Anish Kapoor’s ‘mad, mad project’

Anish Kapoor's studio is located on a long stretch of anodyne south London road. The British- Indian artist started with one space 25 years ago and, as his fame and wealth have accrued, so have his workrooms, each door allowing access to a different aspect of his oeuvre. You can't move in a large high-ceilinged hall if you want to see red splodgy paintings, excrescences that remind you of hell, or someone's guts. More technical work is executed by some of the assistants who work here.

The one after that gives another signature, his mirror pieces and large glasses. There is a chamber devoted to all things black and an entrance filled with hundreds of canvases. There are 10 large pictures and a wide wooden desk submerged in paint.

A trademark laugh betrays both good humour and occasional nerves as he says "Here is my easel." His trainers are caked in oils and he is a small, slight figure in black jeans and a turquoise jumper. The meeting room at the other end of the complex has art books and objects. The two poles are the same as they have been for the past 50 years, reflecting his interest in endlessness, ritual and sex. He was talking about his fascination with sacrifice in the smaller room. I can see over the desk. Is this a place for sacrifice?

There is a scale to everything Anish Kapoor does. He can help it, he says, because things grow and expand without him realizing. It was like that with this studio, it just happened to me, and it has been the same with much of his career. The show, with an exploding wax cannon, a small train buzzing around and various other bravura pieces, was a game-changer according to Sir Charles Saumarez Smith.

Cloud Gate in Chicago, Marsyas in Tate Modern, and the ArcelorMittal Orbit are just a few of the public works that have been done by him. He swears that it is the same chaotic and surprising process that led to his latest project, a takeover of Venice this spring, and that it will be shown at the city's prestigious Gallerie dell.

He tuts, almost embarrassed, that it isn't all bullshit. The palazzo will show some of his works this year, but will open in four years. He doesn't want it to be about his art, but he is looking at other ways of using the mansion.

There is a tricky phase between assessing the past and still bidding for renewal. He has a daughter with his second wife, and is in his late 60s. He has two children in their 20s from a previous marriage. He didn't expect to be a father so late, but he smiles. I'm pretty confused as a man. Always will be!

If he grapples with the big themes, he is desperate to not let things get too grand. He has to be willing to admit that he will eventually be able to stay in the Manfrin. He has been Sir Anish since 2013. He cries. Do you ever use it? I probably shouldn't have accepted it. It was too late.

It's Venice, though. It seems like a sure way ofbedding oneself in art history. Even though he wants to be dangerous, he doesn't want to be a radical. He lets out a laugh. It was fair! It's fair, it's fair. Hate it, but it's fair.

He was first made aware of the potential of the palace by his friend Mario Codognato, who will be the director of the Foundation when it launches. The Foundation's ambitions are a bit less modest. The venue is perfect for him. It is a place that has brought him luck, and that is one of the reasons why Kapoor was successful in showing for the British Pavilion there in 1990.

In Venice, Kapoor will show his first work for the first time. The sculptures are encased in a box that is so fragile and toxic it looks like the deepest blackness in the world. The exclusive rights to this pigment were bought by Kapoor in 2016 and he has been developing it ever since. When it was first announced, he got into a spat with the artist Stuart Semple, who was indignant that he was keeping the colour to himself and trolled him, but is now eager to forget it.

He insists there was no controversy. He clearly feels a little misunderstood. He has been working on paintings for much of the last year. Many of the paintings are blobby and make them akin to sculpture. The entrance hall of the Manfrin is going to be dominated by a huge upside-down Iceberg painted in angry scarlet.

He tells me that he is in a messy stage. This is very difficult. I have always had these two poles. I think I'm more relaxed about it because they've been there a long time. I'm more at ease with it now that I'm present in my recent work. We can deduce that he is fascinated by the abyss but still wants to have a laugh.

The son of a hydrographer in the Indian navy, Kapoor went to The Doon School. His mother was a very creative person, but she would never finish her paintings. I would finish them for her.

He decided to become an artist after a nervous breakdown on a kibbutz in Israel. When he moved to London to study art, he only had a handful. He acknowledges that this changed in the 1980s, and he benefited from it. Did he change how he made art when he became wealthy?

The conversation switches between strong opinions and deep doubts. His first hit show in New York in 1984 brought things to a head again. He stopped working for nearly two years after the works sold out and he returned home to a huge crisis. He had a cup of tea with Bruce. Bruce was smart and gentle. I let him know that I was going through a difficult time. He patted me on the shoulder and said, "Come on, Anish." Is there an artist who doesn't have this? It means to be an artist.

He says that it was a big lesson in how not to take your own bullshit and how to be sophisticated about money if you make good work. He is aware of a certain polarisation. No one has ever bought Descent into Limbo. It's fine! That's fine.

He's pretty sure that his works are no longer his when they go out into the world. When it was first there, I thought, "Oh, no!" I can't bear it, it's so popular, but he went and got it. How does that feel?

When Boris Johnson was mayor of London, he commissioned Kapoor to do the ArcelorMittal Orbit, but it was decried as a Boris folly. How do you feel about that? He cries. Things got worse when Johnson called him one Sunday morning a few years later. The exchange still rankles. I assume that's how he does everything.

He is more knowledgeable about contemporary art. He feels that the rush by galleries and museums to be more diverse in their rosters is still a little crude. I don't care where it was made. He doesn't acknowledge that it was made with a completely different idea of beauty than most western art. Do you have an idea? Do I have an idea? Almost none. It turns into some exotic view, and I don't believe museums are near it. He sighs sympathetically and says that tokenism is tokenism.

Since we are discussing the pitfalls of identity politics, do the labels of Indian and Jewish mean anything? I used to say, "Ech, who cares?" but actually as I get older they matter more." It's a weird counter that I'm also living through my Jewish background. I keep recognising things and going, that's what it's about, really. The red is dark and it is very frightening.

You can see the sense of terror when you look at his studio. If you stare long enough, the mirrors will give you a headaches, and the room with the paintings has an almost overwhelming smell. The Venetian visitors will surely be impressed by the high-end optical illusions of the Kapoor Black works. He isn't happy with some of the works next door. We stand in front of a dark slit and he is dissatisfied. He dislikes the idea that you can see anything. How can you perfect a chasm? He will never stop trying.