I wanted to preserve a piece of human shit but I wanted it to be someone elses. A friend of mine was happy to do it. After all arrangements had been made about packeting, delivery and so on all she had to do was produce. But her visits to the bathroom had changed from just being a way of getting rid of something to the production of an object. She wanted it to be good. And there was also someone who was waiting for the result. I had become the curator or institution and she the artist, or I had become the capitalist and she the worker.