![]() ![]() ![]() I didn’t mean anything in the world yet and I didn’t mean anything any more to the person I’d loved. ![]() I sat on the leather bench reading her righteously wounded break-up letter, and sobbed. My mum accompanied me to Alice Neel, Louise Bourgeois and Sophie Calle.Ī decade ago, at the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles, I went alone to see Kara Walker’s My Complement, My Enemy, My Oppressor, My Love. My dad took me, as a kid, to see Tracey Emin at the Tate. But through my parents I learned that female artists can process these sorts of anxieties through their work. I was young when I learned how alarmed one should feel by the arrival of bills, any letter without a handwritten address experienced as body shock. The only inventory that comes naturally to me is writing books, this interior work of zero use to the local council. L ike many writers, I struggle to manage accounting. ![]()
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