Each of us knows at least one of them. They are perched before easels duplicating the spring\u27s emerald meadows and the autumn\u27s turbulent skies. Clad in leotards, they pirouette and pas de buerre their souls into the Nutcracker Suite, while their colleagues entrance the audience with skill in the orchestra pit. Not content with a monopoly of the fine arts, their type is found fashioning Christmas angels from empty toilet paper rolls, making doll houses out of old cereal boxes, and whipping together gourmet dinners from cans of Campbell\u27s Chicken Noodle Soup. I speak of my personal nemesis, the artist--one who, by inborn talent or by inclination, excels at his craft
