Out in Malibu, the billionaire’s gardener has nicked a bronze with his weed whacker. In Echo Park, the Lady of the Lake is missing her benediction hand. Somewhere in Pasadena, a stone female nude has mysteriously sprouted pubic hair, accomplished with what appears to be hide glue and combings from an auburn Irish setter. Who knows how long it was there? No matter. A few brush strokes with warm distilled water, and she is returned to immodesty once more.

All in a day’s work for a Los Angeles sculpture conservator and her sidekick C.T. That’s me, “conservation technician” — a fanciful title, which basically means you clean up nicely, take very exacting direction and have good-enough hands to keep from shaking when in intimate contact with priceless objects.

And I do mean intimate. No one gets to lay hands on untouchable cultural icons (more on this later) the way we do. A buzz at the gates ushers us into the city’s great mansions; museum guards unhook their velvet ropes as we trundle in our equipment. They recoil in horror as I fire up a howling blowtorch to lay a coat of wax on the twining bodies of a Rodin kiss.