These days, many things may give us feelings of anxiety—the rapid growth of artificial intelligence, the pace of political and social change, the ups and downs of American life (and the stock market). Writing during another period of dramatic reform, Sigmund Freud penned his famous 1919 essay The Uncanny, or “Das Unheimlich” in German (which directly translates as the unhomely), to describe the feeling of anxiety induced by experiencing something both familiar and alien. This idea, which built on earlier writings of German psychiatrist Ernst Jentsch, became widely popular in literature and art, particularly within the artistic movement of Surrealism. There, artists explored the uncanny through artmaking, often at the expense of women who were frequently positioned as the “other.”

        A new exhibition at the National Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington D.C. simultaneously embraces and pushes back on this legacy. Simply titled Uncanny, this exhibition showcases works by women and female-identifying artists dating from the 1930s to present day, centering “women’s authorship of uncanny narratives…” and “revealing how women artists use this framework to regain agency and probe feelings of revulsion, fear, and discomfort.” While the works are indeed unsettling, there is a strange beauty and honesty to artworks that guide our visceral reactions into revelations about the lived experiences and perspectives of women.

        Filling the museum’s second floor, the exhibition is laid out in a circle with works clustered according to common themes: doubles, masks, dolls, nature, abandonment, surrealism, bodiless heads, and headless bodies, to name just a few. The themes blend into each other, challenging viewers to question their reactions to each work. Why do we find a photograph of a deceased granny in her coffin unnerving? What is it about a set of twins holding hands and smoking cigarettes that sets our teeth on edge? Where do mannequins and dolls get their creepy appeal? A criticism might be that the show overwhelms visitors with its extensive scope —although I suspect that is precisely the goal.

        While focusing on the female perspective and production of uncanny artwork, the exhibition also engages with the psychological underpinnings of uncanny first articulated by Jentsch and later Freud. Gallery labels provide historical and theoretical contexts that help visitors situate themselves within the larger themes of the show. Some artists also interrogate Freud’s influence in the genre directly and indirectly. Welsh painter Julie Roberts depicts the psychologist’s study in her work Sigmund Freud Study (1998), showing his carpet, desk, chair, lamp, and couch in contrast against a bright, monochromatic yellow background. Noticeably absent is Freud himself, with the focus instead on the built environment where his theories took shape. The central positioning of the study as an object surrounded by empty canvas gives the viewer a feeling of looking into a dollhouse, seeing an interior chamber that is meant to be private. The act of looking at (or into) this work becomes uncanny—studying the study—as well as perhaps a rebellion against Freud and his intrusion into his subjects’ psyches.

        While Roberts explores the uncanny through the absence of the human being, other artists embrace the physicality of the body. English conceptual artist Gillian Wearing fills a room with her photographic portraiture with subjects ranging from famous historical figures to her family members. These representations seem normal enough, but there is something unnerving about the eyes and the rigid pose of the faces. The ruse is revealed in Sleeping Mask (2004) with a gallery label describing Wearing’s process of crafting highly realistic masks to transform herself into the other people present in the room: Mona Lisa, Albrecht Dürer, Meret Oppenheim (another artist featured in this exhibition), her sister and, creepiest of all, herself. Upon closer inspection, the masks gape slightly at the eyes, nose, and jawline, revealing slivers of Wearing’s real face underneath even as she wears the faces of others.

        Also utilizing portraiture and photography, American artist Marlo Pascual’s works (all untitled) complicate and subvert identity. Pascual collected vintage photographs of women from thrift shops, which she edited, enlarged, and adhered to Plexiglas© to transform these discarded images into unique sculptures. Her subjects’ identities are not known, and Pascual further complicated their personhood by shattering or distorting the Plexiglas© to hide their features. Spread out on the floor of the exhibition, visitors must carefully navigate these objects. In this way, Pascual’s work calls attention to the space that these women (previously two-dimensional images) now take up as three-dimensional objects while simultaneously obscuring their personhood. The awkward posing of the figures in the images also begs the question: did Pascual’s interventions make these images uncanny or were they already uncanny?

        Humor, or rather dark humor, emerges as a theme across several works as artists confront stereotypes and challenges of womanhood. American visual and performance artist Martine Gutierrez’s Body en Thrall, p112 (2018) at first appears like a picture we have all seen a thousand times online or in a magazine: a scantily clad woman posing seductively and gazing longingly at the camera against a background of flowers. No, this is not a Kardashian! While some might be tempted to avert their gaze, Gutierrez cheekily draws attention to the woman’s chest. To achieve the perfect female figure, she has tucked melon halves into her bikini top, replacing soft human skin with the scaly texture of the fruit. This work is a masterpiece in calling out the unrealistic beauty standards found in media today.

Experiments with texture also emerge in works by Meret Oppenheim, a German-born Swiss artist most known for her contributions to Surrealism. Her 1936 work Object, exhibited here as a 1971 print called Pelztasse (or Fur Teacup) after a photo by Man Ray, transforms the smooth, regular surface of a teacup, saucer, and spoon into a soft mess of animal fur. The work is both playful and disturbing—just imagine taking a sip of tea from such a soft, wet cup! Oppenheim takes this idea of animal textures further in her print Spiegel der Genoveva (Genevieve’s Mirror) from 1967, with the familiar form of a hand-held mirror and the human reflection within morphing into an ungulate’s leg and hoof.

        Hanging nearby, British artist Polly Morgan’s pieces build on Oppenheim’s early commentary. Her mixed media work Receiver (2009) struck me as perhaps one of the most unsettling and clever works in the exhibition. An old-fashioned Bakelite phone handset features seven taxidermy chick heads with eyes and mouths wide open emerging from the receiver earpiece as if to start chattering away. Although no sound comes from the work, it is difficult to pass by without imagining some chattering sound to accompany it. I immediately thought of the repetitive refrain of “cheep cheep cheep, talk-a-lot pick-a-little more” from The Music Man’s Pick-a-little Talk-a-little.

        With so many incredible works to digest and so many thoughts and feelings to unpack, I feel that this review hardly scratches the surface. In short, “Uncanny” offers a sweeping survey of the last 100 years of artwork by women artists that, in this context at least, aim to make visitors a little uncomfortable. In doing so, the exhibition touches on the myriad of ways that women experience and move through our world. However, it also highlights that the uncanny is also present in many aspects of our daily lives. References to artificial intelligence and social media were minimal, but the exhibition opens the doors to future research and curatorial work—the artistic field of the uncanny has many more facets waiting to be revealed. While I need time to reflect more on my own feelings towards these works and their social commentaries, I think uncanny might just be the word of the moment.

Emelia Lehmann is a Washington D.C.-based writer and cultural heritage professional. When she is not looking at art, you can find her looking at buildings.