It's my memory, and what happened between that moment 10 or 15 years ago and now, there's a lot of gray area

I feel physically ill if I don't make work, I don't create. I don't feel very good. I don't feel right, I feel wrong.

When I think about sex it makes me realise how alone I feel.

Strolling on the plateau of life, desperate for the mountain, I never thought that I would get this far. It's only art that has carried me through, given me faith in my own existence. But now I am approaching a point in my life where I desire more.

People try constantly to use me and I hate it.

I like poor materials. I couldn't see myself making a bronze sculpture - it's not me. I like neon, because it's moving constantly and like drawing. The chemicals going through the neon turns me on really - it's sexy. I like fabrics, but one of the main things with objects is that I really have to love them before I can use them. I have to have the object around me a long time. The little chairs I used in my last White Cube show are ones that my dad bought for me. A sort of a psychometry with objects and things. It's like the pieces I've made are my things.

I don't ask for an apology because it's only tomorrow's fish-and-chip paper.