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You can't talk about Tracey Emin without talking about her bed.

First made-or rather, unmade-at a dingy Waterloo council flat in 1998, the iconic installation offers an uncompromising glimpse into the life of the then 35-year-old after a traumatic relationship breakdown. The confessional self-portrait of objects-complete with used condoms, cigarette butts, and empty vodka bottles-shocked the art world when it was featured in Tate Britain's 1999 Turner Prize exhibition. So thoroughly have its daring and relatability altered the British public's relationship with contemporary art in the years since, that few remember that the piece never actually won the prestigious award.

Yesterday, in Emin's coastal hometown of Margate, Turner Contemporary kicked off its autumn season with the unveiling of a brand new installation of My Bed, nearly 20 years after it was first shown. The new installation places Emin's work in context with that of another Margate legend, and the hosting gallery's namesake, JMW Turner.

Turner famously considered the skies in Margate to be "the loveliest in all of Europe," and Emin has revealed plans to move back to the seaside town from London in July next year, once her new studio there is completed.

Since 2014, when it was bought at Christie's for £2.5 million by a private collector, My Bed has been on long-term loan to Tate, showing at Tate Britain alongside works by Francis Bacon in 2015, and at Tate Liverpool alongside etchings by William Blake. For this installation, Emin selected 14 Turner works, three large oil paintings and eleven watercolors, depicting various seascapes and stormy skies that have never shown previously at the gallery.

The effect is breathtaking, and oddly cathartic. The clouds over Turner's Rough Sea (c.1840-5) are uncannily echoed in the tangle of sheets over Emin's bed, and the browns and yellows of the landscape are mirrored in the stained mattress, offering an extraordinary connection between the two distinct works.

Speaking to artnet News and other journalists in Margate ahead of the private view, here's what Tracey Emin had to say about My Bed, the "magic carpet" that changed her life in so many ways.
How has the installation changed in the 20 years since it was first shown?
It changes every time I install it. It gets older, and I get older, and all the objects and the bed get further and further away from me, from how I am now. I used the example, in there, about how the belt used to fit around my waist and now it actually fits around my thigh. So that gives you an idea about how much things change.

I don't smoke, I don't have sex, I don't use contraceptives, I don't have periods, I don't wear small pale blue knickers that look like one of Turner's clouds. I don't make stains on the bed like that, like I used to, and if I did, I wouldn't have a bed like that, the sheets would get washed immediately.

Every time I install it at each different place, my mood and how I'm feeling reflects in the bed. What I love about this installation is the Turner behind it. If you didn't know, you'd think that I made the bed as a project: Here's a Turner, now make a bed out of it. It's uncanny. The pale blue knickers, that cloud, the sand banks with the sea, everything is just so similar.

I'm really pleased how Turner's work and the bed relate to each other. I mean, we all know Turner was a really raunchy man, he was full of a lot of fecundity and action, and so am I, or used to be, so I think it's quite nice. And also, with all his masculinity, he's also actually incredibly feminine as well, the way he approached his painting, his temperament and his emotions were put in the open, which was quite rare at that time. The bed is very vulnerable and very open, and so are Turner's paintings.
Why do you think the installation still sparks such debate to this day?
I think because it caused such a fuss at the time, and people remember it, and because I've never seen anything like it before in my life in an art gallery, ever. So I think it still is seminal, it still has a presence, because almost everyone has been there, to a certain degree, and can relate to it. People respond to it in a very human way and take it far more seriously now than they did 20 years ago.

I don't think people hate it anymore-I think they hated it because they hated contemporary art and they hated new ideas, or they hated to be exposed. Basically, I'm just exposing their own lives, in an even more extreme way. Everybody has had a stain in their life to some degree, I'm just saying it's OK. It's all right. And if people want to argue with me about that then they've got to sort out their own lives. Imagine fucking all the time, making love, and never making a stain! You've got a big problem in your bedroom.
Was there a decisive moment when you came to the idea that it was an art work?
No, it was immediate. I got out of bed and I looked at it and I just thought, "Wow." I just saw it in a white space, I saw it out of that environment and, subconsciously, I saw myself out of that environment, and I saw a way for my future that wasn't a failure, that wasn't desperate. One that wasn't suicidal, that wasn't losing, that wasn't alcoholic, anorexic, unloved.
Would you ever make another bed of you now?
No, it would be so boring! Can you imagine this Tracey's bed? My bed now is immaculate, really nice. You know, a Ralph Lauren top and pillowcases and things, the nice throw over it.

