Every now and then, I happen to express strong disbelief regarding the actual value of conceptual art. Not specific works: conceptual art itself. Then I come across an image of something like Doris Salcedo’s Shibboleth, a breathtaking 167 meters long crack in the floor of Tate Modern, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by the inexplicable desire to go there and see the thing with my eyes and walk across the Turbine Hall with one foot on one side of the crack and one on the other, forgetting all my doubts.

Every now and then, I also happen to express scepticism about the mythical quality of English journalism. Then I come across a great piece like Jon Henley’s article about the same crack, read it with glee, and suddenly forget all my doubts.