We must have looked somewhat unreal: Dad like an extra from Hawaii Five-0 in his Hawaiian-printed shirt and chinos; Mum, a platinum blonde, all bust and curves like a filmstar; my brother and I seated on tiny chairs, our Zodiac car parked on the hard shoulder. All so very 1960s.
I was going to say that I have been flying for 26 years now, but that's not actually true. My older brother Alan has always flown small vintage aircraft. He's now an instructor for microlights. As a teen, I would often fly with him, in the tiniest, oldest planes. I would be his co-pilot, looking out for large birds and oncoming planes, whizzing around Beachy Head, along the British coastline and the grand finale: a full circle around Canterbury Cathedral. I've never been afraid to fly.
But then there are the dreams. If it's not giant tidal waves, then I'm flying, my arms flapping, the wind in my hair. As a child I was always taking off from the school field. Just the other night I was flying and my arms were aching, and in my dream I thought: I'm getting too old for this. I had to make an emergency landing in some woman's garden and she shouted at me.
Travel has always been important to artists - new experiences, new light, new ideas. Van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso, Munch — they all kept on the move. Through art, I have travelled all over the world, a nonstop adventure with the smallest amount of tourism. Often I would arrive at the gallery/museum, spend ten days installing my work, have the opening night, and then leave. No time for lavender fields, tram rides, Anne Frank's house or the old windmills of Amsterdam.
I have been to New York maybe 20 times. I have never been to the Statue of Liberty, but I did pass once on the Staten Island ferry. My way of seeing things is from a height. If I had a spare afternoon I would try to go to the highest spot: Toronto CN tower, in Paris the Eiffel, in Copenhagen the Round. The tower list goes on. I've done almost every tower I can. But if there's something I love more than towers it's helicopters. It's my favourite way to sightsee: Ayers Rock, New York, Grand Canyon, Côte d'Azur, London and Sydney (seaplane). As I said, I'm a terrible tourist.
As an artist, I visit the interior, but always looking from afar. About 12 years ago, I was in Tokyo. I had a solo show in an old rice factory in the industrial area. It was the first time I had shown 'My Bed'. There was a terrible problem with the Japanese customs. They did not recognise the detritus that surrounded 'My Bed' as art. In fact, they wanted to incinerate it (as did much of the world at a later date). So until they received the letters from Tate Gallery and the British Council verifying I was a living artist and that the dirty knickers, used condoms, vodka bottles and old newspapers etc were art, I had time on my hands.
I wanted to visit a shrine and pray. As I did so much sewing, my choice was the needle shrine. I thought it was so sweet that people would make a shrine to sewing and knitting needles. I imagined a giant metallic haystack, only to be told as I set off on my two-hour journey that the only needles I was going to be finding were hypodermic.
I eventually went to the local shrine around the corner. It was very grand and beautiful. No tourists, in fact, no people. I washed, I prayed and I spent a long time there contemplating my life. I returned to the gallery feeling exhilarated, optimistic and happy. The gallerist asked me where I had been. I said the shrine around the corner. Her jaw dropped and she said: 'What have you been doing there?' I said I had been praying for help for everything I have to do in my future. She put her head in her hands and said: 'You've been to the sumo wrestlers shrine. Only sumos and their families go there. Now you have prayed for the battle and the fight of your life.'
But the battle was true. As an artist I have to fight and fight. In Britain, the arts and culture are facing many cuts, but the irony is that the visual arts in the UK have never been stronger. As this issue of High Life shows, October is a fantastic month for the arts in the UK. Frieze Art Fair which shows the best galleries in the world, the Affordable Art Fair, Art London, Multiplied Art Fair and the hundreds of galleries showing new and old talent.
One of the most amazing things about culture in the UK is that fashion, music, art, film all go hand in hand. There are no exclusion zones. Artists make films, fashion designers make art and politics. We are all so diverse, that's what makes Britain so exciting.
I hope you enjoy this issue of High Life.
With love
Tracey Emin
