Each of us knows at least one of them. They are perched before easels duplicating the spring's emerald meadows and the autumn's 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's Chicken Noodle Soup. I speak of my personal nemesis, the artist--one who, by inborn talent or by inclination, excels at his craft.
"The Fine Art of Ineptitude,"
Manuscripts: Vol. 42
, Article 5.
Retrieved from: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol42/iss1/5