reHUMANIZE
4-9-25 SESSION
In this conversation on rehumanization, participants explored what it means to be seen, respected, and connected in a world where dehumanization often happens quietly—through assumptions, silence, or unchecked power. The dialogue moved fluidly between deeply personal memories and broader cultural touchstones, revealing how moments of being affirmed or dismissed shape our understanding of ourselves and others. From childhood memories of exclusion or harm to simple but profound gestures of being acknowledged, the group uncovered how fragile—and powerful—human recognition can be.
Throughout the exchange, a recurring tension emerged: the desire to be humanized while confronting the uncomfortable truth that we, too, may fail to extend that humanity to others. This paradox sat at the heart of the conversation—how we hold space for differing views without abandoning our own values, and how quickly judgment can replace curiosity. Participants reflected on religion, politics, and cultural traditions as both sources of division and surprising sites of connection. They spoke of the courage it takes to pause, ask questions, and meet others in their pain, rather than responding with fear or reactivity.
What made this dialogue especially resonant was its refusal to land in certainty. Instead, it opened questions about complexity, contradiction, and the slow work of practicing presence. Whether in classrooms, political conversations, or family histories, the human struggle to be understood—without diminishing someone else—was a quiet thread throughout. The resulting images in this gallery reflect that tension: fractured mirrors, open hands, icy thresholds, and warm moments of witnessing—all invitations to notice where we ourselves might offer or withhold the gift of recognition.
Key Themes:
Certain ideas surfaced again and again, revealing the fundamental tensions at play in rehumanization. These themes explore the balance between individuality and connection, listening and speaking, recognition and transformation—offering a deeper understanding of how humanity is acknowledged, valued, and restored.
The Longing to Be Seen
Throughout the conversation, a deep desire to be acknowledged, affirmed, and truly witnessed surfaced again and again. Whether through a mentor recognizing creative work, a child being honored instead of scolded, or strangers offering unexpected kindness, the act of being seen was described as both healing and foundational. It wasn’t grand gestures that mattered most, but the quiet moments of being recognized as a full person—especially when least expected.
The Subtle Forms of Dehumanization
Rather than pointing only to dramatic or overt harm, the discussion highlighted how dehumanization often lives in the small, habitual ways people are dismissed, ignored, or categorized. It showed up in racial exclusion, sharp-edged humor, and assumptions made in silence. These moments often passed quickly, but left lasting impressions. The group reflected on how even well-meaning people can contribute to this erosion of dignity, especially when driven by fear or unconscious bias.
Holding Opposing Truths
There was a clear thread of grappling with contradiction—how to value our own convictions while making space for others’ perspectives. Participants spoke to the challenge of staying open when disagreeing, of holding compassion alongside anger, and of seeing both the damage done and the humanity behind it. This tension wasn’t resolved; instead, it was named as an ongoing practice. The conversation pointed to a kind of emotional maturity that allows discomfort to coexist with care.
Rehumanization as Everyday Practice
Rather than viewing rehumanization as a grand societal task, the dialogue brought the idea down to the level of daily living. It’s in the tone of a conversation, the way we handle disagreement, and the courage to ask a better question. Participants shared how being humanized—or dehumanized—often happens in fleeting moments, and how personal healing is tied to the way we treat one another. Rehumanization was framed not as an outcome, but a posture—something imperfect, sacred, and practiced again and again.
As you explore these visual symbols of the conversation, where do you recognize your own thoughts or those of others within its narrative?
What symbols within the artwork speak to you, and what stories do you think they're trying to tell?
In what ways does the art challenge or expand your current perspectives on belonging?
How do the contradictions and paradoxes illustrated in the art resonate with your understanding or experience with belonging?
A CLOSER LOOK AT SYMBOLOGY
The Thin Line Between Us (and Within Us)
This image holds its power in ambiguity. At first glance, it appears to capture the moment before two oppositional forces—one of fire, one of ice—reach across a divide. It suggests conflict, polarity, and the fragile hope of contact. The light between the hands is not solid; it flickers, uncertain. It could be the first touch, or the last. In this view, it represents the delicate act of holding space for difference—an invitation to meet without needing to merge.
