Oh, Tracey, Tracey, Tracey… You are a beautiful, sexxxy, award-nominated, very very famous and admired artist. Why must you be so sad and lonely? Wait. What’s this romantic-commoner rant in the new ArtForum exactly?
Men don’t look at me anymore. They don’t look at me sexually. My body is like a barrel and it’s on two spindly things. On top of the barrel is a kind of mop. And I really hate my breasts. It would be so easy for me to be with women. Women find me really attractive. And of course I find some of them attractive, but in the end I want a really hard fuck. I’m looking to get what I want. I might meet a woman some day and fall in love and it works. But I doubt it, because after a certain amount of time I’ll probably start staring at men’s crotches. It would have been different if I was married or had a partner to grow old with. But if you don’t, and you’ve been alone for a long time, the only person looking at you is yourself in that mirror.
Come again? Aw, Tracey. The hell? You need to meet more lesbians.
But read on. It gets sadder.
If I were to keep drawing myself from my mind, I would still be drawing this spindly little figure with her legs wide open. Life isn’t like that anymore. It really isn’t. No one had sex on Star Trek: The Next Generation, and the last time I had sex the person came so quickly. The thing about being fifty is that I’m no longer biological. The surface really becomes what’s around me. And that isn’t vanity; it’s sensitivity.
Oh, stop it. You are a [forever] Young British Artist. Shh. Shh.