Reclaiming Strength Piece by Piece
TL;DR:
In a small gallery tucked away in Dover, NH, artist Danielle Festa is transforming trauma into triumph. Through The Aplomb Project, Danielle creates stunning mixed-media portraits that honor and celebrate survivors’ stories of resilience. From throwing ink like Pollock to weaving gold threads of hope, her work isn’t just about art—it’s about reclaiming strength, piece by piece. This is the story of a woman who channels her own battles, and those of others, into something profoundly beautiful and deeply human.
This essay discusses themes of sexual abuse, childhood trauma, incest, domestic violence, and the challenges of navigating their aftermath, including institutional failures and personal guilt. While the stories shared ultimately center on resilience and reclamation, some details may be distressing or triggering for readers. Please take care of yourself as you engage with this content.
Danielle Festa’s studio at the back of the gallery is not pristine; but a workshop alive with the controlled chaos of an artist. Boxes of markers, fabric and paints are stacked on tables and shelves, reflecting the mixed-media approach she employs. A pegboard with neatly hanging tools, spools of thread, and jars of supplies. Natural light filtering in. The room is both functional and personal, with tools, supplies, and works-in-progress arranged in a way that speaks to an ongoing dialogue between inspiration, artist, and execution.
Danielle’s inspiration is featured right there in the studio as well.
“This is the first piece I did for the project,” says Danielle. The project she’s talking about of course is The Aplomb Project, a creative and community-driven initiative focused on using art as a means to honor, empower, and celebrate survivors of trauma. Through mixed-media portraiture, workshops, and community events, the project creates spaces where survivors’ stories are not only shared but celebrated as acts of reclamation. Beyond art, the project aims to educate the public on trauma and its aftermath, advocating for a better understanding of survivors’ experiences.
Taken. Found., an oil on linen with thread features Danielle’s cousin Sue. The textured embroidery threads, glinting gold and silver, weave across the canvas, breaking through darkness. Sue herself is clothed in a white that feels reclaimed—softened, lived-in, resilient. It’s not the white of innocence but one that holds its own alongside the shadows. For thirty years, Sue silently bore the scars and anguish of unspoken trauma from incestuous sexual abuse.
“When she revealed her history,” writes Danielle, “I felt a tsunami of emotion.”
What struck Danielle most was Sue’s astonishment that someone finally believed her story. In that moment, Danielle understood her role: not just as an artist or listener, but a witness to resilience, someone who could reflect back the power that Sue hadn’t always been able to see in herself.
“I was throwing ink around like Jackson Pollock,” Danielle says, describing her process for creating Taken. Found. “Before I even realized it, I was using my art to process my emotions. I was angry. Angry that I had my own life while my cousin was suffering, angry that I hadn’t stopped the abuse. I was a toddler when the abuse happened [to my cousin], so of course, it didn’t make sense to feel responsible. But I wanted to jump in a time machine, show up at my uncle’s house, and punch him in the face.” She is telling me this wearing a vibrant patchwork of bold, geometric patterns in red, navy, cream, and purple. Her hair is a vivid shade of purple, styled in soft waves that frame her face and reflect confidence. Her smile is warm, and genuine. It’s the kind of smile that makes you feel welcome—equal parts approachable and spirited.
At this point in the interview, I’m having difficulties holding back tears. I know I’m going to lose my absolute cool. It’s not like I haven’t interviewed people on sensitive subjects before. A portion of my grad school thesis involved interviewing a domestic abuse victim over the course of several weeks. During my years as a journalist, I wrote about tragedy after tragedy: teenage suicides, fatal car accidents, even standing at the scene where lives had just been lost. I saw actual bodies. I’d done a good job over the years building a kind of emotional armor, the kind of armor you need to tell these kinds of stories, but something about Danielle broke me. And I shared a story I had never shared with anyone.