And yet, another truth emerges upon closer reflection: what if both hands belong to the same person? Then this is not a negotiation between others, but a quiet reckoning with the self. The fire and the ice live within us—the parts that burn with righteousness and the parts that withdraw into cold certainty. The light becomes a veil, a threshold. Not to be broken, but parted. Not a line that divides, but a membrane we are slowly brave enough to press against, to see what we’ve been avoiding inside our own reflection.
This is the multarity of the piece: it is just as much about connection as it is about contradiction. It’s about crossing into someone else’s truth—or finally being willing to see our own. Whatever you see first—opposition or unity—both may be true. And neither is the whole story.
Between Judgment and Grace
This piece whispers to the silent wars we wage inside—the struggle to integrate all that we are: the rage we inherit, the grace we hope for, the change we resist. Three faces, one being. The central figure is not elevated—it is suspended. Eyes closed, neither asleep nor awakened, they hover between reflection and denial, a moment of stillness before reckoning. On either side, the self splits—into the darkened, clenched face of pain and the cool, watchful profile of composure. Neither is villain nor saint. The cracks aren't in the mirror—they're within the self, revealed by the light we dare to let in.
This image doesn’t offer resolution. It invites recognition. That the parts of us we hide, perform, or protect are all speaking at once—and to rehumanize the world, we must first stop muting our own contradictions. It is not a call to fix, but a call to see—not just others, but the uneasy harmony within.
We Were Never Nothing
This image captures a moment as tender as it is haunting. A man and child stand hand in hand at the door of what appears to be welcome—light spilling from the entryway, a wreath suggesting celebration, warmth glowing from within. And yet, they remain outside. The threshold is not blocked by bricks or signs, but by something more subtle and more chilling: the crystalline geometry of rejection, the sharp ice of being told, in tone if not in words, you don’t belong here.
But this piece also invites a second read—one that honors dignity not just in invitation, but in refusal. The father’s posture is not broken. His grip on the child’s hand is steady. The child, too, looks not with confusion, but with poised attention. There is power in restraint. Power in walking away without becoming small. In that choice, humanity is preserved. The house may appear warm, but the real warmth lives in their togetherness, in the courage to turn from illusion and still carry grace. This image holds a mirror to the architecture of exclusion—and quietly honors those who refuse to internalize its design.
Lessons Never Meant to Be Taught
This image is rooted in a childhood memory shared during the session, where a father, overwhelmed by PTSD, threatened to burn a toy if it wasn’t picked up—then followed through. The child, just five years old, watched in silence as something beloved was consumed by fire, marking an early moment of feeling unseen and unworthy.
This image arrests the viewer—not through drama, but through stillness. A child stands between warmth and cold, innocence and consequence. The fire rages not as comfort, but as punishment. Her face is expressionless, not from lack of feeling, but from the quiet, internal freeze that often follows betrayal. The man behind her is not villainous in posture—he is present, perhaps conflicted—but his authority fills the room like smoke. This is not a memory. It is a reckoning. A precise moment when something intangible—trust, safety, worth—was placed in the flames.
Yet this symbol is not about blame alone. It asks a deeper question: what stories do we tell ourselves about why we act as we do? What generational wounds do we inherit and unknowingly pass on? The room is half-lit by fire, half-lit by the pale glow of a curtained window—suggesting that even within harshness, there are layers. The child does not cry. She absorbs. And in doing so, she becomes the keeper of a wound that was never hers to carry. The fireplace, often a symbol of family and warmth, becomes here a monument to what was lost while no one was looking.
Before the World Taught Us Distance
This piece radiates more than maternal love—it holds the raw, sacred threshold between creation and identity. The threads that swirl and wrap around the figures are not just warmth; they are story, biology, ancestry, breath, memory. Nothing here is posed. The closeness is not performative—it is cellular. A shared exhale between lives just beginning in relation to one another. It asks not, “What do we become?” but rather, “What do we already carry into the world?”
