Numbered Days: Between Remembering and Letting Go reflects both the burden of past suffering and the reclamation of time through art. Times2 caught up with artist Emma Agius to find out more.
“Numbered Days is a personal exploration of my past. It is grounded in my experiences as a survivor of sexual abuse, and the years that followed, during which I struggled with PTSD, depression, and a loss of identity. This body of work stems from a long process of inner healing. This journey was neither straightforward nor consistent, but that also included moments of quiet reflection,” she explains.
“The title derives from the phrase “your days are numbered,” often associated with death. However, for me, this phrase symbolises the countless days that have passed while I remained trapped in trauma. It acknowledges those days as both finite and lived experiences. The exhibition visually represents my decision not to be consumed by memories, allowing me to remember and endure my suffering.”
Emma describes how she first had the idea for the exhibition when she was asked to write a letter to her rapist as part of her therapy. At that moment, she explains, something broke open within her.
“Writing the letter helped me recognise how long I had held onto those memories. The art that followed— the drawings, the installations, and even the use of ice— became its own language to express what could not be spoken. This exhibition is not solely about catharsis; it is also about the pain melting away and the return of your voice as silence breaks.”
The exhibition has five central installations, each comprised of layers that are both physical and emotional. These diverse installations combine mediums, such as sculpture, sound, and drawing. In contrast, others are created entirely from objects of symbolic significance, like soft toys, ice, or fragments of sketchbooks. Emma sees each as a ‘memory station’. Together, they guide visitors through a journey from silence to speech, shame to visibility. Each room conveys a distinct emotional atmosphere, ranging from rage and grief to acceptance and tenderness.
Of particular impact is a small freezer containing a block of ice, within which Emma has frozen a seven page funeral letter that I wrote to my rapist. As the exhibition progresses, the ice begins to melt, and gradually — word by word — the letter reemerges. A pair of headphones near the freezer plays a quiet audio recording of Emma’s voice as she reads the letter aloud. Since the recording is lengthy, most visitors will only hear snippets. This is intentional, as trauma often resurfaces in fragments rather than as complete stories.
As you enter the show, you are surrounded by objects typically associated with safety—such as toys, quilts, and soft materials—but these items have been altered, mutilated, and repurposed. These illustrate how easily innocence can be violated.
One installation, for example, features a quilt cover printed with a painting depicting several unicorns, one of which is being abused by a man. Surrounding the central piece are toy unicorn hobby horses—the type that children ride by straddling them. Their arrangement creates a haunting scene of violation. Some hobby horses stand upright, while others have fallen over as if waiting for their turn or mourning what has already happened. This artwork explores the blurred boundaries between play and violence, comfort and threat, innocence and loss.
“These works are intentionally provocative but also profoundly honest. I’m not aiming to aestheticise trauma; I’m trying to reveal what so often remains concealed,” Emma explains.
“Both ice and unicorns became vital symbols in my healing process,” she continues. “Together, they enable me to visualise trauma without falling into clichés — creating a language that is both magical and brutal, symbolic and raw.”
“Ice represents the clinical reality of how evidence of rape is preserved, the emotional freeze response experienced during trauma, the suspension of memory, and the gradual thawing that characterises recovery. Freezing my letter and allowing it to melt in a public space serves as a metaphor for release — it signifies transforming what has been locked away into the world.”
“Unicorns, on the other hand, symbolise innocence, imagination, and childhood. But I’ve taken that symbol and deformed it. In several pieces, I use soft toy unicorns that I’ve mutilated — sewing their horns onto the space where their genitals would be. It’s disturbing. And it’s meant to be. These soft, colourful toys, usually symbols of comfort, become metaphors for what it means to have your innocence violated and your identity reshaped by violence.”
The exhibition also showcases a collection of imagery extracted directly from Emma’s personal sketchbooks. “These sketches are intimate drawings I created while in the mental hospital and outside. They often emerged from a deep-seated compulsion, a way for me to articulate the overwhelming emotions I faced when words seemed insufficient to capture my experiences.”
“A recurring motif in these is the black horse, a powerful symbol that represents the abuser in my life. This figure embodies a duality that is both mythic and menacing, evoking complex feelings of fear, strength, and the liberation struggle.”
“For me, translating such personal anguish into visual art transcends mere exposure; it is a profound reclamation of my agency and identity. Through these creations, I am not just recounting my trauma; I am boldly asserting, ‘This happened to me, but I am still here, and I continue to rise.’ Each piece is a testament to resilience and invites others to confront their stories of survival and strength.”
“It’s important to remember the truth and to acknowledge what happened,” she continues. “We must resist the silence that often surrounds issues like sexual violence and mental illness. However, the act of remembering should not become a form of punishment. There comes a time when the burden of memory becomes too heavy to bear, and that’s when letting go becomes essential.”
“Letting go does not mean forgetting; instead, it means affirming that these experiences no longer define who we are. This exhibition aims to create a space where remembering and releasing coexist.”
In the show there are moments of stillness alongside warm, comforting ones. Some of the powerful pieces are visceral and even disturbing, while others are quiet, reflective, and almost tender. There’s also anger, sadness, grief, strength, and even humour.
“I hope to inspire reflection—not only on trauma but also on the transformative power of art,” Emma adds. “I want people to feel seen, especially those who have experienced something similar and felt silenced. However, I also want to challenge viewers without that experience. I want them to confront their discomfort and understand what it means to carry trauma in their body, memory, and art.”
“This is not merely art; it is a reckoning.”
Numbered Days runs from May 16 to May 31 at Malta Society of Arts
