dearharrystyles

In autumn 2020, my boyfriend broke up with me.

I sank into depression. I became disinterested in sex and connecting with others romantically.

I stumbled upon a video clip from Harry Styles. I fell in love and sent him a love letter.

I did not hear back from him. I screen-printed the original letter into fifteen 42 x 59,4 cm posters. I flew to London and pasted my letter from the city center to his house in Hampstead Heath.

Dear Harry Styles,
I lust after your old-school aura, your amber spicy fragrance, and your total coolness. I fell in love for the first time last August, and he broke my heart in November. I was banished from love’s paradise. The one who had initially loved me well turned away. Since then, I take antidepressants and I can’t masturbate. I was an obsessive lover but not a bad one. The urge towards love is an urge towards death, and even though I have seen how much it hurts, I still believe in the possibilities of love and joy. We will make love in a romantic painting under a weeping willow or in the private key-elevator of your multi-million dollar loft. We will go on late-night strolls among the Hudson River, and I’ll blow you all the way. We will drink margaritas and do mushrooms before engaging in mutually appreciated oral pleasure. I don’t love my mum the way you love yours, but I don’t smoke cigarettes, my skin is soft, and I am faithful. You were born alone, you will die alone, and between you and me, there is a gulf. But I will love you, not for one or another of your qualities, but for everything.
Madeleine