What makes this image quietly radical is its softness without sentimentality. The mother is not smiling; she is present. Present through exhaustion, awe, and a wordless understanding that everything has already changed. The baby rests not just in arms, but in origin. In this moment, rehumanization is not repair—it is recognition. That even before language, before hurt, before the world teaches us distance, we once knew what it meant to belong completely.
The Witnessing We Avoid
This image unsettled the group—haunting not for what it reveals, but for what it refuses to clarify. A lone figure sits outside a glass enclosure, surrounded by fog, facing a room of hooded, expressionless women. But who is imprisoned? Who is observing whom? The stillness is loaded. These figures do not rage, do not plead. They are present—unmoving, unyielding. And in their presence, they demand something from the viewer: the courage to truly see.
In the conversation, someone noted this was a hard image to look at. Another wondered aloud—what if these are not others at all, but parts of the self? Unacknowledged pain. Unanswered stories. Versions of us left behind in moments of survival. But whether these are our own ghosts or the suffering of others, the real question is the same: will we witness? Or will we avert our gaze?
This piece holds up a mirror—not to our cruelty, but to our avoidance. In an age of noise, distraction, and curated compassion, this is a quiet confrontation. One that history may look back on and ask: Why did they not stop? Why did they look away? It invites us not just to care, but to sit with the discomfort of caring. Not to speak for others, but to be willing to stand before them, unmoving, and see what we have long avoided.
The Unedited Self
This image holds a mirror—literally fractured, figuratively whole. A woman stares into a broken pane, and instead of a single reflection, she is met with fragments: versions of herself, witnesses in the background, strangers she may or may not know. Each shard tells a story—some pieces clear and others fogged with uncertainty. It’s not just a mirror of identity; it’s a mirror of perception. And the cracks do not distort her—they reveal her complexity, her context, her contradictions.
In the conversation, there was a recognition that to rehumanize others, we must first be willing to see ourselves—not as a single narrative, but as the sum of our reactions, our silence, our capacity for harm and for healing. This image asks: What is revealed when the image of ourselves is no longer smooth? The brokenness is not damage—it is detail. It is how we begin to see what we’ve edited out. And within those cracks, we also catch glimpses of others—those we’ve misunderstood, misjudged, or missed entirely. Rehumanization, then, is not the restoration of a flawless image. It is the decision to look again, more honestly, when it breaks.
What She Sees Before She Understands
A child gazes through the shards of a broken mirror—her reflection surrounded by scenes not of her choosing: politicians, elders, ceremonies, money, and fire. Around her, other children appear in fragments, each bearing their own expressions of uncertainty, fear, or longing. The ornate gold frame suggests importance or legacy, but within it lies only fragmentation. This is not a mirror shattered in violence—it is a mirror shaped by history. And she is holding it.
This image speaks not of trauma alone, but of transmission. The child does not yet understand all she sees, but she knows. She carries the tension of a world handed to her incomplete—its systems cracked, its stories conflicted, its truths obscured by power. Her face doesn’t flinch. It listens. This is the quiet, heavy gaze of someone realizing they must make sense of what others refused to repair.
The flame near the bottom glows with both threat and possibility. What will she carry forward? What might she set down? This is not about saving the world—it’s about seeing it clearly. And perhaps, rewriting the reflection she’s inherited.
The Table That Bridges the Divide
This image speaks to the rare, sacred courage of staying at the table. Two figures face one another—not as enemies, not quite as allies, but as humans willing to remain in the tension. The table they share is cracked. The canyon beneath them yawns open. And yet they do not stand up. The cup between them is untouched, but full—filled, perhaps, with the possibility of understanding, of presence, of not needing to win.
In the rehumanize conversation, someone posed a question: What if instead of arguing, we simply asked, “Tell me more”? This moment is that question in visual form. The figures do not lean in. They do not smile. But they stay. And that staying is a form of resistance—against simplification, against polarization, against the seductive pull of dismissal. The crack does not destroy the table. It reveals that something is being carried here. Something fragile, yes. But still intact.
What’s extraordinary is that this is not a conversation about agreement. It’s about willingness. A visual reminder that “Tell me more” is not about giving in—it’s about choosing curiosity over certainty, connection over control.
