VitaliV is a Ukrainian-born artist (native of Odessa) who now divides his time between London and Italy. VitaliV likes to call himself a pioneer of “Schematism,” which consists of aesthetic appreciation of various types of electronic motherboards, and in the artistic style reminiscent of electronic schematics. VitaliV's works were featured at the British Art Fair on 25–28 September 2025.

Prior to his artistic career, Vitaly pursued engineering studies at the Odessa Maritime College and worked across the Russian Arctic and Siberia. In 1983, he enrolled in the sculpture department of the St. Petersburg Academy of Arts, first as a part-time and then a full-time student.

In 1989, he was awarded a scholarship by Norwich University College of the Arts in Great Britain. In 1991, he moved to London, where, in 1993, in Hoxton, he established “Bank”—his own multimedia art space and artistic community that found refuge in an abandoned Barclays Bank office. In his centre, VitaliV hosted numerous cultural events, ranging from film festivals to sculpture exhibitions. The centre also showcased works of the nascent “digital art”, still in its infancy at that time.

It was at that point that VitaliV became fascinated with the visual complexity of electronic motherboards—the green circuit boards with golden pathways—which inspired him to create art that mirrored this aesthetic. He discarded the initially adopted label of “digital art,” as he found it too vague and inaccurate for what he was doing. Eventually, he coined his own term, “Schematism,” to describe the phenomenon of his art.

Over time, he has extended Schematism beyond painting and sculpture, applying it to tableware, porcelain, fashion, accessories, furniture, and jewelry. Notably, his work includes a jewelry line for ‘ZBird’ in China and fashion collections showcased during French and London Fashion Weeks in 2008–2009. His artworks span lightboxes, CNC laser-cut reliefs, acrylic and aluminum forms, and even 3D film installations.

VitaliV also came up with his own Manifesto for Schematism, which you may read below this interview with the artist. In this document, written in 2010,

Vitali frames the modern condition as one of continual overstimulation and information surplus. Schematism responds by reducing visual communication to its foundational essence by offering clarity rather than chaos.

By getting rid of unnecessary embellishment, schematism reveals the “skeletal structure,” or the core idea—the very “gist”—of the subject. This reductive process draws parallels to how we mentally navigate information in daily life.

Finally, Vitali underscores that we live in a world surrounded by “schemes”—not just circuit diagrams, but abstract, pragmatic, and logical representations in countless forms. Schematism uses this culturally embedded visual language as the foundation of its aesthetic. The manifesto urges artists and viewers alike to embrace this visual minimalism—not out of austerity, but as an antidote to sensory overload. According to Vitali, schematism also taps into a form of expression that feels both familiar and transcendent. Stripped down to its bare structural essence, the visual form retains—or perhaps gains—a mystical and universal resonance.

So, below I offer our conversation with Vitali, where he offers glimpses into his artistic practice and provides insights into his unique aesthetic and philosophical vision prior to the British Art Fair at Saatchi Gallery in London.

Vitali, you coined the term "schematism"—how did the concept originate, and how has it evolved over time?

When I began developing this style in the late 1990s, the word digital was already on my mind, but it felt too broad. Later I chose the word "schematism" because my works looked like electrical schematics and circuit diagrams. Gradually, I realized there were so many of them, all different types with their own beauty of shape, colour, and graphic structure.

What drew you to the visual language of microchips and circuit boards? Was it aesthetic, philosophical, or personal? Did your engineering background make you see beauty where others see cold logic?

The appearance of a circuit board fascinated me the first time I saw a broken computer. The whole aesthetic appeal of golden lines against the deep green background and the rhythm and endless variations compelled me to investigate whether there was beauty in it. But beauty is not achieved through logic—I don’t believe logic helps much here. My engineering background helped me create sculpture, but not painting or graphic work.

Your works often balance between digital abstract logic and human emotion. How do you achieve that balance?

I wish I had a clear, definite answer. I think the digital portrait helps me to achieve this. When I make a portrait, I try to capture the character without turning it into a caricature by means of this digital logic with a mixture of human perception and emotion.

Your works are part machine- and part hand-made. What does craftsmanship mean to you in the age of digital reproduction?

Pure digital reproduction neither adds nor removes anything from art. In a way, it makes art more accessible. But when a craftsman copies an artwork, they inevitably share their own understanding of the artist’s idea. The result can sometimes even be better than the original. For me, it is very important that an artist works with good craftsmen.

Do you see your process as a hybrid of code and intuition?

I don’t know coding. I use different drawing and photo-manipulation software—it’s the same as using a pencil or brush, only a bit less messy. When I work at my computer, I feel less artistically free in expression compared to oil painting, but computer keeps me disciplined.

Is there a philosophical or even political edge to using “chip language”? Is your art a form of technological critique, celebration, or both?

