Clare Exley
Paroxysm — an outpouring of emotions. That is how I would describe what art means to me. After many years of domestic abuse, both verbal and physical, I finally found the strength to break free. I had lost so much of myself and needed an outlet—something that was mine, something that could help me rediscover my self-worth. I bought paint, canvas and brushes. Setting everything up on the kitchen floor, I would pour the paint, mix it to the right consistency, choose a technique, dip my brush and make that first stroke across the canvas. With every brushstroke came hope. Hope because I had survived. Hope because I was creating something beautiful from nothing. Hope because, slowly, I was discovering that I was stronger than I had ever believed. Art became my safe place—a space without judgement, where I could express emotions, I couldn't always put into words. The excitement of not knowing what might emerge, followed by the overwhelming sense of achievement when I stepped back and saw the finished piece, became part of my healing.
Every canvas holds a little piece of my journey. Art gave me my voice, my freedom and, most importantly, HOPE.
Paroxysm
