Can you remember the last time you were obsessed with someone? Like, all-consuming, social-media-stalking, friends-pulling-you-aside-to-have-a-word, am-I-actually-going-crazy, obsessed? We’ve all been there at some point, but for performance artist Harriet Richardson, this extreme version of limerence has been the norm as long as she can remember. When she reminisces on her 30 years of life, they split neatly into chapters, each one named after the man she was infatuated with at the time.
“The problem is that ‘sex and love addiction’ has terrible branding,” Richardson says. “As soon as you tell someone, they assume that your issue is not being able to keep it in your pants. And it’s funny, because mine’s the opposite. I’m not looking for a quick shag. I’m looking for an idol to dedicate my thoughts, my life, my purpose to. I’ve only slept with 14 people, as everyone now knows. That’s quite low. But it’s because I have to get obsessed with them first.”
