This is the story of a potato. No, I’m kidding, it’s not (though I do have a potato story...remind me to tell it sometime when it sounds less boring). This is actually the story of an artist. Specifically, the story of me, as an artist. A metamorphosis story, if you will. It began a long time ago, on an unknown day, when I was first given a marker. I drew an astonishing picture. Because my parents failed to realize its monetary worth at the time, it has been lost to the crumbling echoes of history. However, here is a wan representation: If you’re weeping from ecstasy now, take a minute, get a Kleenex, have a sip of lemonade, calm your fluttering spirit, and then read on. Recognizing true talent when I saw it, I groomed my natural gifts until they shone. Or, rather, glowed. I had a keen eye for color, a delicate taste for nature’s palette: Finding paltry inspiration in the natural world alone, I...