I'm a different person. Of course I'm still partly the same but lots of things have changed. In my bed, in my sleeping partners, in my sleeping habits, and what I take to bed with me as well. I take a book to bed with me now, and a telephone. Not all that stuff.
Is there anything particularly different about installing it in your hometown?
Yeah. I'm going to be embarrassed tonight, all these old school friends who I never imagined seeing the internal world of my bed, or whatever, it definitely has a different relevance here. But I'm really pleased it's in Margate, I think it's good and I hope that lots of people come and see it here.
Are you working on anything now that is inspired by Margate?
No. I'm going to wait until I move back. Lots of people have asked me if I think my work will change and I think it will, probably. I worked for years with my childhood, using bad memories, and I really wonder, when I come back, whether all the good memories will come through. It will be really interesting, I think. It's like coming full circle.
A couple of years ago you were talking about setting up an archive in London and opening it up to the public. Do you still plan on that, or will those plans move to Margate with you?
My archive will be in London, but my museum will be in Margate! When I die, hopefully there'll be a museum here, which I think would be brilliant. You know: "Margate girl makes good." Because you don't need to have a Tracey Emin museum in London, do you? You can have it anywhere. I hope people will come to it. I'd much rather go out for the day in Margate. There's too much happening in London.

"Tracey Emin: My Bed / JMW Turner" is showing at Turner Contemporary in Margate, England, until January 14, 2018.

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Tracey Emin on Why Her Infamous 'My Bed' Is Really Like a JMW Turner Painting | artnet News

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You can't talk about Tracey Emin without talking about her bed. First made-or rather, unmade-at a dingy Waterloo council flat in 1998, the iconic installation offers an uncompromising glimpse into the life of the then 35-year-old after a traumatic relationship breakdown.

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In the Ardeche gorge in southern France lies one of the most important prehistoric sites ever discovered.

It's locked away behind a thick metal door, hidden halfway up a towering limestone cliff-face.

Few people have ever been allowed inside, but BBC Newsnight has been granted rare access by the French Ministry of Culture and Communication.

We slide through a metal passageway on our backsides, and then tentatively descend a ladder.

It takes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, but our head torches soon reveal that we've entered into a vast cave system of geological beauty.

We weave along the narrow metal walkways; stalactites and stalagmites glimmer in the light, sparkling curtains of calcite hang down from above and the floor is awash with the bones of long-dead animals.

Until recently, the last people to set eyes on this place were our Palaeolithic ancestors, before a rock fall cut it off from the outside world.

This exquisitely preserved time-capsule was sealed shut for more than 20,000 years, until it was discovered by three cavers - Eliette Brunel-Deschamps, Christian Hillaire and Jean-Marie Chauvet, after whom it is now named - on the 18th December 1994.

At first they thought they had uncovered a network of spectacular caverns.

But as they ventured deeper inside, they realised this was the discovery of a lifetime - the cave held some of the oldest art ever found.

It's breathtaking when we get our first glimpse of it.

The walls are adorned with hundreds of paintings.

Most of them are animals - woolly rhinos, mammoths, lions and bears intermingle with horses, aurochs and ibex.

Some are isolated images: we wander past a small rhino, a single, lonely creature daubed on the rock. But there are also huge, complex compositions, a menagerie of beasts jostling for space on great swathes of the cavern wall.

Painted in charcoal and red ochre, or etched into the limestone, careful shading and skilful technique bring the animals to life, revealing movement and depth.

"They are very sophisticated," says Marie Bardisa, the head curator at the Chauvet Cave - which is also known as the Decorated Cave of Pont d'Arc. She delights in this rare chance to show off the art.

"They used the relief of the rock to give the forms, to give the shadows, to express so many things.

"They saw the animals in the rock," she adds.

"More than 400 animals have been painted here, there are still lots of things to discover."

The paintings are so well preserved, they look as if they were drawn yesterday. But while there has been some debate over their age, the most recent radiocarbon dating suggests this work is more than 35,000 years old.

