Echoes of Empathy: Listening to Art, History, and Humanity

Sometimes I get so in my head when it comes to becoming a deeper thinker. I walk through art museums, antique rooms, historic spaces, or even get lost in the composition of music—and I’m overwhelmed by how life takes us on such a unique, unpredictable journey. I stare into the eyes of a painting, into the soul of a musical composition, or watch the bend of a ballerina as she dances her demons away or falls in love with a soul not present. In those moments, I’m reminded: life is deeper than any of us can fully comprehend.

Each of us carries a story. The way we grow, the way we love, the way we hurt—all of it is ours alone. Our fingerprints, our footsteps, our emotional echoes—they're all uniquely human. When I slow down and really look, my empathy goes beyond what I can explain. Sometimes I wish I could sit one-on-one with every person in the United States, just to ask: How do you feel? What made you smile as you aged? What haunts you, and what healed you?

Our art—whether in a painting, a piece of music, or an artifact—is not just an object. It's memory. It's someone’s voice, frozen in time, without knowing someone generations later would still be listening.

When I took music history courses in college, I didn’t just learn timelines—I learned stories. Behind every year, every movement, every composition, there was a life. That’s when empathy began to grow for me. That’s when I learned the value of active listening.

Recently, I watched the HBO documentary Living With Lincoln, which follows the Kunhardt family as they digitize and preserve one of the largest private collections of Abraham Lincoln memorabilia. What struck me most was the relationship between Emily and her father. They weren’t just archiving the past; they were reconnecting as family. As they worked to restore millions of photographs, Emily began to understand history through a deeply emotional lens. It wasn’t just about Lincoln—it was about legacy, connection, healing, and humanity. It reminded me that every historical document, every photograph, contains not just facts but feeling. And how it intermingles our own personal life as we learn about it.

That same sense of internal conflict came up recently with my son while we were listening to Michael Jackson in the car. Ollie loves his music. There’s no denying Jackson's brilliance as an artist. But there’s also no denying the serious allegations and the hurt voiced by survivors. I had a hard, necessary conversation with my son about that. We talked about appreciating the music, while also acknowledging that the person behind it may have done real harm. How do we hold both truths?

Psychology has a name for this: cognitive dissonance. It’s the mental conflict we experience when what we love contradicts what we know. Our perception is not just what we see—it’s shaped by emotion, memory, and belief. Cognitive psychologists like Eysenck & Keane (2015) remind us that our brains fill in the gaps with what we want to believe. That’s why it’s so hard to separate art from artist.

This tension is also explored in philosophy. Some argue that we should consider the moral character of the artist (Gaut, 2007), while others say the work should stand on its own (Wimsatt & Beardsley, 1946). Roland Barthes even argued the "author is dead"—that art belongs to the viewer, not the creator. But real life isn’t that clean. We can't erase the pain caused by someone just because they made something beautiful.

This dilemma shows up everywhere—from our founding fathers to contemporary artists. I walk through history exhibits and wonder: what were they thinking when they sat for that portrait? How could they not see the humanity in the people they enslaved? And yet, the concepts they helped build—freedom, self-governance, human rights—are larger than the flawed men who penned them. How do we preserve the idea without worshiping the individual?

It comes down to empathy with accountability. We can appreciate a work of art while holding space for those harmed by its creator. We can admire a piece of history while acknowledging the pain it caused. We don’t have to throw away everything—we just need to listen deeper. We should be careful not to surround ourselves with toxic legacies and harmful ideologies. While the concepts or ideas may have been intended for good, we must stop celebrating the creators of harm and instead lift up the voices and lives of those who were affected. Let us focus on honoring the resilience of the survivors, the lessons that history offers, and the deeper emotional truths that existed during those times.

Too often, we force our modern reflections onto a history not ready to carry our perspectives. But that doesn't mean we can't learn from it. It means we must approach it with humility, not ego. We must hold space for the masterpiece and the concept it represents—while also remembering the real history of the maker. We can carry the legacy of what was meant to serve humanity, without continuing to elevate those who harmed it.

As a historian and a mother, I wrestle with this often. I think about what I’m teaching my son—not just facts, but feelings. I want him to grow with empathy, with nuance, with truth. I want my organization, my writing, my art, and my listening to all reflect that same balance. We can’t just celebrate greatness without reckoning with the full story.

We are all storytellers, even when we don't write things down. Thoughts, emotions, conversations—these are living histories. The deeper level of thinking that I wish we shared more often is this: we are human. Imperfect. Evolving. But capable of learning from the past if we’re willing to sit still long enough to hear it speak.

So when we walk through museums, or turn up the volume on an old record, let us ask: Who was this person? What were they feeling? Who did they help, and who did they hurt? Let us hold space for both the masterpiece and the concept—with empathy, with honesty, and with the responsibility of remembering that history is never just about the past. It's about who we are becoming with the past.