One of the great things about my job is that I get the opportunity to play around and experiment. I love asking "What if...?" questions; challenging not just the way we experience history, but how we explore, fail, and move forward. It's about curiosity, pushing boundaries, and trying to find answers, even when they’re not obvious.

This article is about the question: What if… objects could share their memories?

The disconnect with history

Recently, we visited Pompeii with the family. And my kids absolutely loved it. They were fascinated by the ruins, the frozen moments of daily life, and the stories hidden in the remnants of a once-thriving city.

After Pompeii, we went to the impressive Museo Archeologico Nazionale in Naples, home to the largest collection of Pompeii's artifacts. I loved it, but to my disappointment, the kids found it utterly boring. It was heartbreaking to see them walk past stunning gladiator helmets, magnificent in their craftsmanship, without a second glance. They were completely disconnected.

You might think they were simply saturated after Pompeii, but that wasn’t the case. The very next day, we visited Herculaneum, and they were full of energy and enthusiasm again. A few days later, at Paestum, they were equally captivated.

This made me realize how much context shapes our experience. When presented in isolation, objects often lose their magic and fail to evoke the same sense of wonder. A simple pan, on its own, is just cookware. But when tied to the fond memories of my grandmother lovingly preparing her delicious meals, it transforms into something deeply meaningful.

Objects without context

Historians often struggle with this challenge. When they uncover an object, they hope it will come with a rich history. Some key artifacts do: bearing inscriptions, unique markings, or links to known events or people. But most items, like coins, jewelry, pots, pans, and other everyday objects, are just that: objects.

The scientific process demands precision. Items are cataloged with meticulous descriptions of their discovery site, material composition, and basic function. This leads to databases, and museums, filled with scientifically correct but emotionally disconnected objects.

Take, for example, the beautiful Collectie Gelderland, a vast collection of artifacts from the Dutch province of Gelderland. Among its treasures is an iron face mask of Roman rider’s helmet (yes, I have a thing with helmets!) from Valkhof Museum with this description:

Iron face helmet, covered with silver-plated bronze, from Roman times

Face helmet made of iron, covered with bronze, silver-plated and partly gold-plated. The iron riding helmet of the Nijmegen-Kops Plateau type consists of a helmet hood with neck protector and a face mask with ears. Both parts are connected to each other with a hinge on the forehead. The upper part of the helmet hood has disappeared due to corrosion. The part preserved above the neck protector shows that the helmet hood was designed as a head of hair with locks. There is a decorative band with five small busts on the forehead, also made of silver-plated and partly gilded bronze. The busts belong to mythological figures, probably from the entourage of the god Bacchus. The helmet dates from the second half of the 1st century AD and was found in 1915 or shortly before in the Waal near the railway bridge in Nijmegen.

Collection: Museum het Valkhof

Or take this ancient oil lamp:

Earthenware oil lamp from Roman times

Earthenware oil lamp, with a decorated mirror, small round double ear and triangular volute spout. Type Loeschcke Ib. On the mirror is a kneeling boxer, shown to the right. The lamp was found in Nijmegen, in a cremation grave (grave 2) on the grounds of the former Canisius College on the Berg en Dalseweg. The grave dates to the mid-1st century.

Collection: Museum het Valkhof

And this jug:

Small jug of terra sigillata 

Small spherical jug of terra sigillata, handle is broken off and not present.

Collection: Museum Het Pakhuis

These scientifically correct descriptions, while informative, fail to ignite the imagination. To my kids, they are just lifeless objects, devoid of meaning. In their eyes, they are simply boring.

But these objects are so much more than relics; they are our purest connection to the past. In their silent presence, untouched by words, they hold the power to unlock imagination and bridge the centuries that separate us. They once filled the rhythm of everyday life. They are proof that people of the past raised children, cooked meals, fought battles, and wrote heartfelt letters. Within these tangible fragments of history, we discover our shared humanity, realizing that their emotions, struggles, and dreams were not so different from our own.

And perhaps this is where the disconnect between the present and the past arises. This is why we see e.g. Romans as beings from the past instead of humans just like us. In our pursuit of scientific accuracy, we often isolate objects from their stories, presenting them with sterile descriptions that strip them of their essence. Museums and books attempt to create immersive experiences through storytelling, but too often, they do so apart from the artifacts themselves, leaving history fragmented and distant.

But maybe this is where the true opportunity lies, because it’s the objects themselves that connect us most deeply. In their authenticity, they hold the power to evoke empathy and curiosity, to spark wonder without the need for embellishment. When we separate them from their human context, we lose that connection. To truly bridge the gap, we must reunite objects with their (possible) stories, presenting them not just as remnants of the past, but as living links to those who came before us.

The past isn’t just a collection of objects cataloged and displayed; it’s a living, breathing story waiting to be felt, imagined, and rediscovered.

Echoes of the past

While pondering these thoughts, my oldest son and I were playing Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order, a PlayStation game in which the protagonist has a unique ability called psychometry or an Echo in the Force. This power allows him to sense the memories of objects he touches, unveiling glimpses of the lives intertwined with them.

Here is a video of how it works:

It made me wonder: What if… objects could share their memories?

Could we get a glimpse of the possible memories an object could hold? And if so, what stories would they tell us?

Driven by curiosity, I decided to experiment and see if technology could help bridge the gap between objects and their lost stories. I turned to ChatGPT and began building a custom model designed to simulate the concept of psychometry.

