Tracey Emin and the Royal Academy: the coupling is potentially as awkward as that between the zebra and the young lady that visitors will find at the RA summer show this year. It certainly serves the same purpose. The RA is the decorous lady prepared to compromise itself tastelessly with some exotic import for the benefit of those who find more traditional approaches rather too dull.

But does it work? When the summer show opens this week will it feel more exciting? Every June this exhibition blows into London. Every year for the past decade or so we have been told that this time it will be different. But every year, despite lots of superficial tinkerings, it has pretty much the same mood. This time the academy adopts a tactic that proved successful a decade ago when it hosted the highly controversial Sensation show. It issues a warning that exhibits might not be suitable for those below the age of consent.

I am sure that a few proverbial denizens of Tunbridge Wells will turn up to oblige her with an outraged response. But aficionados will find it hard to rouse anything much more than a weary sense of recognition. If you really want to be worried, go and squirm at the horrible creative relish that the Chapman brothers put in to their latest show at White Cube.

Emin, in comparison, feels more like a naughty little girl who pulls up her skirt to the public to prove that she is wearing no knickers. This is probably a sign of her success. Her obsessions have become part of the vernacular. Hung amid the pictures of cats and the Provençal landscapes that form so predictable a part of this annual artsfest is a small lacework exhibit by an amateur entrant which tells us to “F*** Off”. The tactic is familiar. It was made so by Emin, who embroidered blankets in which the written messages were at odds with the homely media.

To make your mark in the summer show is a hard task. Far too many academicians appear to think that bigger is better and abuse their privileged positions as well as our patience. Humphrey Ocean, also invited to curate a room this year, is so eager to get his democratic message across that he tries to cram everything into his gallery, including, if not quite the kitchen sink, then at least the dirty dishcloths.

But less is often more. Look at the Lucian Freud etching. You could fit 16 of his expressively delicate little works into the garishly empty expanses of the picture beside it. Emin should have a look at the Louise Bourgeois sculpture of a sack. There is nothing explicit about it. You cannot see what's inside it. But just to pass close to it is to feel the flesh creep.

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