He invited me to try it. Because I both needed to and wanted to, I did, locking the door behind me. I’ve interacted with some art in my years of writing about it — I once got to tweak an Alexander Calder wire portrait, as Calder intended, setting its facial features into lovely animated motion; I’ve gotten to walk on Carl Andre floor pieces, and I once held the heavy severed hand of a Hellenic bronze statue. But I had never urinated (if you must know) on someone’s art, and it gave me pause. As a formal matter, I’ll say that the sculpture really looks its best when in use, sparkling so much it’s almost too bright to look at, especially during the flush, which may be a new postmodern sublime. I put down the incredibly heavy seat, washed my hands and went back out to find Mr. Cattelan.

I asked him if he liked it, now that it was finally in place. “I’m happy because it’s not on a pedestal, it’s not in a gallery,” he said. “It’s in a little room, just waiting for you whenever you need it.” He added: “When I saw it in there the other day for the first time, I cried. Well, almost.”