What We Choose to Set Down
The figure stands in quiet contrast to the world around them—bathed in soft, internal light while all else fades into cool mist. They are not racing forward, nor are they chasing others who walk ahead. Instead, they move with the solemn grace of someone who has just realized: what they were holding tightly was not peace, but armor. Not truth, but certainty. Not connection, but the illusion of being right.
In the rehumanize conversation, participants named the unexpected weight of judgment, self-protection, and even hope stretched too thin. They spoke of virtues they’d once clung to—perfectionism, conviction, urgency—only to discover that these, too, can dehumanize. This image captures the quiet shock of that discovery. The figure does not appear burdened, and yet their light grows brighter the moment they step into release.
This is a portrait of unlearning. A moment where the soul loosens its grip, not on values, but on the idea that its values are the only way. The warmth around them is not triumph—it is relief. What we choose to set down may surprise us. It may be the very thing we thought made us good.
You Don’t Belong... Where?
Her gaze is unwavering. It meets ours not with confrontation, but with steadiness—as though she’s been waiting for us to see what we’ve been missing. Draped in a translucent veil, she is both revealed and obscured. The fabric does not hide her; it distorts the frame through which others perceive her. Around her, words hover in broken phrases, echoing the real questions people often ask when they don’t know how to truly look: What are you? Do you belong here? The thin one? These aren’t just words. They’re fences.
This image holds the tension of being constantly defined by someone else’s discomfort. The figure represents more than a single person—she is the embodiment of those who live at intersections others can't categorize. The veil is not of her making. It is the result of projection, of assumptions whispered and coded into everyday encounters. Yet the power here is subtle and profound: she does not disappear under the weight of these assumptions. She stands within them, not owned by them.
In the rehumanize session, one voice shared the complexity of being multiracial, multi-religious, often misunderstood—but never small. This image honors that narrative. It reminds us that to rehumanize someone, we must be willing to part the veil of our own assumptions first. To look again. And this time, really see.
Surprising Discoveries:
Rehumanization is not as straightforward as restoring what has been lost—it challenges the way we see, listen, and engage with others. These discoveries emerged as moments of recognition, shifting assumptions about what it truly means to humanize and be humanized.
The Power of Small Gestures
Moments of rehumanization often arrive in the quietest ways—a kind word, a gentle touch, a moment of presence. These subtle encounters leave lasting impact, reminding us that even brief affirmations can restore dignity and connection.
Childhood Echoes in Present Tense
Stories from early life surfaced with unexpected clarity, revealing how past experiences of exclusion or dishonor still influence one’s sense of worth and belonging. These early moments remain active threads in the tapestry of adulthood.
Dehumanization as a Mirror of Pain
Surprisingly, dehumanizing behavior is often rooted not in cruelty but in unhealed wounds. Jabs, dismissiveness, and control can stem from a person’s own history of being unseen—shifting the lens from blame to deeper understanding.
Not Everyone Wants the Work
A striking discovery was the realization that rehumanization isn’t a universal pursuit. Some view it as unnecessary or even threatening. This challenges the assumption of shared values and reframes the work as both urgent and courageous.
THE MULTARITIES OF
reHUMANIZE
This conversation on rehumanization uncovered a layered set of tensions, truths, and contradictions—what we call multarities. Rather than reducing the dialogue to one conclusion, participants held space for complexity: the coexistence of pain and grace, silence and voice, conviction and curiosity. These multarities didn’t seek resolution, but instead pointed to the deeper, often paradoxical nature of what it means to be human among other humans. From early childhood experiences to global reflections on religion, politics, and belonging, the conversation revealed that rehumanization is not a linear path but a living, breathing tension between forces that often pull in opposite directions.
Recognition and Invisibility
The longing to be seen was a constant thread, but so was the pain of being overlooked or erased. Moments of affirmation stood in sharp contrast to stories of exclusion—highlighting how quickly someone can shift from being deeply valued to entirely dismissed, depending on the context.