It wasn’t about me. It was my daughter. Abigail was between kindergarten and first grade. We trusted my wife’s cousin who ran a babysitting service out of her home. She was family, right? Heck, my wife’s best friend in high school. There was no reason for us not to trust her.
But I’m standing in the kitchen.
A warm and familiar space. The oak cabinets are polished and sturdy. A mosaic backsplash up against the window and sink. The countertops hold the clutter of everyday life—a dish towel here, a coffee mug there. The kitchen feels ordinary. Unshakable.
Yet. When she speaks, the very air shifts, the comfort of the space evaporates as her words land. She said, with unsettling casualness, that one of the boys…
“They’re just kids,” she said. “You know, kids. Kids are kids. That’s all.”
Unsure of how to process the weight of what she just said, her casual tone clashing against the enormity of the situation. What do you do with that as a parent?
Do you scream? Demand to know why she didn’t stop it, why she dismissed it as nothing? Do you grab your child and leave without another word, burning with anger and helplessness? Do you freeze? Who else knew? How long had this been going on? Did my child even understand what had happened? What words to you use to explain this to your child when you can barely comprehend the situation yourself? Then, the suffocating wave of guilt. You put your daughter in this house. You were supposed to protect her. You, and no one else, but how could you have known? How could anyone have known?
My wife and I — we were out of our depths. And turned to therapy. The abuse was bad—no minimizing that—but the aftermath has lingered the longest.
At six years old, my daughter sat in a room with someone who was supposed to guide her toward healing, and instead, she was told what happened was her fault. So here was another person my wife and I entrusted our daughter with who only needlessly heaped more trauma upon us.
I didn’t know who Danielle was when I first requested the interview. I vaguely knew the Aplomb project did something with art and trauma, but I didn’t know exactly what. Someone on Facebook had actually suggested I reach out. I’ve been doing interviews and writing for so long, I just went in blind with zero expectations about how the interview was going to turn out, what the final essay would look like. And I really didn’t know why I was telling this woman who I only met mere minutes ago a story I’ve never talked about outside of the family—a long ago memory that I had thought had faded away.
In the spring of 2023, Danielle was diagnosed with stage 2 triple-negative breast cancer, aggressive and overwhelming.
Her diagnosis came just weeks before a major milestone for The Aplomb Project: the opening of their June gala and exhibition. She began chemotherapy while still finishing two portraits for the show, relying on her board of directors, friends, and family to help pull off what became a stunningly successful event. “It takes a village, right?” she said. “And in the middle of treatments, we pulled off a big, successful opening weekend gala. It was exhausting, but also so fulfilling to see everyone come together.”
“I decided to use painting as a healing practice,” she shared during our interview. She immersed herself in the stories of those she painted, finding strength in the reclamation of their narratives. “They were the best thing for me, to see that I could get through hard things as well.”
One of the pieces for the June Gala, Stitched Together, featured boldly in the Aplomb Gallery, though the painting is no longer there as Danielle sent it off to Sravya Kaniti, the subject of the piece, an oil and ink on linen with crochet work done by Sravya herself.
A survivor of childhood sexual assault, Sravya stands confidently in front of a screen door. Behind the door you only see a dark void. But Sravya stands bathed in golden light. To the viewer’s left though, you see that same void creeping in. Interrupting the light. The crocheted dress, adds a texture and dimension that draws the viewer in, making the portrait feel as though Sravya is stepping forward, out of the painting and into the room. The composition balances the dualities of Sravya’s story of light and shadow, vulnerability and bravery, past and present. The future. The painting not only captures Sravya, inviting the viewer to witness in a personal and immediate way.
You can watch Sravya’s reaction when she first sees her portrait. She’d planned a speech about her trauma, but when she sees the portrait for the first time, all she thought was that she just looked really pretty. And in the video, you can see Sravya in her yellow dress take a single step back from the painting, nod and tear. She attempts to move forward, attempts to embrace Danielle, but she can’t. She’s too overwhelmed. But Danielle doesn’t hesitate. She steps in and hugs Sravya.
