“If only every day could be two days, then there’d be time.”

When someone dies, it’s impossible not to see the whole world through their lens. Every moment they should share. Every sight they should see. What they would say and do.

Ian White was one of my best friends. We met when we were eleven years old. He grew up in Dagenham, lived in London for most of his life and was based in Berlin for the last few years. Diagnosed with lymphoma two years ago, Ian was treated in London and died last October aged 41.

A couple of months after he’d arrived in Berlin as he embarked on German lessons, new friendships, loves and his work as an artist, curator, teacher and writer he wrote to me,

“If only every day could be two days, then there’d be time.”

Ian made the toast to the bride and groom at our wedding with some beautiful words he wrote on love. The best alternative best man we could have hoped for.

Ian leaves us – his friends, his family, his boyfriend Harry, his peers and colleagues – with astonishment at how much he managed to do in the time he had. And whilst he had a loving, supportive mum, Jackie, there were no leg ups, no family network, no trust fund – he created all this himself: this life, this work. But maybe this is my lens – the hard work, the self-made man – add to that a relentless creativity, tireless support of others, a lot of love. It’s a long way from Dagenham to works curated and shown at the Lux and Whitechapel galleries, performances at the Tate and MOMA, books published, columns and blog posts written, workshops, lectures.

Really I don’t know if anything more needs to be said here by me after this time, there are many finely written reviews, obituaries and tributes in print and online.  I love how this article on a performance in Berlin ends, “an enigmatic figure in the world of contemporary performance and an artist who has been working in a consistent and esteemed manner” and fellow artist and close friend Emily Roysdon’s memorial to Ian is beautiful. Ian’s influence is already indelibly inked across the globe onto the individuals he has worked with, performed in front of, taught, befriended and loved. But as I start to get back into thinking about my work, Ian is at the front of my mind all the time. And I wanted to write about my friend.

He was funny, critical, sweet, honest, beyond intelligent, outrageous, brutal, astute, caring and loyal. At times we neglected each other and had one big memorable argument (he was right) but we always came back to a close, enduring friendship – a love – that I wish we could have had for forty one more years. His work was challenging, thoughtful, lyrical. His friendship was a privilege.

I miss him dreadfully. We all do. I was surprised to find this grief for my friend so physical – not just the loss of the love and the mind but the body I loved: the turn of the head at the end of the long, elegant neck; the pursed lips and melting grin; his hands that I held the last time I saw him. Kisses, hugs. Dancing limbs with Jimmy in Tate Britain. “You’ve got a friend.” Holding my weeks-old son, your eyes locked.

Ian lived, worked, loved and was loved. He is here and is not here. I will always be grateful for our friendship, endeavour to live with his honesty, bravery and humour, and never quite believe I will never see him again.