Please use the sharing tools found via the share button at the top or side of articles. Copying articles to share with others is a breach of FT.com T&Cs and Copyright Policy. Email licensing@ft.com to buy additional rights. Subscribers may share up to 10 or 20 articles per month using the gift article service. More information can be found here.
https://www.ft.com/content/15fac45e-3007-4862-bc2c-2430a055d3d2
She has remained endearingly constant in her irreverence in the decades after, never losing her partialness to a bit of smut. “I probably haven’t changed much,” she confirms, sitting in her studio. “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.” Grey hair loose, large eyes beaming, Lucas is wearing a blue striped shirt with red bra poking out, trainers with neon-green socks and some extravagantly customised, patchworked jeans, which once belonged to her partner, the photographer Julian Simmons (“until he got fat”). Her workspace is a former village hall she took over a few years ago; until then, she worked solely at home, a few miles away, in the cottage formerly owned by Benjamin Britten that she shares with Simmons.