As I convert more of my home into working space, my bedroom has become my refuge. Its shelves are crammed with books and personal mementoes, among them a trussed, scarified Barbie doll from my Voodoo-inspired Venus In Hell exhibition, a miniature chess set, necklaces of bones, beads and glass, peacock feather earrings, a Moroccan bowl overflowing with a collection of sex toys, an old, painted Balinese buddha head enhanced with a spiked leather choker, photographs with diaristic, hand-written inscriptions, a Blyth doll given to me by a couple of favourite collectors, my private journals – even a glow-in-the-dark plastic Holy Mary. Until a couple of years ago, all these possessions would have felt like unbearable clutter. I would have given them away or packed them in boxes. Now, I find them comforting. My bedroom is a cocoon. It's familiar, filled with things I love from people and places I love.