Danielle’s body of work within The Aplomb Project encompasses a diverse array of portraits.
In Meskamzimek, Danielle captures the likeness of Jenny. Jenny is a survivor of complex childhood traumas including sexual assault and late a military hazing that resulted in a suicide attempt. In the portrait, Jenny leans against a tree, wearing a ribbon shirt made by their mother. Fabrics from the shirt are incorporated into the painting, symbolizing the enduring foritude that Jenny has found through their journey. In A Brighter Reflection, Ellie peers into a mirror. Ellie was sexually assaulted twice and raped once during her freshman year of college. The first time was her dorm neighbor, the second was a college student Ellie had never met, and the third was a 27-year old acquaintance. She was drugged for the first assault, drinking for the second, and completely sober for the third. In the portrait, Ellie’s expression is calm and resolute. The scarf she wore during her most challenging years is delicately draped across her back. In Venus Spirit, Lauren an engineer for a navy ship, a survivor of sexual assault and harrassment over a three year period, stands almost apart from the entirety of the portrait, against a backdrop of gold foil. Pink Chiffon accents, representing the fragility and beauty of her transfomation. In Hope Jai, a survivor of childhood sexual assault, stands on Key Bridge. His direct gaze and choice of a bold red jacket, now a mark of confidence, reclaim once-painful memories. This layered portrait embodies the transformation of anguish into advocacy, as Jai now serves as a board member for The Aplomb Project. In Thriving, Nubia, a survivor of childhood sexual abuse by her brother, sits surrounded in pink flowers. There She Is shows Britney a survivor of sexual assault, wearing the same dress she wore while crowned Miss New Hampshire USA. Aleka Artemis, a survivor of childhood sexual, physical, and emotional abuse, wears her grandmother’s handmade cutwork camisole. In Gilded, Spirdoula incorporates gold thread. In For Nicholas, Jim and Jen stand beside the tree where they scattered their son’s ashes. Jim wears a bow tie, Jen, a blouse. And in Conquer, Samantha who was raped by a police officer, stands herself in a position of power and adorned in rhinestones.
Danielle’s technique of juxtaposing hyper-realistic figures against abstract backgrounds serves to highlight the complexity of trauma and the emergence of courage. By drawing inspiration from Renaissance portraiture, traditionally reserved for the elite, Danielle and her subjects redefine power.
The Aplomb Gallery is located at 15 Mechanic Street, Suite 117, in Dover, New Hampshire. The building is clean, modern with brick facade that sharply contrasts with the historical character of St. John’s Church—now converted into the Jack Buckley Commons, 30 one-bedroom apartments for the elderly and disabled. Although the neighborhood behind Janetos grocery is relatively subdued, and The Aplomb Gallery is only a short walk from downtown.
With Dover’s historic architecture, public art installations, and walkable streets, the town ‘s the kind of place where you can spend an afternoon browsing shops, savoring a farm-to-table meal, or simply enjoying a leisurely stroll along the Cocheco River. And although some people are excited while others lament whenever we hear the phrase “Dover’s the new Portsmouth,” in truth, Dover can feel small and sleepy. If you don’t actively try to engage with the community—seek out its art, its history, its events—Dover can feel like a place where there’s simply nothing to do. It’s not really a place people think of first as any kind of international destination.
Yet The Aplomb Project’s impact extends far beyond Mechanic Street and the borders of Dover.
Survivors who want to participate in The Aplomb Project by having their stories turned into portraits can submit an application. The application typically involves individuals sharing their personal narratives of trauma and growth and expressing why they want to collaborate with the project. Applicants include details about the significant objects, clothing, or symbols that are meaningful to their stories, which Danielle then blends into her mixed-media portraits. The application process allows survivors to take an active role in shaping how their stories are told, ensuring that the resulting artwork reflects their experiences authentically and sensitively.