The rock drawings offer a rare glimpse into the lives of our early human ancestors and the Ice Age world they inhabited.

But few will ever have the chance to see it.

As soon as the cave was discovered, on the advice of scientists, the French authorities closed it off to visitors.

"If the public came into this cave, first of all, we risk contamination," explains Marie Bardisa.

"The temperature can grow very quickly, the balance of the climate would be disturbed so much we could have alteration of the paintings - we don't want to take this risk."

Archaeologists know this from bitter experience.

In 1940, the Lascaux cave system was discovered in southwest France.

For more than 20 years, millions of visitors flocked to see its stunning paintings, until visible damage from mould and bacteria forced the cave to be shut down.

Even today, scientists are still struggling to save the paintings, which may have been damaged beyond repair.

With the Chauvet cave, the French authorities have had to find a way to both preserve and promote this precious heritage.

This big problem required a big solution.

A few kilometres away, on a pine covered hill, sits a stadium-sized concrete hanger.

Inside is a recreation of some of the Chauvet cave's most important features, reproduced to scale.

It's cost 55m euros to build, has taken eight years from inception to completion and has involved hundreds of people.

Hi-tech scans, 3D-modelling and digital images of the original cave were used to create the copy.

Layered over a huge metal scaffold, the limestone walls have been reproduced in concrete, the stalagmites and stalactites have been remade in resin.

Even the temperature has been set to match that of the original.

If you ignore the hordes of visitors who have come to press day, you do get the sense of being in a real cave.

The paintings, though, are the main attraction.

"The process is very complex. You have to be very respectful to the original," says Gilles Tosello, who spent six months reproducing some of the Chauvet cave's most impressive compositions.

The art was recreated offsite. Digital images of the paintings were projected onto canvasses of fake rock to guide the artists.

"Our raw material is resin, and it is completely different to limestone, mud and clay in the original cave," explains Mr Tosello.

"But that was part of the challenge - we are using illusions to recreate the original compositions."

He says the process brought him closer to the original artists.

"If you spend hours and days and weeks, and you are trying to translate or imitate the gesture or work of another artist, you become more or less a part of him."

At the replica, Palaeolithic art specialist Jean Clottes stands surveying the work.

He was the first scientist to enter the cave, and has been president of the replica's scientific committee.

"I think the public are going to be very pleased with it because the quality is great and it is scientifically correct," he tells us.

He says a replica is the best way to tell the modern masses about our prehistoric ancestors.

"They are not primitive people, they are people like us," he explains.

"Modern humans are 200,000 years old, at least, so 35,000 years ago was not such a long distance away."

He believes the cave was a spiritual place for these hunter gatherers, and the Ice Age animals represented on the rocks had a form of ritual or magic associated with them.

"(These people) had short lives that were quite different from ours, but from their art, we can see they were as intelligent as we are, that they had great artists and they had religion. They were close to us."

It's hoped that the replica will bring these ancient artists closer still, as their testimony to human culture and creativity opens to the crowds.

Or, at least, a copy of that testimony.

With so few people privileged enough to experience the real thing, prehistoric art must reach its audience through modern means.

Follow Rebecca and Stuart on Twitter

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In the Ardeche gorge in southern France lies one of the most important prehistoric sites ever discovered. It's locked away behind a thick metal door, hidden halfway up a towering limestone cliff-face. Few people have ever been allowed inside, but BBC Newsnight has been granted rare access by the French Ministry of Culture and Communication.

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It is a question that has dogged the contemporary art world since Duchamp put a urinal in a gallery: but is it art?

When the lights were switched on at a Dan Flavin retrospective at the Hayward Gallery in London, critics were entranced. "Beautiful," Laura Cumming wrote in the Observer in 2006. "You wonder how it is possible that so much pleasure could emit from such a dismal source: the cold fluorescent tubes of strip lighting."

But the European commission has taken a less poetic view. Brussels has ruled that the work of the American artist, who died in 1996 after half a century of creating pioneering sculpture, should be classified for tax purposes as simple light fixtures. His work, they said, has "the characteristics of lighting fittings ... and is therefore to be classified ... as wall lighting fittings".

