Autumn Leaves

Metaphorical story, take it as you will.

Once upon a time, a photographer came across a tree that was beautiful. The leaves were changing into a variety of colors, from vibrant scarlet to a dark burned orange. Not too many of them had fallen, but those that had decorated the ground like ice cream sprinkles, taking something fabulous and just making it even better.
The photographer looked at this beautiful sight, and wanted to capture it forever. But he was apprehensive; autumn leaves were always a popular picture, and it wouldn’t make him creative as an artist. What would other people think if they saw his picture? That he was trying to be like everybody else? And he didn’t have his camera, and he could always just come back to the tree the next day if he decided that it was worth his time. So he walked away.
And he walked by the tree each day, and each time marveled at its beauty but decided that it was too close; that it wouldn’t make him look good enough as a photographer. He needed something uglier, something grittier, something that would get him respected in the art world. He needed something prettier, something gorgeous that would make everyone jealous of what he had taken. It was a tree that he valued but it wasn’t worth anything to anyone else. If he wanted to photograph it, he could just come back. So he walked away.
Once again, the photographer walked by the tree that he had found so exquisite. But the once striking leaves were now shriveled, a veil of death covering the ground. The tree was no longer beautiful and profound, but naked and brown. And he looked at the barren branches, dearth of color, and he looked at the cracked, dried leaves. And he was overwhelmed with an unshakeable sadness. He had turned away something that had inspired him, not because it had done anything wrong. A tree had not hurt him in any way. But because he didn’t think others like it. So wrapped in a vain attempt to seem unique or controversial or contemporary, he had ignored something that was beautiful, and now it was gone. So he took out his camera, and took a picture of the tree. And wouldn’t show the picture to anyone else, because that’s not why he took it. He didn’t take it to please anyone. He didn’t take it to win an award. He took it because his caring about others had caused him to miss out on something awe inspiring, and now he wanted to have what was left of what he had lost. Finally, the photographer realized that art wasn’t about what others thought, or what was pretty and commercial or what was gritty and alternative. Art was about beauty; something he would never let pass again.