Irina Vladi

Irina Vladi draws in ink and unravels the world. Her images emerge from the interstice where religious icons meet synthetic talismans, where Byzantine halos shimmer beside robot dogs and ritual circuitry. Born of Ukrainian-Belarussian descent and now based in New England, she conjures the spectral—wounded saints, feral goddesses, and mythic hybrids rendered in ecstatic precision.

Her drawings—meticulous, cracked, and glowing—map a cosmos of psychic weather: part medieval marginalia, part alien transmission. Echoes of Tove Jansson, William Blake, and Marc Chagall linger, though her language is her own. The intimacy with pop absurdity and the spirit of Leonora Carrington.

These are not illustrations; they are excavations. An archive of haunted gestures—an aesthetic séance with lost futures and fractured myths, touched by folklore rot, asymmetries of Japanese art, and the flicker of astronomical diagrams and quantum entanglements. The result: not transcendence, but exposure. A wound rendered holy.