I just read a New Yorker article called “Onward and Upward in the Arts” where Rebecca Mead describes conservator Christian Scheidemann efforts in protecting and saving influential contemporary art pieces. At one point in the story, the conservator recalls having to trim a new piece of elephant dung to fill a gap in a Chris Ofili painting. As he sits there meticulously carving pachyderm excrement, he realizes the strangeness of the scenario and doubts himself. And then he remembers the importance of his job as a historian. Fuck stats. I want to throw myself into the shit and produce great art.