It’s not typical for artists to go out and see the world. Most prefer to sit politely in their studios and make increasingly refined versions of the same piece until they die. Once, artists had a monopoly on image making. If a newspaper wanted a war covered, they sent an illustrator along with a reporter. But once photography became sufficiently advanced, visual art turned to the inner world.

I grew up thinking art was frivolous. Artists are court jesters, Fabergé egg makers — we’re Boucher and Damien Hirst, making exquisite objects for the elite, whatever their bohemianism, deeply felt convictions, couldn’t wipe that away.

As a broke art school dropout, I worked as a model. Not the fancy fashion kind — I’m a foot too short. I was a naked model for amateur photographers. Nothing will make you think about money and power like smearing yourself with jam and posing for dentists with expensive cameras.