This honesty is refreshing. In an era of digital art and NFTs, Zlota remains a fierce defender of the physical. She admits to owning a smartphone "only under duress" and keeps a flip phone for calls. "The algorithm wants you to scroll past pain quickly," she says. "I want you to stand in front of a canvas until your feet hurt." No Olivia Zlota interview would be complete without discussing her breakout series, The Orphan Cycle (2022-2023). The series, a collection of 14 massive canvases depicting solitary figures in liminal spaces (bus stations, motel lobbies, laundromats at 2 AM), catapulted her into the global spotlight.
For more information on upcoming exhibitions and release dates for the Lucid Ruins catalog, visit her representation page at [Gagosian.com]. To see exclusive behind-the-scenes studio shots from this interview, follow our magazine on Instagram. olivia zlota interview
Let’s start at the beginning. A lot of our readers want to know: When did you first realize you were an artist? This honesty is refreshing
Last question. If your paintings could speak directly to the person reading this interview, what would they say? "The algorithm wants you to scroll past pain
This is the definitive —an exploration of her influences, her process, and the haunting nostalgia that fuels her most famous works. The Setting: A Sanctuary of Chaos We met Zlota in her Williamsburg studio on a drizzly Tuesday morning. The space smelled of linseed oil and coffee. Canvases towered against every wall, some slashed with vibrant crimson, others covered in delicate, ghost-like figures. Zlota, dressed in a paint-splattered Carhartt apron and thick-framed glasses, offered a handshake firm enough to belie her wiry frame.
(Laughs) "Imitation is flattery, but it’s also annoying. Look, the texture came from poverty. In my early twenties, I couldn’t afford large canvases. I was painting on cardboard, on old shipping crates. I’d mix my gesso with sand from the street, with coffee grounds, with ripped-up sheet music. I was trying to build a history into the board itself. If I painted a memory, I wanted the surface to feel like a memory—frayed at the edges, rough in the center, fading into obscurity. It wasn't intellectual. It was economic necessity."
“Sorry for the mess,” she said, clearing a pile of sketchbooks from a wooden stool. “I always tell my gallerist that a clean studio is a sign of a sterile imagination.”