I started by feeding the AI detailed descriptions of various historical objects, imagining myself "touching" them, and asking it to generate possible memories each item might hold. The process involved experimenting with different prompts, refining inputs, and exploring various historical and cultural contexts to create meaningful responses. I wanted to push beyond the dry facts and uncover potential narratives. Who might have used these objects, in what situations, and with what emotions.

The experience felt like unlocking a hidden dimension of history. Suddenly, an ordinary Roman oil lamp wasn’t just an artifact; it became a witness to late-night soldiers working by its flickering light, a family gathered around it sharing stories, or a merchant lighting it before setting out on a long journey. Each response brought objects to life in a way that textbooks and museum descriptions often fail to do.

The results? Nothing short of magical.

Here are a few of the echoes I discovered:

A tavern owner fills the jug with cheap wine and places it firmly on the rough wooden table. A merchant from Gaul, wrapped in a worn cloak and wearing a broad smile, picks up the jug and pours himself a full cup.

He raises his cup to the circle of local traders around him and, with his heavy accent, calls out, “To good trade!” Laughing, he downs his drink in one go and slams the cup back onto the table. Holding up the jug, he shouts loudly to the owner, “More wine, my friend! The night is still young!”

Roman jug

You see a young Roman cavalryman, his eyes fixed intently on the horizon as he pulls the mask over his face. He is surrounded by the noisy chatter of his comrades, each clad in their own armor, their helmets varying slightly in shape.

An officer approaches, places a hand on his shoulder, and offers him words of encouragement. The scent of horse sweat and earth fills the air, and beneath his feet, the ground trembles as the horses surge forward into battle.

Roman helmet

In a modest home in Noviomagus, a Roman mother places the small oil lamp on the edge of her youngest child's bed. The lid is missing, and its surface has dulled from years of use, yet it still provides enough light to soothe her children to sleep. As the soft glow of the lamp casts gentle shadows over her child’s face, she hums a quiet lullaby, rocking them into a peaceful slumber.

Oil lamp

And to conclude I decided to not go for the Roman era, but medieval Tiel. Here is a stylus I came across:

The dim glow of a flickering candle dances across the wooden table, casting long shadows on the parchment before him. A young scribe, seated in the corner of a bustling scriptorium, carefully traces the elegant curves of a letter with his bronze stylus. The faint scent of ink and melting wax fills the air as his fingers, calloused from years of practice, grip the cool metal tool with precision.

With a quiet sigh, he pauses, turning the stylus in his hand to smooth the wax layer on his tablet, preparing for yet another draft of the merchant's account he has been tasked with recording. The tiny animal head carved at the end of the stylus catches the candlelight, its intricate details a small comfort in the otherwise monotonous rhythm of his work. He smiles faintly, imagining the artisan who once crafted it, perhaps shaping it with the same patience he now applies to his writing.

Outside, the bustling market of Tiel hums with life. Merchants calling out their wares, horses clattering over cobblestone streets, and townspeople haggling over prices. Yet here, in the quiet sanctuary of his work, time feels suspended. The stylus, an unassuming companion, has borne witness to countless calculations, love letters, and trade agreements. Each scratch on its bronze surface tells a silent story of hurried notes, careful revisions, and fleeting thoughts recorded in wax.

As the candle burns lower, he sets down the stylus and stretches his fingers, gazing out the narrow window at the distant church tower. Another day, another story preserved, but the stylus remains, ready to capture the words of those who seek to leave their mark on the world.

Bronze stylus

How people respond

After crafting these echoes of the past, I decided to test them out. First with my family. They loved the stories. They started asking questions and imagining their own versions of the past. They even wanted to hear stories of objects in our house. And my youngest started asking about the children and the oil lamp, as if it had all happened just yesterday.

Among adults, the stories sparked conversations, evoking emotions and personal connections to history they had never considered before. The jug and the merchant brought a smile to people’s faces, while the story of the oil lamp made it personal and emotional.

Some people started asking how we know these story to have happened, which made me realise the importance of being explicit that these are imaginative stories. And it also made me think that maybe every object should always have three completely different echoes of the past, thus making it clear that they are possible echoes and not actual memories. But that is an experiment for the future.

For me it was great to see that the stories open a door to curiosity, empathy, and a deeper connection to those who came before us.

This was, of course, just an experiment, and the testing was done randomly with no structured approach. But even in this informal setting, it is fascinating to see how people respond.

Bringing the past to life

This experiment taught me that history isn’t just about objects; it’s about the people behind them. Their hopes, struggles, and everyday lives. While the stories around these objects may not be scientifically accurate, they serve a deeper purpose: to make history human, relatable, and alive.

So the next time you find yourself staring at an ancient pot or a dusty coin, don't just see it as an artifact behind glass. Imagine who held it, what it witnessed, and the world it belonged to. Because in the end, history isn’t just a collection of objects.

Things I learned from this experiment

1. Context is everything – Objects on their own can feel lifeless, but when placed within a narrative, they come alive and reveal their deeper meaning.
2. History is about people, not objects – Behind every object is a human story waiting to be told, making the past more relatable and meaningful.
3. Imagination can bridge the gap – While facts are important, storytelling allows us to connect emotionally with history in ways raw data cannot.
4. Technology can unlock new perspectives – Tools like AI can help us explore history in creative ways, offering fresh insights into the past.

Last note: It’s important to note that the stories generated by ChatGPT were quite generic, pulling from common historical themes and assumptions. However, with the right historical input the results could be far more precise and immersive. This opens up exciting possibilities for museums, educators, and anyone eager to make history more tangible and relatable.