There are few things more depressing than spending years working on a project that gets worse with time. Sometimes the regression is because of the bad taste of the client. Sometimes, it's because of the bad taste of the designer. An old Art Director I worked for would call it "polishing a turd." I have yet to find a better description.

I just finished polishing a turd recently. I polished it for well over a year. During that time I visualized the liberating feeling I would enjoy when it was finally finished and I could put it away, while later denying any involvement. That liberating feeling never came. Instead, when the turd was successfully polished I felt hollow. Violated, even. Of course, the client loved it. "It works" is what they said to me.

To ease the blow, I decided to treat myself to an expensive dinner. There are few problems that can't be satiated by food and alcohol. From the moment my meal was placed in front of me, I knew that things were going to be okay. I'm not being facetious either. I was jarred by the presentation. I mean, this was ART on my plate, and it seemed criminal to eat it. I suddenly wondered if the Master Chef was tortured by the ephemeral nature of his craft. After all, as exquisite as this plate appeared, it was going to look like a starved animal had at it when I was finished. Maybe I should talk to the Chef. Maybe he'd understand my own feelings of futility. Maybe he had some Zen advice that would quiet my spirit.

Maybe not. I devoured my food and went home.

Several hours later I was still musing over the nature of creative futility. Those thoughts were interrupted by that strange sensation in my bowels that told me that I had more pressing matters to attend to. The toilet is a true haven of peace. I don't care what the hell is troubling me that day, I seem to forget about it all for the few minutes that my body is doing a mass detox. Like most people, I enjoy this process. But things took a turn for the worst when I flushed and watched as the toilet choked and suffocated. I had overburdened the poor thing with my problems. Water, which is usually odorless and colorless, was not anymore. And as I stood praying that the "water" would stop short of an overflow, I couldn't help but to acknowledge to myself that this soupy mess was the true conclusion of the art I had revered only a few hours ago. I looked at the plunger in my hand. An ugly thing it is. But well designed - It works. The enlightenment I wanted had tracked me down and found me with my pants down in the restroom.

In the end, few things die with sex appeal. Not even art.