I walk into my local doctor’s surgery and receive a receipt with a number printed on it from a machine: 8160. I am this number. Whatever messy reason I am at the doctor’s is neatly translated onto a white sheet.

The subject of my work also appears sterile despite its emotional value. The most important and fascinating things are often viewed with disgust or thought to be mundane, such as gallstones or entrails. In carrying out a severe study of an object to the point where it becomes a hyper-object, I raise it to the status of relic, comparing the scientific/forensic with the sacred and emotional.

When I am finally cremated, a similar piece of paper will accompany my ashes.