Emma Nilsson

My necessity for creative expression is a cross-generational byproduct. My grandmother is a songwriter, and both my Swedish grandparents were modernist painters. Since I was a small child, my avenue for communication has been through writing songs and painting. What I aim to communicate now is a tension between the stages of healing and memory. Even now, I am unsure how to be open about my trauma when discussing my art. I survived years of childhood sexual abuse, and trauma has shaped how I view the world and how I create.

While I strive for my home to be a place of healing and safety, it is an imperfect challenge. Healing is not synonymous with joy, and my paintings are recreations of powerful domestic moments that grapple with this. I paint to adjust the space to be in better alignment with my healing journey—copiously attending to a painting’s surface, scraping and repainting, while allowing buried color remnants to peek through. While the spark for a painting begins with what I see with my own eyes, I curate and specifically choose objects I feel elevate the narrative. Yearning for various color zones, I search for different worlds that exist within a single viewpoint. There is an odd tension as your eye moves through the spaces in a non-linear manner—bouncing back and forth, mirroring the stages of healing, hurting, and healing again.

I see the world angularly but not necessarily accurately, and the perspective often leans awkwardly. Evidence of the process remains visible, yet there is a concealed vigor waiting to be disburdened. The figures in my paintings are not always clearly seen, and the vivid colors juxtapose the uneasiness. Color behaves as a barrier and protection. Understanding trauma’s place has allowed me to explore, nurture, and reprocess.


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