A fictional parable by Peter Pickering.
🖼️ The Frame of Ego
The afternoon sun had barely settled beyond the tiled roofs when Grasshopper approached Sensei Kagemori, who was trimming his bonsai with more grace than speed.
“Sensei,” said Grasshopper, clutching a rolled canvas under his arm, “I have entered three contests and submitted my photo to a gallery. Do you think they will see the soul in my work?”
Sensei, without looking up, snipped one crooked branch.
“Did you see the soul, Grasshopper?”
“Yes, Sensei. I waited for the light. I saw the old man’s sorrow as he watched the train. I felt his story.”
“Then that is enough.”
“But… the judge might prefer colour. The gallery curator may want large prints. What if I don’t place?”
Sensei smiled, finally turning to face him.
“When you serve miso soup, do you worry whether the neighbour likes udon?”
“No, Sensei.”
“Ah. Then why dilute your truth for those who are not hungry for it?”
Grasshopper frowned.
“But what about exposure? Recognition? A gallery wall is… honourable.”
Sensei gently poured tea, its steam rising like a quiet truth.
“The gallery wall is wood. The contest is opinion. The frame is not the photo.”
He handed Grasshopper the cup.
“Let others display their peacocks. You — show the quiet crow who watches from the power line.”
“So I should not submit to contests?”
Sensei sipped. “You may. But do not confuse judgement for value. A street photo is not made to win… it is made to witness.”
Grasshopper bowed, unrolling the canvas and looking again — not with worry, but with clarity.
“Thank you, Sensei.”
From the bonsai tree came no sound — only stillness, perfectly pruned.
