A Broomstick in a Man's World
In Emily Mae Smith's surreal paintings, a symbol of women’s work becomes a weapon.
Walking into Emily Mae Smith's show at Petzel Gallery, all I could think was, "I wonder if she is getting enough credit for her anthropomorphic broomsticks now that Wicker is coming out." Though voluptuous brooms abound in her paintings, they are complemented by witch-like bunnies and eyeball-filled grapes (what good company for such seemingly strange subjects). All are connected by the artist’s technical skill and a darkness that haunts each work.
This is intentional: The title, Transit of Venus, refers to the astronomical alignment when Venus moves between Earth and the Sun, appearing as a tiny dark spot. And what unfolds when the imagined light source sits behind the subject becomes Smith’s commentary on translucency: what might not appear in the spotlight, how long it takes to paint a painting, and what we’re really feeling beneath a strong exterior. Most obviously, this comes through in “Venus (Inner Vision)” (2026), a broomstick figure that stands contrapposto in a hazy wooded landscape. We see her handle (head and torso) as though through an X-ray: her veins and organs on display.