Conviction and Curiosity
Participants wrestled with how to hold firm beliefs while remaining open to views that feel uncomfortable or even offensive. The invitation to say, “Tell me more,” stood beside the instinct to defend or withdraw—revealing the difficulty and necessity of making space without surrendering self.
Individual Wounds and Collective Healing
Personal stories of dehumanization—whether at the hands of family, institutions, or strangers—were met with reflections on how those same individuals now contribute to healing others. The conversation showed how private pain can become public wisdom, though the process is never easy or complete.
Strength and Softness
The idea of being strong “within oneself” in order to reach out to others surfaced repeatedly. Rehumanization wasn’t framed as softness alone—it required inner grounding, clear boundaries, and a quiet kind of resilience that can look both fierce and gentle.
Hope and Doubt
There was a collective awareness of how hard this work is—and how uncertain its outcomes may be. Participants named their fatigue, their impatience, and the creeping doubt that meaningful change is possible. But that doubt was held alongside hope, and a steady willingness to try anyway.
Personal Practice and Systemic Change
Some saw rehumanization as a daily posture—how we listen, speak, and move through the world. Others pointed to structural injustices and laws, like the Crown Act, that affirm dignity on a larger scale. The conversation honored both the micro and macro dimensions of this work.
Belonging and Otherness
Those who exist in between categories—racial, religious, cultural—spoke of both the gift and burden of their “multiness.” This in-betweenness created access and understanding, but also made them targets of exclusion. That complexity emerged as a kind of wisdom born of contradiction.
OVERFLOW
As you explore these additional images, consider the conversations that may have shaped them. What moments, insights, or tensions do you recognize? Where do you find traces of yourself and your own story within them?
First Impressions
What drew your attention first when looking at these piece?
How might this symbology connect to something you’ve experienced during the session?
Exploring Meaning & Symbolism
What symbols or metaphors stand out to you? What meanings might they hold?
How might this symbology connect to something you’ve experienced during the session or the conversation today?
How does this piece help us think differently or more deeply about the theme we're exploring?
Personal Resonance & Reflection
Which emotions does this symbology evoke for you?
Does this symbology/art shift your perspective on the issue we’re discussing? How?
How do you see yourself or your experiences reflected in the piece?
Dialogue & Group Reflection
How might someone from a completely different perspective interpret this artwork?
Where do you see points of unity or tension within this piece?
If this artwork could speak, what might it be asking or telling us as a community?
Moving Beyond Polarization
What symbols or elements in this piece illustrate the complexity of our issue?
How could reflecting on this symbology/art help us build greater empathy or understanding across divides?
In what ways might this symbology/art represent a Multarity—multiple truths existing simultaneously?
Towards Collective Insight
What new questions does this piece invite us to consider together?
How can the insights we gain from these symbols inform our next steps or actions as a group?
What wisdom do these symbols offer us about finding common ground or deeper connection?
You Too
This image holds a quiet thunder. A lone figure kneels at the edge of a reflective surface that stretches toward a horizon of dusk and uncertainty. They do not weep, do not reach in desperation. Instead, they simply place their hand into the water—into memory, into consequence, into collective human story. And what rises is not a single reflection, but a chorus: the child with the burned toy, the parent turned away from the door, the tense table where conversation tried not to break, the mother overwhelmed by the raw power of birth. Each face emerging not as stranger, but as mirror.
Suspended above the stillness, two simple words appear: You Too. Not as accusation, not as comfort. As recognition. As invitation. The moment you see yourself not just in the one who suffered, but in the one who caused it. In the one who stayed silent. In the one who tried to help and didn’t know how. This is the multarity of human experience—all of us, at some point, breaking and being broken, healing and failing to heal.
The image offers no resolution. Just the courage to kneel. To touch the surface. And to ask—without flinching—what it means to be part of the world we so often observe from a distance. Because in the end, rehumanization isn’t a gesture toward others. It is the willingness to say: Me too. I am here too. I have done this too. And only from that place, can anything real begin.
Would you like to have a follow-up conversation?
We’d be delighted to talk more with you about the reHUMANIZE project or any other direction you think you’d like to go. Please complete the form to schedule a meeting.