The ruling overturns an earlier UK customs tribunal verdict, and was denounced by one lawyer specialising in arts cases as "extraordinary".

This is no mere academic view. It means Flavin works imported by any museum or gallery from outside the EU are liable to full VAT, which rises to 20% on 1 January. As sculpture the pieces would be subject to only 5% VAT.

The ruling also affects the work of Bill Viola, another American, who became the first living artist to have a major exhibition at the National Gallery in London, and whose video pieces, filmed in extreme slow motion, moved many viewers to tears.

Not the commission, which found: "It is not the installation that constitutes a 'work of art' but the result of the operations (the light effect) carried out by it."

St Paul's cathedral could be among the first victims of the ruling. It has commissioned two altar pieces from Viola, due to be unveiled next year, which could become dramatically more expensive.

The legal battle over whether the often banal ingredients of modern art, particularly light, sound and video pieces, are themselves to be regarded as art has raged for years. The present bout began in 2006, when the Haunch of Venison gallery in London, which represented both artists, imported components for six video pieces by Viola and a light sculpture by Flavin.

The UK challenged their classification as art and tried to slap a £36,000 VAT bill on the gallery. That bill was torn up two years later when the Haunch of Venison won on appeal to the VAT and duties tribunal, which ruled that the pieces were indeed art. That verdict has in turn now been overturned by the commission.

Both artists are now represented by Blain Southern, a new gallery set up this year by the original founders of Haunch of Venison. A spokesman for the gallery said the partners are now taking advice from trade bodies including the Society of London Art Dealers.

However Pierre Valentin, the lawyer who challenged the original customs ruling on behalf of the Haunch of Venison, was astounded. "To suggest, for example, that a work by Dan Flavin is a work of art only when it is switched on, is comical," he told the Art Newspaper.

"One is entitled to ask if the commission has made a judicious use of its powers when overruling these judicial decisions. The reasons given in the regulation in support of the classification are absurd, and the regulation conflicts with the jurisprudence of the European court of justice."

The "call that art, I could knock that up in my shed in five minutes" argument has probably raged since the first caveman sketched a red clay bison on a rock wall. But there is one particularly famous precedent for the commission's decision, in a row over the work of the Romanian sculptor Constantin Brancusi. In 1926 the American collector and photographer Edward Steichen bought a bronze version of his tall slender Bird In Space, and attempted to import it to the US. Since it had neither head, feet nor feathers, US customs refused to accept it as a zero-rated work of art, and instead classified it as "a manufacture of metal ... held dutiable at 40%".

Steichen paid the $600 dues, but he and the sculptor then went to court - with his legal fees usefully paid by the millionaire collector Peggy Guggenheim - and succeeded, the EC might like to note, in having the decision overturned. In 1928 the judge eventually ruled that "while some difficulty might be encountered in associating it with a bird, it is nevertheless pleasing to look at and highly ornamental". Steichen got his money back.

The belief that all modern art is rubbish has frequently been even more dramatically demonstrated, less through bureaucracy than devastating human error.

In 2007 a London art storage company was ordered to pay £350,000 compensation to a Swiss collector after an Anish Kapoor sculpture somehow ended up in a skip.

In 2000 the packaging in which a drawing by Lucian Freud, valued at £100,000, was sent to Sotheby's auction house was put through a shredder. Unfortunately the drawing was still inside it.

In 2004 the Tate was mortified when a cleaner innocently threw out an overflowing rubbish bag. It was part of an installation by Gustav Metzger, aptly entitled Recreation of First Public Demonstration of Auto-Destructive Art.

Whether florescent tubes are ultimately ruled rubbish, hardware or the skeletons of magical art remains to be seen.

Meanwhile the ruling should be a great satisfaction to "Barney", one of the few dissenting voices over the Hayward's Dan Flavin exhibition, who posted on artistsandmakers.com: "It was like walking around the lighting department of B&Q."
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Call that art? No, Dan Flavin's work is just simple light fittings, say EU experts

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It is a question that has dogged the contemporary art world since Duchamp put a urinal in a gallery: but is it art? When the lights were switched on at a Dan Flavin retrospective at the Hayward Gallery in London, critics were entranced. "Beautiful," Laura Cumming wrote in the Observer in 2006.

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