Securing a sit-down interview with Zlota is notoriously difficult. Preferring the rustle of a paintbrush to the hum of a microphone, she is an artist of few public words but monumental visual sentences. We were fortunate enough to catch her between the final touches of her upcoming "Lucid Ruins" exhibition at Gagosian’s new Miami space.

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.

"Loneliness is the human condition. Sadness is a weather pattern. I wanted to paint the structure, not the storm. Those figures—the woman in the diner, the man fixing his tie in a rearview mirror—they aren't waiting for a rescue. They are witnessing their own life. There is power in being the sole witness to your existence. People look at ‘The Orphan Cycle’ and think it’s about loss. It’s actually about autonomy."

She points to a recent, unfinished piece in the corner. It shows a young girl standing in a flooded living room, holding a record player above her head like an offering.

"That’s from Hurricane Katrina, but also from my own childhood basement flood in Ohio," she whispers. "That girl isn’t drowning. She’s curating. She saved the music first. That’s the spirit I try to capture." Despite the soaring prices, Zlota is surprisingly critical of the machinery that drives her fame.

“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.”