Ever since I can remember I’ve dreamt of being an artist. Sure, the laidback lifestyle, sleeping-ins, and celebrity parties would be great, but what I really wanted was to draw. I was left with limited other options to tell you the truth: dyslexia ruled out a career in writing, a lack of physical coordination cancelled any hope of sporting prowess, and an inability to retain information threw the historical or scientific fields out the window. No – I was clearly born to draw. I’d sit patiently for hours making imaginative black and white sketches while other children ran and played. My ability impressed too; adults didn’t have to solicit information about the pictures I drew – they could clearly see the intended depictions. I breezed through high school art classes with praise and flawless results. With an abstract charcoal portfolio I managed to find a position at the most prestigious college in the country. Everything was falling into place. My first project was a simple still-life; although unfamiliar with oils I felt completely at home; the fruits and paints were performing an intimate dance that I was able to capture on canvas. The acclaimed professor glanced over my shoulder at the masterpiece and gave me the most importance advice an aspiring artist could ever hope to hear: “Try a different career,” she suggested. “You’re completely colour-blind.”