Credit: Palazzo Strozzi
In Margate, the sea air has a way of piercing you. It carries salt and something metallic on some mornings, a reminder of corrosion and life. Tracey Emin’s decision to start over here, in view of that horizon, seems appropriate.
She called the moment she became ill in 2020—during lockdown—unexpectedly joyful. She was holding a glass of champagne while working, in love, and sunburned from her London home’s roof. Then the blood started to flow.
| Category | Details |
|---|---|
| Name | Tracey Emin |
| Born | 1963, London; raised in Margate, Kent |
| Art Movement | Young British Artists (YBAs) |
| Major Works | My Bed (1998); Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963–1995 |
| Illness | Diagnosed with aggressive squamous cell bladder cancer in 2020 |
| Treatment | Radical surgery including removal of bladder; now lives with a stoma |
| Recent Milestone | Major retrospective “A Second Life” at Tate Modern (2026) |
| Reference | Radical surgery, including removal of the bladder; now lives with a stoma |
Aggressive bladder cancer was identified. It’s the kind that necessitates immediate, drastic surgery, not the vague kind that encourages cautious waiting. Her bladder, lymph nodes, and a portion of her vagina were removed by the doctors. Currently, she has a stoma.
The woman who once rocked British art with “My Bed,” the 1998 installation of crumpled sheets and trash that made her a household name, is hard to square with that clinical inventory. Illness was emotional, psychic, and sexual in those days. The body was undamaged but exposed.
The grammar was changed by Cancer.
She has stated repeatedly in interviews that this is her “second life.” Her career is framed as BC and AC — Before Cancer and After Cancer — in the most recent Tate Modern retrospective. It’s a tidy division—possibly too tidy—but there was definitely a change.
I recall observing how the bodies appeared to float, less rebellious and more translucent, while I was standing in front of one of her post-cancer paintings.
Critics frequently viewed Emin through the prism of indignation in the early years. She was the Young British Artists’ enfant terrible, uncomfortable with her candor. She posted everything on the wall, including rape, abortion, sex, and shame. The rage was evident.
The temperature changed after the sickness. There is a quieter insistence, but the figures are still unpolished, frequently depicted in bruised blues and urgent reds. Although it is no longer solely a site of violation, the body remains central. It is a place where people survive.
According to her, a choice she made in the face of certain death marked a turning point. She didn’t want to think about dying. Instead, she concentrated on living.
That may sound like a catchphrase, but in her situation, it had real-world implications. She gave up drinking. She rearranged her schedule. In Margate, she established the Tracey Emin Foundation to provide studio space to aspiring artists who, like her own younger self, lacked a place to keep their work.
She was appointed a Dame Commander at Buckingham Palace on February 4, 2025.
Once hostile, recognition now seems almost tender. This situation is tense. Some admirers contend that her art was enhanced by suffering, and that cancer eliminated theatrics to reveal her true self. Others object to the romanticization of sickness because they are concerned about trauma being used as a form of artistic expression.
The counterargument is valid. Being sick is a cruel disruption, not a clever tactic. Emin has spoken candidly about the fallout, describing extreme exhaustion, a concealed disability, and the oddity of surviving. A remission declaration does not imply restoration.
However, there has been a lot of work since 2020. According to her, she has earned more in the past five years than she did in previous decades. The canvases have a sense of urgency, like the edges of time.
Margate described painting as a force that flows through her one afternoon as a cat padded across her kitchen table. The piano music was coming from somewhere invisible, and the room was white, almost stark. The weather was dull and dreary outside. The atmosphere inside was strangely upbeat.
Her calm description of the surgery, which lasted seven hours and involved twelve people in the operating room, has an unnerving quality. As though reading a shopping list, she enumerates the items that were eliminated. The poise is earned rather than forced.
This latter Emin seems less concerned with confrontation than the previous Emin, who demanded to be seen. The anger has subsided. Presence takes its place.
It would be simple to portray her survival as a victory and proclaim that cancer was defeated by art. The complexity would be flattened. The scar is not erased by the paintings. The paintings are not sanctified by the scar.
Her relationship with time has changed. She talks about completing the work right away and not putting off ideas. Margate’s window provides a view of the horizon, which is not an abstract concept.
She has stated that art triumphs over death.
The assertion is audacious. Additionally, in her hands, it is more about perseverance—the obstinate act of creating something while still alive—than it is about winning.