And Danielle’s vision has drawn survivors, artists, and advocates from across the United States and even internationally, with applications from places as near as Canada and as distant as Vienna. Her dedication to creating deeply personal connections is evident in her willingness to travel—whether it’s a trip to North Carolina to meet a portrait subject or hosting workshops that transcend geography through virtual platforms.
The June gala brought together participants from as far as Virginia and Minnesota. These events, held in a tucked-away corner of New Hampshire, are a testament to Danielle’s ability to bridge the personal with the universal. Attendees often describe Dover’s charm as unexpected—this small, seemingly sleepy town suddenly becomes a vibrant stage for healing, storytelling, and art.
In late 2023, Danielle marked a milestone. After twenty weeks of chemotherapy, she rang the bell to signal the end of her treatment. It was a moment of celebration and hope—the kind of moment that echoes through her work and through the lives of those who step into her gallery.
I know this week’s Friday Footnote is coming out late. But this has been one of the most difficult essays I’ve ever written. When I first started drafting, I kept trying to keep my story out of it. I’ve never been one for gonzo journalism—inserting myself in the middle of someone else’s story—but every time I sat down to write, my daughter’s trauma kept slipping back in. I cut, I rewrote, cut again, rewrote again. Over and over until I finally stopped fighting. My subconscious was telling me something.
Before publishing, I asked my daughter for her permission to share her story. She agreed with the caveat that I focus upon the future. Today, Abigail, a senior dance major at Dean College in Franklin Massachusetts, is an active member of Rise, a campus-based organization dedicated to raising awareness about sexual abuse, stalking, dating violence, and domestic violence. Rise is evolving from a traditional club into a comprehensive educational and advocacy group, providing resources and fostering dialogue to equip the campus community with tools to address and prevent abuse. When she graduates this spring, she plans to connect with Lissa Curtis of Safe Haven Ballet—herself a survivor of horrific sexual assaults—seeking a position with the company. Safe Haven Ballet is a unique organization dedicated to providing trauma-sensitive ballet, movement, and art classes free of charge to survivors, and Lissa herself has been painted by Danielle.
My wife, on the other hand, she winced when I told her what I was writing.
“You can’t name names,” she said.
I was silent for a long time before I said I didn’t say names, but I did write cousin through marriage and high school best friend. Twenty years later and I’m still angry. But my thinking lately has been, if you knew I was a writer, then you should have been a better person so you wouldn’t feel ashamed years later when I finally write the truth.
The thing is, though, this essay isn’t about me. It’s not even about my daughter. It’s about people like Sue, like Sravya, like Jenny, and so many others who have come to The Aplomb Project to reclaim their narratives and find empowerment in vulnerability. It’s about Danielle, who channeled her own pain—her anger, her heartbreak, her hope—into art that resonates far beyond the canvas.
I told Abigail’s story to Danielle because of the environment she created—through Danielle’s art, her openness, and her focus on reclaiming trauma narratives—made me feel, made me know that I was in a safe space, a place to let my guard down. Danielle’s own story, her raw honesty, and the vulnerability she shares struck a chord, breaking through the years of newspaper reporting on tragedy. Danielle’s work actively acknowledges trauma, not as something to be hidden or ignored, but as a story that deserves to be told, seen, and honored. That invitation combined with her acceptance and compassion created the space where my emotions could surface.
I almost cried in that moment of telling because the weight of what happened to Abigail, and the complex layers of guilt, anger, helplessness were all right there. My confession wasn’t just about the past but also about what my confession represented: the failure of institutions meant to protect, the vulnerability of trusting the wrong people, and the long-lasting echoes of trauma on those you love most. How do you go on being when the world has shattered around you?
That’s the question Danielle’s work asks. And in every portrait, she offers an answer: You reclaim yourself, piece by piece; you rebuild with love, anger, and resilience. You find strength in your story and in the stories of others who have walked through the same fire.
—An earlier version of this essay mistakenly identified Imani as the subject of Venus Rising.
