Charles Saatchi owns your famous piece “My Bed,” an unmade bed with the detritus of a bad few months of depression in 1998. How does the bed get installed when it travels?
I install it. Everything is in sealed containers, and it’s all labeled, like a crime scene. I did it in Frankfurt last year. I hadn’t seen it since 2008. I was thinking, with the cigarettes, that’s so weird because I don’t smoke anymore. I haven’t had sex for years, and there’s this condom. God, there’s a tampon, and I haven’t had a period for years. There’s my ex-boyfriend’s marijuana, I would never be with anyone who smokes marijuana now; there’s a whiskey bottle, and I don’t drink spirits. I get inside and pull the covers over me and then fold them back to look natural. I can actually smell the past. When I touched the condoms, I thought, Oh, I really loved that person who wore that condom. It’s a strange feeling, a good feeling. This ghost of me was still there.
Damien Hirst’s shark in formaldehyde had to be restored because it was rotting. Have you had any similar problems with the bed?
The bed mustn’t be in strong lights, otherwise the stains on the sheets will fade. The condoms are disintegrating. Charles Saatchi said, “Can you not make some more?” And I said: “No, of course I can’t make any more. You want me to fake it?” I really don’t know what we’re going to do.