I walked up to the master and asked him, "What is art?"
He glanced at me and sighed. I looked down, my courage gone. I rustled my branches and the leaves made a 'woosh' sound. The master could tell I was nervous.
"Did you ask to be created?" he asked.
I thought about that question. I knew not to answer right away for that would have looked like I had not given the question the proper amount of thought.
"No master," I replied, "I was born of a seed that was planted by one greater than I."
The master looked thoughtful. "And could that same creator destroy you now if he pleased?"
I glanced at my roots then looked up into the master's kind eyes. "Indeed, master."
The master then rose from his huge throne and walked over to me. "Tree," he said, "do you not provide shade for the people?"
"Yes."
"Do you not provide food for the people?"
"Yes."
"And in autumn, dear tree, do the people not look at your colors? And are they not inspired?"
"Yes master, but I..." He silenced me with his hand.
"Tree," he said with his wisened voice, "you provide them comfort in your shade, you give them food to strengthen their minds, and you inspire them with your colors before the bleakness of winter." He slowly walked back to his throne and sat heavily upon it and slept.
And I returned to my place in the sun and stood and wondered why I never get a straight answer from that guy.