Last night I sat on the sofa, Teacup and Pancake taking it in turns to snuggle up next to me. Their warm little bodies breathing sighs of relief, so happy to have me home. I should have been writing this column, but instead I wrote a love letter to New York.
Love can be hard and difficult, it penetrates the soul and completely takes over.
The body burns and love takes over.
I feel I arrived home on a wave of emotional triumph.
To realise you are in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing in life, is almost fatal, it can kill you, eat up every bit of heart and soul
I haven’t had a show in New York for almost eight years. The last show I had there was in 2016, it was terrible, it had good work but it was a bad show.
There were reasons, I’d just found out my Mum was dying, I was really unwell, I had some kind of vile infection that took over my entire body. I thought my bowels were going to literally explode. I was bleeding from almost every orifice, and I couldn’t get a doctor to see me.
I hung my show in two days and just cried and cried and cried, I just wanted to come home and be with my Mum.
But I didn’t, instead I stayed and stuck by one of the worst shows of my life. I hated myself for being there.
I felt tiny and helpless, I felt sorry for my work it was all so wrong and out of control.
To realise you are in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing in life, is almost fatal, it can kill you, eat up and take away almost every bit of heart and soul. A living humiliation from the outside and a slow, searing death from within.
I close my eyes now and think why wasn’t I stronger? Why didn’t I just say NO?
When I thought I was going to die, not make it, the most difficult four days was after my surgery.
I was in hospital, it was lockdown, I couldn’t have visitors, I was in so much pain, being pumped with morphine.
I was waiting for the biopsy results from all the organs that had been removed and other body parts.
I wasn’t in the clear until we knew the cancer had gone. Even though the surgery, a seven-and-a-half-hour-long operation, had gone extremely well.
I’d been told to prepare myself for the possibility of not good news. All the cancer had to be gone.
I lay there for four days, just making plans and lists in my head. Working out what I’d do if I died.
What I would leave, to where and who, where and who I’d come back to haunt.
All the shows I could rehang in my poltergeist whirlwinds.
I kept myself amused, especially with my list of artists I never want to be shown with, even when I’m dead.
I lay there thinking it wouldn’t be the worst time to go. Except for New York.
I absolutely fucking hated the idea that I was going to leave this planet and be remembered for being an interesting British artist from the Nineties and that the last show I had in New York was shit.
I promised myself a few things, I said if I make it through this, if I get out the other side.
I swear to God I’m going to do the best show I’ve ever had in New York. I’m going to push myself to the level that I know I can go.
I’m going to make up for lost time and bad mistakes.
I’m going to share what I really love.
Thank you New York for having me. Thank you life for giving me a second chance.
Every part of me feels like it’s been touched by love.
My show, Lovers Grave, can be seen at White Cube New York, Madison Avenue, New York.