I’ve always been a fan of technology. I believe in progress in all its forms—technological, biological, and beyond. I truly believe that one day humanity will fundamentally change.

Your work also appears to be existential in its tenor. Could this be the “new anatomy” of the digital self?

Absolutely. We live in a time when 3D printers can produce new organs and save lives. I believe scientists will soon be able to edit DNA and control genomes. That is the “new anatomy.” My works try to draw attention to the many problems connected with this transformation. Maybe that’s not an artistic idea in itself, but at the end of the day, the most important thing is aesthetics. If it looks good, it’s art.

You moved from Odessa to St. Petersburg, then London, then Italy, then China—how have those places shaped you?

They are my memories, my friends, and the art and culture that surrounded me. I hope each of these places changed and transformed me.

Is there a part of you that still identifies with Soviet modernism or postindustrial aesthetics?

I respect Soviet art as I respect any art movement. I try to learn from every visual source and idea. I don’t think I belong to Soviet modernism or any other movement. But, on second thought, one never really knows where an idea comes from or what ignites the first spark of one’s artistic imagination.

In the 1990s you founded “Bank,” a creative space in London’s Hoxton. What was the energy like back then?

It was a wonderful time full of possibilities. We hosted parties for thousands of guests. I felt we could transform any idea into reality, no matter how crazy it seemed. There was a strong public interest in art and creative processes.

Do you miss that kind of interdisciplinary artistic chaos today?

I’ve noticed that almost every artist goes through phases: first, a time of finding oneself in the centre of artistic activities, events, a time of exchanging ideas and having fun. Later this phase is followed by a stage when one needs to focus on personal work and vision. I’ve had enough artistic chaos in my life. Now my only concern is how many more artworks I will not have the time to make.

Looking back, what’s been your most defining moment as an artist?

I became an artist at 24, which is considered late. At the time, I was working as an engineer in Siberia, earning a good salary, and everything seemed clear. Then I realized I needed to change my life—and leapt into the unknown.

Was there a single artwork that changed everything for you?

Many years ago, I made a sculpture called Boy and Rabbit. I don’t know where it is now, but out of all my works, I remember it most vividly, perhaps more than any other.

You’ve already taken schematism into furniture, fashion, and fine art. What’s next for the movement? What drives you to move across media like that?

I believe that interdisciplinary art is the way forward. Right now, I am working in sculpture, but I’d love to explore architectural concepts and multimedia.

Do you think materials carry their own language or symbolism?

Well, that has always been the case. Stone, wood, paper, and metal—all of them push artists to follow the rules or to break them. Nowadays I can make almost anything out of marble—thanks to CNC robots—or create some fantastic forms in a 3D printer. I would say that regardless of symbolism or language, now it is time to change everything. New materials and new tools will change everything.

With the rise of generative AI and algorithmic creativity, do you feel kinship or conflict with that world?

No conflict. I believe AI will change a lot. Many professions may disappear, but I think true creative skills will endure much longer.

Would you ever collaborate with a machine, or is that too far removed from human touch?

This may become possible much sooner than we expect. And yes, I would love to explore this kind of collaboration.

If a museum were to create a retrospective of your work, what would you want the title or message to be?

I do not wish to steal someone else’s job of creating titles—I’d rather stick to what I do best—my art.

Schematism Manifesto by VitaliV

We live in an age of excess. Information overwhelms, images proliferate, and stimuli compete for our attention. Every day we scroll, consume, and discard. To survive this barrage, we simplify. We reduce complexity into shorthand, into patterns, into schemes. They are the silent codes of our times.

Schematism is not decoration. It is not a distraction. It is the grammar of simplicity, the skeletal structure of perception, the distilled essence of form. Like a diagram or a circuit board, it removes the unnecessary and leaves only the gist.

Schematism embraces the universal language of schemes:

The electrical schematic that powers a machine.

The architectural drawing that guides a city.

The abstract map that charts an idea.

All are connected by geometry—circles, lines, and rhythms—that speak across cultures, disciplines, and technologies.

Where others see cold logic, schematism discovers poetry. Where others see mechanical repetition, schematism reveals emotional resonance. It is the paradox of our time: the closer we move toward precision, the closer we approach mystery.

Schematism is both minimalist and infinite. It pares away detail, yet opens up space for imagination. It resists noise, yet lingers with intensity. It is clarity made visible—an art form that reflects our daily struggle to extract meaning from the chaos of information. It is the discipline of seeing only what matters.

In this way, schematism is not only a style. It is a philosophy of survival in the digital era, a way of navigating between human intuition and technological order. It is art that returns us to the bones of perception so that in the simplicity of the scheme we may glimpse something essential, enduring, and timeless.

(Translated by Irene Kukota)