This week it emerged that a homeowner had paid £150,000 for a "bargain" cliff-top house – six days before a large part of its garden collapsed on to the beach below. Kane ­Cunningham, an ­artist from North Yorkshire, owns a ­similarly precarious property.  I wish I'd bought Ridgemont House. I thought it was a ­wonderful work of art. There's real beauty and poetry in ­landscape erosion. If you look at the photograph of the raw exposed cliff, overlooking ­Oddicombe Beach in Devon, it looks like a blood-red spleen, as if the landscape itself is bleeding.  I'd buy the house even now, if the price was right. I know what it's like to own a building that's about to fall into the sea: I paid £3,000 on my credit card last December to buy my bungalow at Knipe Point near Scarborough. That's a lot less than £150,000, but my house, which I use as a studio to work on my landscape paintings, is only 9ft away from the cliff-edge, and could fall at any moment. Ridgemont House is about 50ft away, so the owner has got a good few years to go yet.  I'm going to turn the moment my studio collapses into an art work: I've set up cameras to film it, and I've commissioned music and poetry to celebrate it. Both our houses punch a hole in what we think of as the value of ­property, and remind us of our moral and ethical responsibility to nature.  Over the last 20 years we've become obsessed with what our homes are worth, and we work 25 hours a day to pay for them. But you can build a house by the edge of a cliff – or buy one – and when nature decides to do its thing, you've got no chance. When my studio disappears, I'll have no sense of loss – that will be its beautiful final act. The sooner it goes, for me, the better.
Half the garden of a clifftop house fell in the sea this week. Artist Kane Cunningham is jealous – he can't wait for his cliff-side bungalow to slip off the edge