Loafers and Art

At the first mention of the word “art,” my mind often wanders to the famed dame that hangs in the Louvre or to the exemplary words that come alive when Wordsworth uses them. It would almost never occur to me to consider a speech delivered by a high school math teacher in a blue shirt and loafers—Mr. VanderSchee, no one famous—as a work of art. But upon deeper reflection, the way it presented a view of the world, the way it described joy, and the way it defined purpose all felt profound in their own right. It pushed me to reevaluate my definition of art and recognize this speech as something that truly reoriented me.

He began with a simple concept: that each of us—from my friend beside me to the teacher I passed in the hallway—is the protagonist of our own story. All of us live our personal epics, shaped by our experiences, struggles, and victories. But as Mr. VanderSchee pointed out, these individual stories are often invisible. We walk past one another unaware of the depth contained in each life. That observation alone was profound, but it was only the beginning. It led to a deeper question that would frame the rest of his message: how do we place ourselves in relation to the stories of others?

We are often encouraged to “do what you love,” “follow your dreams,” yet he revealed how these are fickle ways to live—dreams are dynamic, love can be self-serving. Instead, he offered something far simpler but, somehow, deeper: the ability to take joy as a product of selflessness. Returning a grocery cart when no one is watching. Leaving a good parking spot for someone who may need it more than you do. What is remarkable about these actions is not their grandeur or the praise they receive, but the ability to do the right thing even when unrecognized—to step out of your own frame and see someone else’s.

That idea—that joy could materialize not from achievement or recognition, but from quiet and intentional decency—flipped something within me. It made me reflect on how much of my life I’d spent chasing accolades and validation: pieces of metal and sheets of paper. None of those urged me like this did. Suddenly, unnoticed moments mattered more—how I interacted with the janitor when no one was around, how I responded when a peer stumbled through their presentation. What once felt peripheral and unimportant now seemed real, purposeful.

I used to believe art had to be grand, like mounted paintings or illustrious rhymes. But now I see art in the quotidian—in the way someone chooses decency, even when no one requires it. Mr. VanderSchee’s speech didn’t change the world, just as small acts rarely do. But it changed the way I perceive it. And perhaps that is what art is, in its essence: something that shifts your vision, just enough, to make you look again.