Artist Inbox: Anna Weyant and Marisa Adesman on Femininity, Fantasy, and Control

Marisa Adesman’s paintings are both crystal clear and inscrutable—rendered in dazzlingly fine detail, but filled with cryptic imagery. In her sensuous, surreal canvases, the Chicago-based artist turns domestic space into a stage for psychosexual tension. Here, vases of flowers spill and erupt; women turn into water; curtains alternately conceal and reveal violence. For Adesman, these scenes speak to how femininity is performed and contained.

Similar themes run through the work of Anna Weyant, the young market star whose precipitous rise has made her one of the most-discussed painters in the art world today. Weyant brings an old-world aesthetic to portraits of girls and women, often depicted in uncomfortable or exaggerated positions. Her work, like Adesman’s, stands out for its technical rigor. In fact, Adesman may have something to do with that: The two artists first met at the Rhode Island School of Design. Adesman, then an MFA student, was a teaching assistant for Weyant, an undergraduate. “I remember gravitating toward her immediately,” said Weyant. “She was cool, kind, and thoughtful, with an already incredible mastery of paint.”

Now Adesman, too, is gaining momentum in her career. “Under the Rose,” her debut solo exhibition in New York, is on view at Anat Ebgi through August 8th. As Adesman prepared for the show, the two artists connected for an email conversation about their shared preoccupations with performance, control, beauty, and ambiguity. —Olivia Horn

Anna Weyant: Your work is so exciting. I love it. It’s hard to choose a favorite from this new show, but I’m particularly captivated by Tug of War (2025).

Can you tell me a bit about it? It’s a figure—sort of—composed of traditional still life elements. I see so many historical references—both compositionally and in the subject matter—but it seems to slip through the cracks of anything familiar. Every time I look at it, I notice something in it that I hadn’t before.

Marisa Adesman: First, thank you so much for doing this with me! I have been the biggest fan of yours since RISD. It’s been such a delight to watch your work evolve and to see the incredible places your practice has taken you. It’s really an honor to chat with you here.

I love that you said that! I’m continually drawn to the slipperiness of a work, that resistance to being pinned down. It’s often what keeps me engaged throughout the process. With this piece in particular, I was interested in exploring the tension between the domestic and the erotic—that simultaneous pull toward safety and stability, while craving adventure and thrill. For me, these depictions of domestic life, historically dismissed as decorative or passive, now serve as a stage where intimacy, power, and resistance, or whatever else we’re thirsty for, can play out.

“I’m continually drawn to the slipperiness of a work, that resistance to being pinned down.”

It also speaks to the expectations placed on women—this pressure to neatly inhabit conflicting roles. In the foreground, we see a unicorn—a symbol of purity and chastity—turn away from stained-glass figures, tangled in a scene of erotic fantasy. Knowingly or unknowingly, we are constantly asked to navigate these tensions—a kind of tug of war between restraint and release, between what is expected and what is desired.

Your work also feels deeply rooted in the traditions of Golden Age Dutch still life painting and Surrealism. I’m curious how you think about these historical references in relation to the more contemporary ideas you’re exploring—particularly around gender and the performance of femininity. When I look at your work, I’m always struck by how it balances a twisted wit with unease; it’s playful, but also razor-sharp.

A.W.: Thank you, that means a lot.

I think about historical references similarly—something to pull apart. Truthfully, I’ve started to wince at the mention of Dutch still lifes in relation to my work—even though I’ve cited them as early inspiration. I think because I’m afraid of getting stuck in a box, having that be a tagline, or of setting myself up for aesthetic failure when the paintings inevitably diverge. My relationship to the genre has evolved greatly since I first discovered it, but what continues to resonate is the control. Those paintings are incredibly controlled, and I’m interested in that uncomfortably tight grip. The subjects, objects—obsessively composed, contained (even in collapse), beautiful, and on display feel like both a performance and a pressure.

What pressures do you feel when making your work?

M.A.: That’s so beautifully put, and I can definitely relate to that allure of control. That near-obsessive, tight grip, which I am so drawn to, can feel as seductive as it is suffocating. I often wonder where, or even if, that grip should loosen within my practice. Maybe it’s because I’m still working to finish the last painting days before the show opens, but I constantly feel the pressure of time. Does my devotion to craft and precision come at the expense of something else?

Every time I start a piece, I find myself negotiating between the looseness of early experimentation and the reality of how demanding the actual painting process is. I want to linger in those initial, playful stages—but often feel limited by the urgency to get going. Maybe it’s the desire to regard play seriously from start to finish. And yet, these constraints—whether time, genres, or labels—have their own power. They give us something to push against, providing greater clarity and sharper focus in ways that might be impossible without them.

How do you preserve that sense of play and discovery within your practice? Is that where humor becomes important for you—a release valve to break the tightness of control?

“These constraints—whether time, genres, or labels—have their own power. They give us something to push against.”

A.W.: I wonder about that too—where I can or maybe should loosen my grip. But it’s hard for me. I’m definitely the kind of painter who squeezes the rabbit too tight. But sometimes there are moments when I slip and let go, and then the work begins to surprise me and the surface kind of starts to talk back. Not so much in the figures or compositions, but in the marks and textures.

I think humor is a good way to puncture the pressure. And maybe as a way to approach the work from a new angle when it starts to fall into routine. That said, I don’t think my work is humorous. If it ever feels funny, it’s probably because it’s stiff or a little awkward.

Anyway, how do you feel about this new show? Do you ever get nervous?

M.A.: Sure, maybe a little nervous. But mostly just excited. This is my first solo show in New York, and having grown up just outside of the city, it feels especially meaningful. There’s definitely a sense of anticipation too—it’s the culmination of two years of work. And of course, there’s always a hint of vulnerability when the paintings leave the studio and take on a life of their own.

I’m really proud of the work for “Under the Rose.” This show is a continuation of my ongoing interest in stage magic and illusions—more specifically, in carefully directing attention, conjuring the unexpected, and embracing a world where things are not always as they seem. Across the show, I return to this idea of care and violence as deeply entwined—how acts of tenderness can carry their own sharpness, and how destruction can be a necessary creative force. The rose became an important symbol in this context: cultivated and beautiful, but always with thorns.