It's Called Art.

From the New Yorker magazine, a concise explanation of why I have no interest in modern art:

In 2004, an installation by the Japanese

artist Noritoshi Hirakawa consisted of a

pretty and prim young woman sitting in

a chair, reading a Philip Pullman novel,

and next to her, on the floor, a little heap

of her excrement, which she renewed each

morning.

page 34, May 7, 2012.